I do not own nor claim to own any of GRRM's works, nor am I profiting from this story
READ THIS BEFORE YOU START
This story has been written in GRRM's universe, but does not contain a single character from his stories. Every single character in this fic is original with some glancing references to long lost ancestors such as Brandon the Builder. It is set around 20 years after the Targaryen's invasion, which they failed to do. I will say again, there are no characters in this fic from Martain's books. You have been warned!
The boy sprinted down the hallway as fast as his legs would carry him. He was in a mighty rush, and he was late. Narrowly swerving a flustered serving lady, he barged through a door into a plain, simple, yet comfy hearth room. A great roaring fire lit up the chamber with a soft orange light, and a large plush chair stood beside it, a throne resplendent. There were other children there as well. Brothers, sisters, cousins. All looked annoyed with him for disturbing the silence. On the throne sat a wizened old man with grey hair and a scabby white beard. His eyes had been blinded many years ago, leaving them milky white, but his smile was as warm and comforting as ever.
"Ahhh, is that the young Tommo Locke I hear? Late again my boy." His voice was soothing, yet firm. Not too long ago that voice would have been commanding men in battle or talking on behalf of the King. But now, the voice gave its power to storytelling and wisdom.
"Sorry…has it already started?" The boy was nervous, but the old man chuckled heartily and shook his head.
"No dear boy, we have yet to begin. Now, take a seat, and I shall tell you all the story of The Autumn Feast of Blood, and the birth of Jagare Snow." Immediately the children started whispering and looking around to check for parents, aunts, and uncles. They were forbidden from talking about it, on the punishment of mucking the stables for a week. But the old man looked at them hard, and his once-powerful voice echoed throughout the room.
"I am aware that your parents think you should not hear, yet I disagree. If you are to grow up into strong Northerners, you must know our history." His glazed eyes swept over the group. "So" he spoke softly. "We shall begin."
"The North is a cold, hard, desolate place. The winter wind howls through the land, from The Neck to The Wall. The ground is frozen solid half the year from the ice and snow. Leagues of woods, mountains, lakes, and plains; the largest kingdom in Westeros, yet the emptiest as well. But even a large, empty land can find itself tearing apart. The Houses of the North are proud, quarrelsome, and stubborn. Often making dull threats to each other and brawling when they feel their honour and pride insulted. Once or twice, an argument would brew to blades, and from blades to war. But the North remembers. We remember the Age of Heroes and the Long Night, the Andal invasions and the Wars of Westeros, the southern kingdoms dancing their dance, and playing their game. We remember the dragons warring in the south, and through all of this, we have stayed united, for the most part anyway...When House Stark brought us together under their reign as the Kings of Winter, there was seldom a civil war since." The old man cleared his throat and lowered his voice, as if making sure no one would hear them.
"Until one night changed all that. The young prince, Theon Stark was out drinking with his friends in Wintertown beyond the walls of the great Stark castle of Winterfell. Jeor Karstark, Grover Norrey, Ellard Dustin, and Willam Umber were their names and not a more raucous bunch of young lords could be found anywhere. The night was long, and the ale strong. They drank past the Hour of the Wolf, long into the deep darkness of the northern night. That night was the night of reckoning for the North, and history would be forever changed."
"What happened?!" one of the children chirped, eyes wide with amazement.
"I'm getting to that young one, now listen." He let out a short sigh and his expression grew serious.
"Three moons later, cries of war went up from the castle-city of Barrowtown, home of House Dustin. At the next Winterfell Harvest Feast, an enraged Ellard Dustin drew his blade against Jeor Karstark, for the crime of raping his sister. The truth of what happened that night in Winterfell was thought to be known only by Eleanor herself, who said not a word as she could not, for that night was her first being truly drunk, and her memory had failed her. That night, what was supposed to be a feast of celebration, turned into a near bloodbath." The boy's eyes widened, as he realised that the old man had been there, his expression…it was so familiar. He had seen the feast!
