I do not own nor claim to own any of GRRM's works, nor am I profiting from this story
Great views so far, thanks so much guys. Story continues on the road for Winterfell. Enjoy!
The next day, the Karstark party disembarked from Karhold and started the long journey to Winterfell. Jagare had the message from last night burned into the back of his mind. After many hours of thinking, the only thing he could deduce was that the young wolf was Jon Stark, the young prince of the North. As to who sent it, he had very few options. Anyone giving him a warning was strange, as most in the North would happily see him dead. If it was someone at Karhold, they would have simply told him, secretly at least. But it was worthless thinking about it. He had no plans to go up and shake the prince's hand, at any rate, avoiding him was something he planned to do to everyone. On the morning before they left, he had burned the message and vowed to not think about it again.
They planned to travel southwest, joining with the smaller but foreboding Bolton party. Jagare was looking forward to this though. Seeing Ben again would be a sweet reunion. They would then meet with the Hornwoods at the banks of the White Knife and cross to Winterfell. That party Jagare was less excited to meet. As per usual with a man's wife, Imogene Hornwood had been most displeased with the sight of Jagare in her halls and with her children. Her family would show the same views, but with his father as the unanimous leader of their faction, he expected nothing more than dirty looks and spiteful comments. That was fine, he was used to that.
It was well known that his father was the figurehead of the Eastern side of the North. The Umbers, Boltons and Hornwoods all took their lead from him now. United, they posed a much larger threat to the Starks than many believed, especially if they could bring the Manderlys to their side. The King of the North would have a hard challenge keeping so many tensions sated and bridled. Theon Stark was a smart man, well versed, and knowledgeable, yet not the fighter like his father was known for. Luckily his son accomplished that part for him. Theon Stark had married a Glover and Jon Stark was the result. A perfect Stark heir. Tall, handsome, strong, smart and a natural leader. He had proved himself against the Bolton rebellion and showed ruthless cunning. Together, he and his father would be able to mediate some of the conflicts, and swiftly dispense of some others. This would be however if there weren't odd stories coming out of the Winterfell lands about Jon Stark. What some could mistake for ruthless ambition and leadership, might have been a streak of cruelty and malice that he bestowed upon those below him.
When the Boltons had been beaten on the banks of the river, Jon Stark proposed they castrated every man and send them to the wall. He also suggested flaying all of the generals and Boltons themselves just like their sigil. The rumours had reached Karhold from the mouth of Constantine Manderly, who had been marching with the reinforcements to take the Boltons in the rear if they had succeeded in making the crossing before the Stark forces arrived. According to the young Manderly lord, king and prince had argued for hours in the halls of Winterfell over it, with Jon Stark finally bowing to his father's command. For one of the only times in his life, he saw his father smile at the news. Feuds within the House of Stark…that was his father's golden dream.
The journey through the North proved calm but chilly. Winds swept from the east and although the clouds stayed white and fluffy, the cold seeped into the group. At the start of the trip, much to his surprise, Jagare had been called to the front of the party by his father. Jeor Karstark's features were as unmoving and unyielding as ever. Yet he talked to Jagare calmly and without bitterness. This was new. A day before they crossed the Long River, his father started a conversation that they had not had for eighteen years.
"Your mother wrote to you several times over the past years." That one sentence chilled Jagare more than the cold ever could. He felt it travel up his spine and into his neck, then spread throughout his body. He was too shocked to be angry, too stunned to reply. His mother had written to him. His mother. He hadn't even thought…
"And you are telling me this now why?" The words came out gritted and choked, and his father looked over at him and grunted a laugh.
"I suspected you would be like this. I don't blame you either. But before you do something you may regret…" he eyed Jagare warily. "I would ask you to hear me out first." Jagare wanted to knock his father off his horse and leave him for the wolves but steadied his mind and nodded sharply.
"Very well. Explain." His father looked over at him with annoyance, but it faded in less than a second and he sighed.
"Aye, I shall." He took a deep sigh and then spoke again. "Your uncle blamed her for what happened as much as he blamed me and the King." His father's eyes turned steely, but the hate was directed somewhere else. "The word around was that I raped her…but that couldn't be further from the truth." He looked over at Jagare with more anger in his eyes than a hundred lectures ever had. "I never raped your mother Jagare. The mere suggestion was what drove me to near put a dagger in Ellard Dustin's heart, friend as he was." Jagare wanted to doubt him, wanted to have a reason to hate him even more. But Jeor Karstark was a lot of things, both good and bad. A rapist was not one of them.
