Ned
Darkness surrounded him.
Time was still, motionless. He could not move, as if an invisible force bonded him.
He tried to scream, but no sound left his throat.
Ned wished for silence, but this was unbearable.
Was he a prisoner in this Godsforsaken place? Were the Others the jailers?
Will he rot in the darkness?
He was losing faith. He pleaded, but the Gods didn't listen.
He was lost, so utterly lost...
Condemned to dwell on what he had seen, that Stark...
Ned was losing his mind.
He fought relentlessly, holding onto everything that kept him sane.
Catelyn.
His children.
The North.
Yet, shadows dwelt near, mocking him...
Ned couldn't bear it anymore.
But then, a soft sound rang, breaking the silence.
There was a tiny speck of light in the distance. Far, yet close at the same time. Ned felt a glimmer of hope ignite in his heart.
He pushed his body to its limit, trying to reach the light. Ned swam in the darkness, breaking the invisible shackles, attempting to gain freedom.
He heard terrible voices mocking him, but he ignored the malicious shades of the Cold One. Ned stretched his hand, reaching for the faint light...
The gleam suddenly drove away all the darkness. The entire horizon was now white, Ned was no longer struggling.
A figure appeared where the initial sliver of light was, an entity so... complex that Ned could not perceive it. No mortal man could.
Then, a song. A tune so beautiful and harmonious...
Before him, the history of the world unfolded. From the Dawn Age to the present, Ned saw all. Yet, it was too convoluted to recognise what was shown.
He wept. Ned will never experience such magnificence again. This heavenly display was beyond anything mankind could devise.
When the song reached its climax, Ned woke up.
His eyes slowly opened.
Eddard was lying in his bed, the familiar ceiling of his chambers confirming it.
"Eddard! Finally, you are awake!" Sitting by his right, the last person Eddard expected to meet in his room exclaimed.
"Jorund...? But how?" He muttered. Gods, his throat was dry.
"Do not force yourself, Eddard." He soothed him, "The only thing that matters is that you're awake and well."
Ned slowly nodded, "How much... did I sleep?"
"Seven days," the God answered, "Your family was worried you wouldn't recover. Your condition was a hefty weight to them."
"Gods..." he sighed, "And the Walker?"
"Still locked away. As expected, it caused chaos, but at least everyone knows what we are facing." Jorund explained, "Catelyn told me the Walker said something she didn't understand when you were cursed. Could you tell me what happened then, and if you dreamed something after?"
Eddard inhaled deeply and explained what he had seen to the God, who was stunned.
"Eddard..." Jorund whispered, "I can say no man has ever experienced something similar. Two visions, one of despair and the other of hope..."
"I may know who was sitting on that throne... it's the Night King, the one of the Nightfort. If he has awakened once more, our situation becomes more complicated. He was a known sorcerer during his reign, and now that the White Walkers returned..."
He will be their champion, Eddard concluded.
Jorund looked him in the eyes, "Yet, your second dream surprises me. Eddard, you had the blessing of meeting the Great Will."
"The Great... Will?" Eddard whispered.
"Aye," the God nodded, "There's much I can't tell you due to an... agreement, but no man before witnessed its glory. And that tune you listened to might be the Song of Ice and Fire."
Eddard had heard of it before, but where? He tried to remember, but no memory came back to him.
"More of this I can't say, unless the Will decides to reveal further itself." Jorund concluded, "Now we must decide our course of action, even if I do know what you intend to do."
"We will go south," Eddard answered firmly, "Everyone must know what's happening, especially the southern lords. Robert already knows something, but he still needs to see everything."
Jorund sighed, "Even if common sense tells me you should rest, I must agree. I will come too, now that I am no longer shackled in the Godswood."
Eddard's eyes widened, "This... will surely shock the council, but I can see the reasoning."
Ned rose from the bed and looked in the mirror. His cheeks were gaunt, and his eyes sunken. He looked way older than he truly was.