"The North split itself in half, with only a few Houses declaring neutrality. The Reeds and Flints of Flint's Finger turned their noses up at their battling brothers and left the hall without another word. The Cerwyns, the Manderlys…and the Lockes, sided with no one, trying to work with King Stark to restore the peace. Meanwhile, on Lord Karstarks side were the Umbers, the Boltons, the Hornwoods and the Flints of Widows Watch. On the side of the Dustins were the Ryswells, the Glovers, the Tallharts, the Mormonts and the Mountain Clans of the Northern Hills." The boy checked each one off in his head. He knew them all from his studies. He realised that the old man was really telling the truth, the North really had cut itself in half.
"War was almost upon them until the King had seen, and heard enough. An ear-splitting howl pierced the air as what must have been every wolf in the nearby Wolfswood roaring at the moon. It was often said that the Starks had magic blood in their veins from aeons ago, and what King Stark showed there dissuaded no one that it might be true." The old man shuddered at what the boy was convinced was a memory. "The King's eyes blazed with cold fury, and in his hands, he held Ice, the great ancestral sword of House Stark. A bite so sharp, that you would not even know you had died if beheaded!" There was a gasp from the girls in the room, and the boy rolled his eyes.
"The sight of their King holding the great ancestral Sword of Winter paused the fighting men, and the brawl ended before it could begin in earnest. The King asked if anyone had borne witness to the events in any shape or form, and after a few moments, a voice spoke up. Theon Stark. The Prince of Winterfell and Heir to the North. He claimed that he had indeed been drunkenly walking the corridors looking for his chambers after coming back from the late night out in Wintertown." The old man scanned the room once more and then gazed at the floor numbly.
"He told everyone that upon hearing voices and hiding behind a tapestry, he witnessed a ruffled and scruffy-looking Eleanor Dustin leaving the chambers of Jeor Karstark. Although he could not see the expression on her face, he could have sworn that he heard her let out a sob. A sob of happiness or sadness, he could not tell. The hall fell silent as faces turned to the chalk-white Jeor Karstark and the flushed, torn face of Eleanor Dustin. It didn't matter that Theon Stark claimed he could have been too drunk to make any sense of it, or that he could vouch for Lord Karstark's character more than any man there…the western lords had made their decision. Before any more fighting could break out, the King made his own decision. The child would be Lord Karstark's burden to bear, and that would be the end of it as any rape could not have been proven." The old man shook his head slightly and leaned forward with a sad smile.
"Even though Lord Dustin wanted a harsher punishment delivered to Jeor Karstark, there already had been, unbeknownst to him. All those in the hall saw the look of quiet disgust on the old King's face. It didn't matter that the crime could not be proven, the King had judged Lord Karstark guilty, yet could not punish him how he wished for there was naught any evidence. Once kin with the Starks, the Karstarks had fallen from their graces. The King decreed the rest of the Lords to make peace and rejoin arms." The old man chuckled and flexed his gnarled old hands.
"But the North does remember, and from that moment, the eastern and western sides of the North became distant, as if the great White Knife River had become the only thing separating them from war. Six moons later, a baby boy was born in Barrowtown. He was taken from his mother's arms merely a week after he was born, and those there said there were tears in her eyes. He was taken east to Karhold and handed over to the now distant and stern Jeor Karstark. The threat of war and the alleged crime of rape had changed the man, and he was no longer the light-hearted, easy smiler he used to be. Now, he was cold, harsh, and stern. The boy…well the boy was named-"
"Jagare" the young boy muttered, and the old man smiled warmly at him.
"Correct. Jagare Snow. In the old tongue, it meant conflict or war. Now, life as a bastard is better than most in the North. Whereas the southerner's Faith of the Seven looks down on bastards as spiteful, angry children who would seek to usurp their trueborn sibling's birthrights, the North and the old gods simply saw them as they were. Children, innocent of their parent's misgivings and sins. As long as a Lord claimed their bastard, there was little dishonour. But for Jagare Snow, well…he was the living reminder of what could have been. The war that almost tore apart the country." The man huffed and shook his head.