"Then what really happened?" he asked coldly. His father shrugged and responded
"Truth be told I can't remember what happened after the sunset. I had too much drink in me by then. But Eleanor Dustin was a friend that I would have died for. I would have rather fallen on my sword than lay a finger on her against her will." His voice for once was filled with emotion and pain. It was so strange, Jagare was feeling something towards the cold old man that had 'raised' him. Was it, pride? He didn't quite know, but he felt in his heart that his father was telling the truth.
"Then why did she claim it so?" He spoke. His father shook his head and gazed into the distance.
"She didn't. She could barely remember it herself, but she remembered walking with me back to the castle. That was good enough for him. It was all him Jagare." Jagare need not ask who 'him' was. Ellard Dustin was a terror in the North. He was prideful to a level that even a southern twat would have marveled at. He marshalled the Barrowlands and the Rills to drive away Ironborn pirates a few years after Jagare had been born. Most might have seen him as nothing more than a Northern bruiser, but when he strategically dammed the Stout River near its mouth, everyone saw that he had a military mind as well. With their escape route blocked, the Ironborn were trapped in the North, at the mercy of the men who hated them. Ellard Dustin slaughtered every single one of them, even after they surrendered. The captains he left alive and had sent to the wall, so they would live forevermore with their crew's deaths in their minds. It had been an affront to the rules of war, killing surrendered men, but King Stark forgave him. How could he not? The smallfolk who had been driven away by the pirates worshipped the man as a god. If King Stark had renounced him, they would have been furious. After that, Ellard's blood was up. He'd had a taste of war and wanted more. The years had affected his grudge even less than they had his father's Jagare's train of thought was broken as his father started talking again.
"We were friends before it all, good friends. But he would not allow his sister to be dishonoured so, even if it was willing. He knew no more than I what had happened that night. But he needed someone to blame, and not even a decade of friendship would pull his sight off me. It was he who goaded old Lord Umber into throwing the first punch at the harvest feast, which lead to him being justified to throw one back. It soon descended into madness and if not for the King, blood may have been spilt. The one good thing I'll ever say about that old bastard is that even he knew that murder of fellow Northman was too high a price to satiate his anger." He paused and drew a piece of parchment from his saddlebag. "Over the last 18 years, he has been having your mother write letters to you. Asking about Karhold, about me, my children, my late wife all of it. He wanted information, wanted reasons, and proof that he could show to the Starks. Proof of my…disloyalty." He spat the last word like it had hurt to speak it. "What he did not know was that she signed every letter with the same word. Varra. Every time."
"What does it mean?" He turned to look at Jagare again.
"Ellard was never the most intelligent man, and it will snow in the deserts of Dorne before he learned the Old Tongue. The word means 'False'. He must have thought it was some name I called her or something of the sort, but it was a code. A code that it was not her writing. Over the years he must simply think that I forgot about her, and perhaps it is best he does think that. But I never forgot, boy. Never." He took a long breath. "About half a moon ago your mother wrote a letter without that sign. Dunno how but she did. And she was bloody helpful. A good woman, always. Told me about her brother's plans, what he was to bring up at the council of the North… and she included something for you."
He handed Jagare the sheet of parchment, and his hands shook as he took it from him. Gulping, he unrolled the parchment, and read.
Jagare
I know that you do not know me, and perhaps you would like it to stay that way. But I am your mother. My brother, your uncle, forbade me from visiting you when you were growing up. Some stupid plan of his to deprive you of love at Karhold so that you may receive all he can offer if you should ever return to us. When you meet him at Winterfell, do not be fooled by his niceties. He may show affection to you, but all he wants is for you to help him destroy Jeor, and then he would feed you to the wolves after. My brother has played the long game for years and he will not be opposed to waiting a little longer. Be careful.
I will not be able to see you at Winterfell. I have not seen anything these past years, and I fear with my brother as lord I never will again. Listen, Jagare. You may have a name of strife and war, but it also means something else. Unity. Unity in the face of the enemy. Something that lies deep in the roots of the North. You have a future ahead of you my son, one that I grieve to not be a part of. But you were destined for greatness from the moment I lay eyes on you.
If you do not hate me too much, come visit me in Barrowtown, if you can. There is so much I wish to tell you.
Your Loving Mother
Eleanor Dustin
A single tear fell from Jagare's cheek as he finished reading the letter. His father, more human and caring than he had ever seen him, looked on with sympathy. After another few minutes of silence, he uttered out some words.
