Hello Beloved Readers. Sorry for the long update. Been focusing on playing Ghost Recon since I've just bought it. Okay to be honest I've started to lose interest in the story and been debating for a long while whether to discontinue it or not. After seeing the large amount of complaints of Grammar Nazis and history absentees with a higher than thou holy attitudes, one tends to question whether there is a point on pushing after all. Apparently a lot of people do not like a deviation from the classic fanfics stories out there on the HPXGOT community.

I did promise however that I would finish this and I will. Just not a lot of enthusiasm will be put on it however. I will be skipping a lot of deviations and arcs I planned like the continental aids and the War of Five Kings. Instead it would be a Blitzkrieg to the end.

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Chapter Sixty-Five

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Road to Winterfell

It is a subdued party that heads out of Winterfell; and for within good reason. The current new Hand of the King wants nothing more than to stay and watch over his wounded son, his rather irresponsible wife and the Lords of the North on the verge of exploding.

Suffice it to say that it is an extremely unhappy Ned Stark now sitting gloomily atop his horse. They have ridden the next morning with the king(who wants all of this drama to be over with) down to King's Landing. With him are his household guard, his daughters, Sansa and Arya (with the desperate hope that the two would bond on this shared trip) and Septa Mordane, Sansa's caretaker slash teacher. Say what you will of the Southern Septa but for all her faults, she does care for his eldest.

Either way Ned is rather concerned about those whom he is leaving behind. Never has he left his home with it so…..unstable. The actions of Catelyn have severe consequences that he might have been expecting but at the same time wished fervently not to come true with the Lady of Rivendell seeing compassion and reason. Alas, it is a wish left unfulfilled. Of course it is common sense that she would be pissed due to the accusations leveled to her by his wife with her title as Lady of the North. Worse, it is HIS men that attacked the Rivendell camp. In a way, the North is responsible also for the shit storm they are currently facing. By his orders, Catelyn is in house arrest inside Winterfell as punishment (and in order to protect her from angry Northmen). Still it is not enough to repair the alliance between Rivendell and the North with the former's assets with the exception of those at Dol-Amroth pulling out of every Northern castle and stronghold.

As a result, the Lords of the North flock to Winterfell to find answers as to why their major trading partner is pulling out of their homes. Long story shorty they are not happy with the cause though they all sympathize with the attack on Rickon. To add fuel to the fire, they are even more unhappy with Ned's appointment as Hand of the King. While a powerful position, many in the North doesn't give a rat's arse to the Southern just hopes that Robb would be up to the task of dealing with the Lords and Ladies of the North in his absence and the loss of their trading partner.. His eldest is capable, he knows that already. All he simply needs is the confidence and the experience to deal with all of it.

The fact also that there is another shit-storm waiting for him down at King's Landing once Robert declares his intentions of making his eldest daughter the heir to his throne makes Ned wish that he has not said yes to Robert's offer of him being named as Hand of the King.

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Winterfell Dining Hall

The Lords of the North are at the best of times loud, brash and has a tendency to be noisy if they are in a good mood. However once that mood turns one eighty, they are even ten times as loud. That is showing now as nearly every present Lord in the Hall are shouting as loud as their lungs are able to accumulate in an effort to be the one be noticed by the current Lord Stark who is wishing that he be anywhere but here right now.

"And what are we supposed to do now that our main source of food and income are now refusing to trade heavily with us?" booms the Greatjon, his immense bulk going in contrast with his equally loud voice amidst the clamor of the shouting Lords.

"We need to call back the envoys of Rivendell-,"

"No, we need to make deals with the merchants of the trading posts-,"

"We need to make a formal apology-,"

"An arrangement can be made, a truce!"

"ENOUGH!" a young but firm voice but frigid as the winter cold snaps the room into attention and complete silence as every Lord immediately sits down with the exception of one at the very head of the table.

As for Robb, he gulps as he looks down at the angry gathered Lords of the North. Being the interim Lord Stark, he has always expected that one day or another, he would be the one standing as Lord of Winterfell once his father joins his ancestors. He just doesn't expect that his first time officially as Lord Stark would be dealing with a food crisis that results to a lot of angry Northern Lords.

Standing up, he takes a gulp (and sincerely hoping that his voice does not crack) before speaking out. "Rivendell with all its subsidies has made it abundantly clear that all trade with the North stop and yes Lord Whitehill, even the merchants that also man the trading posts," he adds much to the groaning of everyone involved at the finality of such a decision.

"What do we do Lord Stark? It has been a very long summer. Winter would soon be upon us. If the Maesters are right, it would be the coldest in a hundred years," points out Maege Mormont.

"Yes my lady, that is why in the face of such a tragedy, my father as Hand of the King has decided that with the loss of our trading partner, we would be reestablishing our ties with the Reach and Riverlands for food and supplies that we would need for the coming winter," he declares.

Robb resists the urge to cover his ears as the Lords of the North for the second time once more explodes in a symphony of sounds as everyone obviously does not like getting back with their former trade partners who would overcharge them all over again.

As for Robb, he certainly does not want to imagine missing out his warm soft bread with turkey meat on it in exchange for rye hard bread and grain in the next coming days.

…

Former What is Supposed to be The Twins

"YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" the old man in the weird cloak with the Almighty Beard shouts loudly while planting his staff angrily in front of the gathered Royal Entourage. If it is any king but Robert, they might have lost his head. However for the fat king, he only stares amused at the furious looking old man now glaring at him.

"Do you know who we are old man?" he asks waving the Kingsguard off who have their swords halfway drawn already.

"I know who you are your Grace but I do not have word or permission to-YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" he roars again as an irate Cersei tries to walk past him. With all his shouting though, his spittle immediately shoots forward like a shotgun…..straight to Cersei's face.