"You should eat, Eddard." Jorund softly said, "It's nearly time for luncheon, your family will be joyous for your recovery."
"Aye, you're right," Ned chuckled, "Robert would jest without end if he saw me in this state."
Eddard wondered what had happened to his friend these last months. The children's debacle was well-known now, but he was sure Robert had to deal with more than that. Unfortunately, he wasn't the type to relay everything in his ravens, preferring to talk personally.
Eddard wished the God a good day and left his quarters. Servants and courtiers eyed him with surprise, then joy as their lord was finally awake.
The doors of the dining room opened. Eddard walked in, his posture straight and disciplined. With a smile on his face, he greeted his family.
He was not surprised to see all of his children stand and embrace him, poor Bran was even crying. Eddard felt happy, as Jon joined his siblings in their embrace.
"Father... please, don't do something like that again..." Robb choked on his words.
"Worry not, son. All is well now." Ned soothes him, "The curse the Walker cast on me is broken, I won't be caught off guard again."
Eddard ruffled Arya's and Sansa's heads. His younger daughter loved it, while Sansa didn't, but Ned couldn't resist doing it. He was surprised when she looked at him with a bright smile, full of warmth.
"Father, I am glad you are alright." She said.
"Of course he is, stupid! I said it before!" Arya retorted, as usual. He didn't expect Sansa to go along with it, laughing with her sister.
"What did I miss?" He asked sardonically, "Did I sleep seven days or moons?"
Everyone laughed heartily. "Nay, Father," Robb said, "We were all worried for you. The way you fell... it was horrible."
Ned smiled, "Aye, I know. Let it be a lesson for you, never drop your guard around a Walker."
Eddard broke off the embrace, seeing Cat looking at him with glassy eyes.
They didn't exchange words. A kiss was enough to convey their feelings. The guests clapped excitedly: the Lord of Winterfell was back.
"Lord Stark! It's good you're finally awake!"
An atrocious accent stole Eddard's attention. It was Rotislav, alongside Taghd, the Ibbenese. The latter bore a large smile under his bushy beard, and appeared extremely happy.
"Thank you, Rotislav," Eddard answered, "I presume my son treated you fairly during my absence."
"Yes, certainly!" He said, "A good fighter too, gave some of my boys a good beating."
"I must agree, Lord Stark," Taghd added, "Yet, we should change topic. You should be informed of some developments in the Dothraki conflict."
That piqued Ned's interest. It was best for everyone that the war ended soon, they could not waste time on petty squabbles when the future of humanity was in peril.
"The Dothraki were routed once again by Ibben! The host was broken by Doros Dorund, the Thain of the God-King. Now the steppes are being overrun, and the Tall Men joined the invasion to restore the Kingdom of Sarnor. The Great Will surely blessed us with your awakening and the defeat of Khal Drogo!"
The last phrase startled Eddard, "The Great Will?" He asked.
Realisation dawned on the Ibbenese, "Oh yes! You Westerosi don't know our traditions. You may think that we Ibbenese worship our God-King, but it's not simple as that. He is seen as a conduit of a greater being, an entity that surpasses the might of the Gods themselves. That is the Great Will: the spirit that shapes destiny for men and deities."
Destiny... Jorund once said that the Gods couldn't alter its course. Was this the reason? Did Ned meet the higher being of existence?
Nonetheless, he smiled, "Thank you, Taghd. You've given me some important insights."
The Ibbenese shot him an odd look, "No worries, it's odd for someone like you to be interested in our beliefs..."
The luncheon continued smoothly. Benjen joined them late: Ned's brother always ate last, he always did since childhood. He apologised profusely for what happened with the Walker and said he should've warned him.
Yet, Eddard just shrugged it off. It might've been for the best, after all.
That day the Starks ate and feasted: finally, the halls of Winterfell were warm again.
Tyrion
Tyrion tried reading in peace, but the damn wagon wouldn't stop shaking.
"Seven fucking hells," Tyrion muttered under his breath. He had to collect all his willpower to understand a thing.