"Remember this, all of you. That boy caused no wrong, none so ever. Smallfolk can be forgiven for following their lord's orders and opinions, but you all have the right to your own belief. You must remember this now, Jagare Snow caused no wrong to the North. It could have been any babe in that cradle. It could have been you. Remember that." All of the children nodded enthusiastically, soaking up every word the wise old man had to offer them. But the man clapped his hands and shook his head. "But that is enough for now, maybe I tell you more another day." A chorus of whines and pleads resounded through the room, but Tommo sat quiet and pensive. As the others filtered out of the room he waited until he was the only one left. The old man was gazing out the window into the darkness, his eyes seeing everything and nothing.
"Tommo Locke" he muttered. "You have a question."
"Yes…Jagare Snow."
"Ah yes, you wish to know if he is real?" Tommo nodded furtively and the old man grimaced at him.
"As real as you or I lad, and all the worse because of it. He is merely two years older than you I daresay. Who knows, one day you may meet him. Fate works in odd ways." Tommo looked at the old man with a confused expression, but he closed his milky eyes and laid his head back. "You did not complain and plead for another story, you came and asked a question, and for that, I shall give you the rest." The boy's eyes widened, and he sat down on a nearby stool, watching the old man who dug around in his leathers to pull out a missive he had received. He could not read it, but he rubbed his hands over the parchment and sighed as if remembering the words. In a quiet voice, he spoke once more.
"Growing up, he was the epitome of a Northern son, much to the disgust of those around him. Long face, with dark brown hair and grey eyes. He was tall and strong. Everything you would expect from a Karstark. But he never was one, and he knew it. His life was tough growing up. Servants and visiting lords alike would whisper behind his back when he was young, 'That boy near caused the war', 'Aye, coulda had us fighting our brothers', 'May the old gods curse him.' Needless to say, he grew up quicker than most, and harder."
"Adults both low and highborn would mostly ignore him, but their sons would sometimes talk to him. Constantine Manderley and Rambo Bolton, heirs to White Harbour and the Dreadfort. They were the most common, though they never stayed long. About two years after he was born, his father married Imogene Hornwood and had three children with her: Lyanna, Benjen and Daryn. Jagare loved his half-siblings desperately, but their mother was insistent that they not spend time with him. Once in the great hall, Imogene demanded that Jagare leave Karhold when he reached manhood, around five and ten." The boy's eyes widened.
"That's the same age as me…"
"Aye, it is. Can you imagine if your uncle simply asked you to up and leave one day?" The boy shook his head and the old man nodded. "Exactly. Luckily, the stony-faced Jeor simply stated, 'He will leave when I give the word, not a moment before.' And that was that. Over the years Jagare picked up many traits from his bastardry, Caution, cleverness, and shrewd wit, but also a tough shell, and even tougher fists. He learned to fight, ride, hunt and do basic reading and sums. But never much attention was given to him after that. The boy was a ghost in his father's castle, and I do hope one day he breaks free of those chains."
"How do you know all this" the boy blurted out. "I mean…it sounds like you knew him. I-I know you were at the feast, that part was obvious."
"Was it now?" the old man gave him an appreciatory look, before humming to himself and closing his milky eyes. "I have seen the boy before I was blind. It is vital that he grows and survives. The Old Gods showed me such."
"They spoke to you!" the boy breathed with wonder.
"Aye lad, they did. Told me the boy must be protected, that he is needed for the North's survival." The man thought for a second then asked a strange question. "Do you know my name?" The boy frowned and recited the old man's name.
"Brandon Locke."
"Aye, that be true now. But before, I was Brandon Stark, the third son of a King long dead." He turned his milky eyes on the boy. "It is my duty as a Stark to protect the North. It is all of our duties. Bastards, women, cripples. We are all the same. We are all Blood of the North."