"She…. still loves me" His father nodded at him gravely.
"Aye. She always has and she always will do."
"You never told me…about my name." Jeor shrugged. Jagare guessed he had read the letter.
"I didn't name you, she did. But she's right you know. Jagare was the name of the treaty the Red Kings and the Kings of Winter signed when the Andals invaded. When they put aside their age-old grudges and united in the face of those seven worshipping fucks. Unity. In the face of a greater enemy." He let out a low sigh, and a weakness came over him in a way Jagare had never seen. His father looked…tired. "What I wouldn't give for unity once more. But that will never happen. Not in my lifetime."
At that moment a horn blew over the flat icy banks of the river and a voice called 'RIDERS APPROACHING'. His father glared at Jagare like it was his fault and huffed in annoyance.
"Doesn't matter. Now keep at the back and don't get in my way."
Just like that, the spell was broken and his father rode to the front of the party, leaving all and any care for Jagare behind in the dirt.
They met the Boltons by the river. It was a happy reunion as Ben came riding ahead from the rest of the party to meet them. He met their father first, and although the greeting was formal and polite, he could see from afar the silent joy on his father's face. He then greeted Jagare and Lyanna in a much more vigorous fashion. Crushing them both in hugs, the young hopeful boy that left had returned a strong and powerful young man. He grinned crookedly at the two of them, before proceeding to tell them tales of his life at the Dreadfort.
"And then, I saw the ancient Bolton torture room, where it said the skins of the Starks themselves were hung on the walls!" Jagare glanced at Ben quizzically and Lyanna looked slightly concerned. He seemed slightly too excited at this prospect.
"Don't tell me that you are turning into a blood-sucking Bolton now, little brother." She asked. He rolled his eyes at her.
"Of course not, big sister, by the way, taller than you are now. I'm only stating facts. And I also saw this old room underneath the dungeons, with runes and drawings on the walls. I think it was some sort of temple. Apart from the Reeds and the Starks themselves, the Bolton's knew more about the old magic than anyone!" He was right of course. The Reeds of Greywater Watch were rumoured to descend from the children of the forest, bringing with them the powers of greenseers, people who could connect with the Weirwood trees of the North and have dreams of past present and future. The Starks were descended from the first ever warg, a man named Brandon the Beast, son of the legendary founder of House Stark, Brandon the Builder. Wargs were able to connect their minds to beasts and animals of the wild, and form bonds with them, that allowed them to see through their eyes and control their movements. It was said that the oldest Starks had bonded with Direwolves, massive horse-sized wolves that the Starks took their sigil from.
In contrast to the peaceful and natural magic of the Starks and Reeds, the Boltons used blood magic to raise the Dreadfort. The spells were the only thing keeping the Starks at bay for so many years. Only after the magic in the world started growing dimmer did the wolves finally break down the doors of the Dreadfort and forced the Boltons to submit to them. But he didn't mention all of that, too much of a giveaway of his secret pastime.
"Anyway, Rambo was showing me-"
"What's he like now, Rambo that is?" Jagare interrupted. "Last time we saw him he was a sullen moody fucker who wanted nothing more than to play a one-sided knife game with Jon Stark" The man himself was conversing quietly with their father. His pink cloak billowed in the wind, and his black hair swept over his face.
"He is smart and strong, like father. But he has a temper that could rival the Umbers."
"And what about the other Bolton" Lyanna asked slyly, her face opening in a smirk as Ben turned slightly pink.
"Ah yes of course" Jagare joined in with a grin. "Sansa?"
"Sara" Ben mumbled, his eyes falling to the ground in embarrassment. "She's really nice. And smart."
"Pretty too I've heard" Lyanna teased.
"Oh, shut it" Ben growled, turning even redder, and wandering off in search of Daryn. A shout echoed over the two parties, loud and clear.
"SET UP CAMP HERE, WE AWAIT THE HORNWOODS IN THE MORNING" Jagare sighed and pulled his horse over to the outskirts of the slowly building camp. The brief joy of seeing his brother had left him, and the memories of his earlier conversation filled his head once more. Lyanna joined him for a few paces before he grunted at her.
"Father will expect you to attend him tonight, I'd make a head start on that If I were you". She made a face at him.
"Just me? You two looked like father and son for once earlier. What did he tell you?" Jagare's facial muscles tensed as he turned to look at her.