They redirected their course. News came that the King decided to host a grand council at Riverrun regarding the last developments. Thankfully, they were resting at Stoney Sept when the ravens arrived, so they didn't lose much time.
Father had not complained. Hells, the man was odd as of late, Tyrion was somewhat worried for his well-being.
He was... irrational. That was the best way to describe Tywin Lannister's behaviour. His gaze always lingered far away, spending most of his time observing the scenery during the trip.
That was not his father.
He would typically occupy himself with ledgers and accounts, not giving two fucks about the pretty hill in the distance. Yet, here they were, the mighty Tywin Lannister, out of his mind. Not that Tyrion had anything against it, Father had surely been more bearable as of late.
Yet he wondered what might've changed him. Some maesters theorise that psychological trauma could affect a man's personality, Aerys has been a prime example with his madness after Duskendale. He truly hoped Father wouldn't suddenly decide to burn Tyrion alive.
And so, while the once prideful lord of the Rock enjoyed his landscapes, the Imp studied the ancient texts.
After their little experience with the Mysteries some weeks ago, Tyrion had concluded that the book was cursed.
By who? Probably a demon from the Seven Hells.
Why? He did not have the faintest clue.
That is the reason he asked the local Arch-Septon of Lannisport for all esoteric works on exorcism. With the proper knowledge, he may be able to banish the demon to where he belongs.
Yet he still hasn't found anything that could help him in practice, only treaties on the classification of demons and other foul creatures.
Tyrion concluded that an exorcist Septon was needed. Some works are restricted to few eyes, mayhaps one of the buggers could have access to what he was looking for. Hells, the Septon himself could do the banishing while he sat his sorry arse on a stool ten rooms apart.
Yes, it's better if I leave the work to the experts.
Unfortunately, he didn't know where to begin. How could one contact an exorcist? How could Tyrion appraise the Septon's genuine capabilities?
To judge a warrior, just let it spar.
But with an exorcist?
Should he ask him to recite the Seven-Pointed Star by heart?
Anyone could do that, even Mace Tyrell.
Tyrion sighed visibly, he wasn't finding any answer to his questions. Loreon hadn't been able to help him much, but at least he gave him some possible names for the author. Unfortunately, all of them were lost in time, Tyrion could not find even a paragraph that cited the buggers.
Tyrion glanced outside the window. He could already see the outline of Atranta, the seat of House Vance of Atranta.
Tyrion had read enough, so he ordered the guard to saddle his horse. A good ride could ease his burdens.
Once it was ready, Tyrion galloped forward, surpassing the procession. He noticed a strange weight on his side, and noticed that one of his saddlebags carried something.
The damn book.
Tyrion scowled. It was not the first time that the Mysteries found its way between his belongings, and he could do nothing to avoid it. He was baffled at how the poor saddlebag didn't break due to the tome's weight.
He continued on his way down the road. It was eerily quiet, he expected the main road to Riverrun would be busier this time of the year, especially for a council of every lord in the realm.
Tyrion heard shuffling coming from the nearby bushes. His head jerked towards the direction of the sounds, but saw nothing.
He started panicking. I'm being followed, Tyrion thought, but by who? Bandits?
Nay, they wouldn't rob a random dwarf they found on the road. Ordinary thieves would raid an entire caravan.
They know who I am, Tyrion concluded. But who would try to kidnap the son of the most dreaded lord of the realm? Only a fool.
More shuffling. Four hooded figures rose from the bushes, all armed. One had a bow, and the rest carried wicked daggers, so long that Tyrion could use them as a short sword.
"Not a sound, little lord." The apparent leader said, "You're coming with us with that book of yours."
The book? Why would they want the book?
"I am the son of Tywin Lannister, your group of lickspittles will be butchered if you lay a hand on me!" Tyrion growled.
The man smiled. A wide, wicked grin that sent shivers down Tyrion's spine, "Your fool of a father won't be able to touch us once we acquire the book's power. Willing or not, you'll come."