"Told me something he should have told me ages ago. Guess he was trying to make up for something, gods know." He was silent for a minute or so while he pulled down his tent. "It was about my mother…he never talked about her before, but I suppose he must have felt guilty. Or some other hidden agenda." She had fixed him with a pitiful stare. He didn't like it. "Go on'' He spoke sullenly "Don't want to keep father waiting." He expected a withering reply or at least a middle finger. But instead, she just nodded and led her horse away.
He stood for a few moments, with only the nickering of his horse and the sounds of the other men setting up camp. He had tried telling himself younger that his life was going to get better, and one day he would find out about his mother, and she could protect him. But she couldn't. No one could. No one would ever protect him. So, he would try and protect others. His brothers, Lyanna, and anyone whom he considered to be his family. He would protect them all.
After those contemplative thoughts, he turned around and focused on the camp. As per usual, he expected to spend the night on his own and so pitched his rough hide and leather tent at the edge of their camp. The process was easy on his mind, as he set about the usual tasks. He unloaded his belongings into the small tent and set them down. Fur Cloak, Axe, Bow, Quiver of arrows, knife, money pouch and saddlebags packed with other items. He furrowed his brow and ran his thumb down the flint and steel. A small drop of blood fell to the ground and his hands shook. Rage swirled through his veins. His father keeping trace of his mother from him…how dare he. All those years. He could have given Jagare the letters. Even if he couldn't have written back. He was a bastard; it was his birth given talent to stay quiet and keep secrets. And everyone said that bastards aged faster than most. So why hadn't his father told him? Then the thought struck him. It wasn't useful to him. His father never did anything unless it was useful. Which meant he only told him just now because…he wanted to use him. After everything, he was but a mere pawn. Jagare had grown up being able to brood quietly, not letting his emotions spill into the outside world. It was in the nature of a bastard to do so. But this...this took willpower he scarcely possessed.
Dark came quickly in the Autumn time of the year. The fires around the camp flickered as men at arms joked and laughed with their fellow Northmen. His father, brothers and sister sat around a larger fire with the young Bolton, only quiet mutterings coming from Lord Karstarks mouth. The man next to Jagare was telling a raucous story about the time he found a girl alone in the stables, but he wasn't listening. He was planning. Planning for Winterfell and beyond. Excusing himself for being tired, the men paid little notice as he retreated to his tent. Lighting a candle, he delved into his precious collection of books. It was the only thing apart from fighting that would distract him from the simmering anger coursing through his veins.
The book was about the history of the Wildlings, or the 'Free Folk' as they liked to be called. The Wildlings lived as far north as north could go and were only separated from the rest of the North by the great wall of ice manned by the Nights Watch. It didn't always keep them out, however. Despite being a Northman and hating the Wildlings for their raids into northern lands, Jagare couldn't help but admire and envy them. The way they lived was savage to be sure. But to not have to worry about how you were born, to be free from the moment of birth. Free to run, to hunt, to love. It was a life that Jagare might even choose if given the chance.
The story he read that night told the tale of Bael the Bard. He was a Wildling King thousands of years ago, who after climbing a deserted section of The Wall, snuck into Winterfell and used his talent for singing to earn himself a place in the Stark Kings Hall as a bard. At the end of a great feast where he had entertained the banners of the North with his songs, the King granted him one wish and it would be granted. The Wildling King only asked for one thing, a winter rose from the gardens of Winterfell, the rarest and most beautiful flower in the North. The King had his gardener pluck a single rose and gave it to the bard, who then walked off into the snowy darkness, never to be seen again. In the morning, however, it was discovered that the King's only child, his maiden daughter, had been stolen from her bed, and in her place, a single Winter Rose. The King called upon his banners to search for his daughter. Upon hearing the description of the bard, the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch realised who the man was, and so the Black Brothers of the Night's Watch swarmed from their castles upon The Wall to hunt down the Wildling King that had evaded them. Bael the Bard was never found again. However, nine months later a squalling was heard from the crypts underneath Winterfell. And in those great tombs, they found the Stark King's daughter, with a squalling baby in her arms. The King now had an heir, but he was half Wildling. But the King was old, and he was desperate for a male child to carry on the Stark line, so he legitimised the child and made him the Prince of the North.