Shit.
These people didn't give two fucks about his social standing. Who in the Seven Hells were they?
Tyrion slowly raised his hands. He slid down his horse and opened his saddlebag.
Unfortunately for them, they didn't see the dagger.
Tyrion pounced on one of the kidnappers, burying the blade in his eye socket. The man howled in pain, the poor bastard won't live long.
"GET HIM!" The leader commanded, nocking an arrow.
"SOMEONE, HELP!" Tyrion shouted. Hopefully, someone in the surrounding woods would hear him.
Two of the kidnappers fell on him. The one on the right flailed his dagger, hoping to cut Tyrion down. However, his swings were slow and too high, Tyrion just had to duck to evade them.
Tyrion counter-attacked by thrusting his dagger against the robed man's loins. Judging by his screams, he cut something important.
Tyrion narrowly dodged an arrow the leader fired against him, barely glancing at his face.
Yet, that projectile left Tyrion unbalanced, and the remaining minion exploited it fully. The dwarf was pinned to the ground, his arms were restrained under the attacker's weight. The dagger was out of reach, Tyrion couldn't do anything.
"CHAOS REIGNS!" The man shouted with glee, a mad glint in his eyes.
At this point, Tyrion resigned to his fate, to be butchered by a maniac...
At least I shall reunite with Tysha...
Tyrion closed his eyes.
However, he felt no pain.
As he opened his eyes, a bolt was sticking out of the fanatic's throat. He fell sideways, choking on his own blood.
"I've finally found yer' bastards!"
Tyrion glanced at his newfound saviour. It was a man in his mid fifties, somewhat unremarkable in appearance. He sported a mutton chop and long hair.
He carried a bloody siege crossbow, a monstrous thing that could pierce heavy plate. A veteran of the rebellion? Only one could have such a weapon.
The leader of the fanatics looked surprised by the sudden arrival, yet had no time to react as the man charged against him with a hatchet. The woodsman had good strategical thinking, reloading the huge crossbow would take too much time.
The duel didn't last long, as the axe's shaft buried itself in the chief's chest.
"GAH! No..." The kidnapper grumbled.
"HAH! Never bring a knife to a real fight!" The man grinned.
"You can't stop us..." the downed man whispered, "This... is not over..."
The woodsman crushed the dying man's head with his boot, leaving only gory remains.
Tyrion slowly rose from the ground, and only then the newcomer remembered the dwarf's existence.
"Yer' alright?" The man helped Tyrion regain his balance. His eyes widened as he saw the sewing of the dwarf's linen shirt, "Bloody hells, yer' a Lannister!"
"Aye, good man. Tyrion Lannister, in the flesh." Tyrion smiled at him, "Thank you for the help, Ser...?"
The man chuckled, "Vikon, I ain't no Ser."
Tyrion raised his hand, "Very well then, Vikon. A Lannister always pays his debts, and you shall be thoroughly compensated. If I may pry, do you know who these... gentlemen are?"
Vikon spat, "Some cult of sorts. The buggers have been running rampant as of late, kidnapping children and cattle."
"I'm an old crossbowman, fought in the Rebellion and the War of the Ninepenny Kings. I decided to hunt these maniacs after I saw some of their work... nasty stuff. Old Benny's family, who lived in the village of Caribough, got completely slaughtered. All that was left were cut limbs and some strange murals drawn in blood."
Tyrion shuddered. That was a tragic end, and to know it's becoming common...
"When did the massacres begin?" Tyrion asked.
Vikon appeared to ponder, "If me' memory still holds, around three moons ago, yet 'tis strange for them to gain a significant following so rapidly."
"Very well," Tyrion sighed, "Would you escort me back to my party? Mayhaps we should bring one of the corpses too."
"Aye, I'll lend a hand."
Vikon slung the corpse on Tyrion's horse while recovering his'. The two rode south, side by side.
Noticing the starry sky, he glanced east.
Tyrion felt a chill, as the moon that rose on the horizon was red as blood.