Jagare closed the book, smiling slightly to himself. It was a happy story for sure, but that was not the true end. Feeling his anger settle slightly, Jagare remembered the tale that a Black Brother told when he visited Karhold a few years ago. Many years after that fateful feast, the Wildling Prince was now a king. Upon hearing of a Wildling host gathering beneath the wall, he went north to defend his realm. The truth of his parentage was unknown to him as his grandfather had forbidden the secret from ever reaching his ears. During that battle, he came face to face with his father, the Wildling bard from all those years ago. The man decided then and there he would not hurt his son, and so lowered his sword. Not realising his identity, the Stark King slew his father in combat. The Wildling host scattered, and The North was victorious. But the gods punished kin slayers, even those who commit unknowingly. And so when word reached his mother back in Winterfell that her son had slain his father, she cast herself from the tallest tower with a howling wail.
It was no coincidence Jagare had chosen this story to read, but the more he thought on the subject, the more he started to reconsider his idea. Had the story taught him nothing? Stealing away from Winterfell with a northern daughter didn't tend to end well for anyone. But…leaving Lya to such a cruel fate. He blew out the candle and settled down into the rough furs, pulling his cloak over the top of him for extra warmth. The night was peaceful.
The next morning, after camp had been packed and the train set to move, Jagare's father sent him a swift look that needed no explanation. 'The Hornwoods are coming, get to the back.' Even with Lady Hornwood gone, he was not going to be popular among the rest of them. As the train moved ever closer to Winterfell through the next few days, his thoughts spun through his mind as to what to expect, and his stomach burned at the prospect of finally arriving.
He was lost in his thoughts on the morning of their planned arrival when he realised someone was watching him. Turning his head slowly, two ice-grey eyes watched him from behind a glossy black sheet of hair. Rambo Bolton tilted his head slightly at him as if expecting him to speak.
"Lord Bolton." Jagare inclined his head.
"Oh, piss on that Snow" Rambo snorted. "We've known each other for years." He grinned a sickening grin at Jagare. "Your father isn't near, you can drop the submissive act." With a quick glance over his shoulders, Jagare straightened himself and gazed back coolly.
"How's the Dreadfort."
"Cold. Cold and dark."
"Thought you liked it that way."
"I do…but Sara doesn't. She likes it open and light. She always liked Karhold." Jagare smirked slightly.
"Sounds like she might be in luck then. Ben's smitten with her." Rambo's face twitched unpleasantly, and he glared murderously at Jagare. But after a second he had relaxed with a chuckle.
"If it had to be anyone…he's a good kid. Make a good lord someday, but he lacks a certain cunning needed at the moment. Hopefully, Sara can help him with that."
"I'm sure she can," Jagare replied, but it was clear Rambo had grown tired of small talk and so glared at him once more.
"Lya told me you were planning something."
"Lya needs to keep her mouth shut" he growled.
"What is it? Gonna kill him?" He looked at Rambo with an amused glance.
"Your japing, right?" He shrugged.
"I'd do it. Your father won't let me though. Said it would start a war. I said good."
"You wouldn't be around to fight it you know" Jagare spoke carefully. It was always best to do that around Rambo.
"One of the only reasons I'm not driving my knife into that bastard's heart. Can't have Sara leading men into battle." He raised an eyebrow. "Thought you'd like to have a go though."
"And why's that" Jagare snapped back. Rambo narrowed his eyes.
"Do I have to spell it out? The Starks took everything from you."
"So" he mumbled. The Bolton lord looked at him with disgust.
"Have some self-respect bastard." Jagare didn't respond as Rambo rode off in front of him. He rode gloomily for another hour until he heard a horn blowing in the distance.
Then their own horns were blown from the front of the party. Shouts echoed through the party, of armed banners approaching their front. All thoughts of the Hornwoods forgotten, he couched his horse and spurred forward, racing past the stumbling men at arms. He reached the front in time to see his father, as well as Lord Bolton and Hornwood trotting over to meet the banner bearer. He turned his eyes back to their own party and found Lyanna next to him gazing over the plains with a cool winter's gaze.
"Father has gone to meet with them, according to him they mean no harm." She spoke with barely hidden irony, but he knew her meaning. It was no coincidence. Benjen trotted up beside them and spoke.
"It's the banners of House Cerwyn from what I can see, we must be close to Winterfell." Jagare's eyes scanned the landscape around them and found the tall thin towers of Castle Cerwyn in the distance.
"Aye…should just be a scouting party come to make sure we aren't attacking. Not like we're stupid enough to do so.
"But Rambo is. And he's about to." Came a pained voice came from their side. Ben pointed to the two parties. With little wind, the sound of shouts from the young Bolton lord caused the men around them to start gripping their weapons and readying their horses.
"Benjen." Jagare hissed at him. "Keep them in line, they will listen to you." Lyanna joined him in his point.
"If our men see their men start to arm, they will follow. You command the respect of both." Benjen glanced about worriedly but sucked in a breath and cantered across the front of the party, calmly reassuring the men. Jagare was proud of his brother, but Rambo was only getting louder, and it would be a matter of time before something would happen. He was almost prepared to get Lyanna to ride out, but their saviour came in the face of an old friend. Two men had been riding hard from Castle Cerwyn since the meeting had begun. One was clutching a turquoise banner with a trident-wielding merman resplendent in green. Constantine Manderley to the rescue. Within moments, all arguments were quelled, and the Cerwyn men turned back towards their castle.
"Show off" he scoffed with a small smile on his face. Lyanna turned and smirked at him, as the rest of the party started moving forward again.
"Will you ever stop being Jealous of Connie, brother?" Jagare muttered some old tongue curses that he had learnt and rode off towards his old friend. Constantine was everything that Jagare had wanted to be growing up. Older, cleverer, stronger, kinder, and much better with people. But it was also his birthright. He was the trueborn heir, yet he wasn't a cunt. The concept was strange to Jagare, but he had no qualms about believing it. On every visit to Karhold, he would try to talk with Jagare and would defend him if any others tormented him. Jagare would always respond with 'I don't need your help', but under the layers of small jealousy and whimsical jokes, Jagare had a deep respect and loyalty for the man.
He must have seen them as well, for he came galloping forward with a smile on his face. Tall, lithe, blond slicked-back hair and with a jawbone that made many a maiden swoon, the new Lord of White Harbour would have no trouble making friends and lovers wherever he went. Wearing seafarers' garb, with a trident stitched onto his jerkin, none could mistake his identity either.
"Jagare Snow! God's man, how long has it been." Jagare met his wide smile with a small grin and clasped his arm strongly.
"Too long my friend, far too long." Constantine laughed and slapped him on the back.
"Aye has been. You look good! Strong. And the wisps of a beard I do say." He chuckled with Connie. "Ah! And the lovely lady Lyanna, a pleasure as always to see your face. Your beauty makes the wastelands of the North that much brighter." Jagare quietly chuckled as his sister rolled her eyes, still accepting the kiss on the hand. While that sort of flattery might have worked on nearly every woman in the South, it was mere boredom to Lyanna.
"Yes, yes Connie, I am sure that my beauty would melt the wall if you needed to woo me, cut the crap shall we." Constantine's eyes twinkled as he wrapped her in a fierce hug.
"As you command, my fair lady. How doth go thy archery?" She laughed and smacked him upside the head before riding back towards their father with Benjen, leaving Jagare with him. "Hard to believe that young Rambo Bolton is the new Lord of the Dreadfort, isn't it?" Jagare silently nodded, watching the banner of the flayed man move in the distance.
"Well, that is what happens when one father starts a stupid rebellion. The son is left to pick up the pieces." Connie's eyes drifted out of focus, and he sighed.
"Aint that the bloody truth of it."
"Gods know what could have happened if you weren't there my friend, you might need to keep an extra eye on him at Winterfell. My father shall be too busy to keep him on the leash he needs." Connie raised an eyebrow in his direction.
"And I won't be? I'm the new Lord of White Harbour by my father's final decree. The North's largest traders and shipbuilders need a lot of attention. We might have to find someone else." Jagare grunted in agreement. Connie's father was barely able to leave his bedchamber and had abdicated all of his titles over to his son.
"Ben gets along with him, but I can't see him being able to control him." Jagare murmured aloud.
"What about you?" Jagare barked a surprised, dog-like laugh at the comment and shook his head. Connie chuckled. "Yes, I can't see him taking orders from someone below his station - uh no offence of course." Jagare shook his head.
"None taken." Connie clasped him on the back and turned his horse towards Castle Cerwyn.
"You shouldn't underestimate yourself though. I remember when we were climbing through the wild berry fields of Karhold, and you came up with some mighty good plans to steal them without getting caught." Jagare laughed fully at that.
"Ah yes, what a natural-born leader I am. Leading raids on berry fields.
Connie chuckled, but his face shone with a certain seriousness. But he let it drop and clapped Jagare on the back once more, before they both rode forward with the party to Winterfell.
Hope you enjoyed guys, few new characters introduced and many more to come.
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