The silence is so loud that it is almost deafening as the Queen wipes her face off with her hand. "I WANT HIS HEAD!" her sudden shriek is almost together in compound to the sound of a sword being drawn from Jaimie who tries charging forward to the old man as he dismounts his horse.

Everyone expects that the old man would be bisected as the so-called "best swordsman of Westeros" charges in defense of his sister's honor. They totally does not expect him to dodge the two-handed downward stroke of Jaimie Lannister by jumping back before using his cane like a bat wielding it two-handed making impact straight at the exposed pretty face of Jaimie Lannister.

Robert watches as if in slow motion as the handsome face crumples like a piece of ham being sat on by someone at the physical impact of the staff. One second, then two and the next thing everyone knows, Jaimie Lannister is being sent flying a few feet at the side fully knocked out of commission. He can almost hear a pin drop as everyone stares in disbelief and horror as the golden knight of House Lannister twitches once, twice before not moving anymore.

Swords are immediately drawn as Redcloaks from the entourage of House Lannister obviously draw their weapons in an attempt to avenge the "golden son" of their House. It might have gone bloody if not for the sudden appearance of Delianah atop her Gryphon landing right smack dab at the middle of the gathered group nearly sending everyone off of their feet.

Each and every soul has the common sense and self-preservation of not making any provocative move that might piss off the giant bird. However one Redcloak either out of stupidity or ambition shot his crossbow at the neck of Godric point blank.

If it is any regular Gryphon, such a shot might have been deep and lethal due to the closeness of the shooter. Godric however is not just any Gryphon, he is Delianah's mount and imbued with every projectile ward that the ex-Auror can think of. As it is, the arrow bounces off like a useless twig upon impact at the warded feathers.

Godric might have been unharmed, but he certainly feels the bruise of such a shot. One golden eye glare balefully at the now terrified archer who pisses his pants at the realization of his folly. A pierching shriek follows at the Gryphon lunges forward like a snake snapping and tearing at the man. Robert may be used to war but even he can feel nausea as he watches the giant bird tear the Red cloak apart till nothing is left of him but a torn cape and ruined armor pieces and body bits in less than ten seconds.

"Apologies for that Lord Lannister," Delianah declares sliding off the back of her mount to stare at the Lord of Casterly Rock who seems to have become frigid as ice upon seeing first hand his subject's demise. "He did shoot me first in my own land nevertheless,"

"Indeed he did," the man replies regaining his composure quick. "You will find no arguments with me Lady Delianah,"

"Thank you," the woman declares before bowing to Robert. "I'm sorry for my guard Lord King, but he is rather fanatical when it comes to his duty,"

"No apologies needed Lady Tully. Rare it is to find someone as dedicated to their job these days. I wish the Gold-Cloaks are more like him," Robert replies jovially. "Now please tell me that you have repaired the bridge of The Twins. Me and my retinue are rather in a hurry to get back to King's Landing,"

The young woman in front of him smiles in that familiar way that Robert has come to realize that usually ends up in awe-breaking surprises. "I demolished The Twins your Grace and that rickety old bridge that the Freys have been so fond of for generations. The workers of Osgiliath have worked day and night to finish what you are about to see now and the seat of the entrance to the North. Let me introduce you to Riverguard and Isengard, the union of the Two Towers!" she waves her hand forward and the fog that usually covers this place due to its humidity seems to fade off like a curtain.

It is not the first time that Robert has witnessed the marvel of engineering and miracles that follow on Delianah Tully's wake. The woman has built great things given enough time. Right now however Robert witnessed something that she achieved scant only a few weeks. Where once ugly pairs of castles stand that are The Twins. Now in replacement to them are two giant towers rising to the heavens black as night and menacing as hell. At their very top are flat open spaces where rows of jagged teeth sits imposingly. Between them a very large bridge made of metal are being hauled from the waters by giant chains. In other words it is imposing as hell.

Robert absolutely loves it.

…..

The North, Winterfell

Malik, The Ripper observes the changing guard of the walls of Winterfell. Tonight would be the night that he would be executing his orders directly from the Crown Prince himself. Malik is no ordinary Catspaw no. Born and raised at Flea Bottom. His services are heavily employed by House Lannister and in extension, The Crown. Now these days he personally is under employ of Queen Cersei and Crown Prince Joffrey. He mostly takes care of undesirables that attract the unwanted attention of the Queen be they lowborn or Highborn. Now here he is ready to finish the job that the Crown Prince has handed to him.

With a wordless nod at two other Catspaw he managed to recruit from the Underground here at the North, the trio easily climbs the old wall of Winterfell due to its many jutting spaces on the side. Two days of observing the guards have made them memorize their rotations and this is their window. Managing to scale the wall, Malik wastes no time charging one of the guards yawning at the side out of boredom with a falchion. The man barely has time to screech in pain and alarm before Malik's falchion is ripping out his jugular. He can see behind his eyes, his other companion also stabbing to death the other guard while the other is shooting his bow tied with an arrow across a tower to the Main Keep of Winterfell.

Throwing the dead body to the side and the uninhabitable rocks below, Malik waves to his other companions to scale the rope bridge provided. Years of surviving at Flea Bottom made Malik an expert at traversing narrow ways like this one. His companions followed maybe a bit slower as they finally reach the last hallway heading to their target. As expected, he can see at least another two guards resting on the hallway trying not to doze off. Based on his observation, this is the second hour of their rotation and the guards are mostly bored out of their mind and trying not to doze off on their feet. Guarding is probably the last thing on their minds right now.

With a quick flurry, Malik breaks out of cover throwing the knife at his hand. His aim is accurate and true hitting the first drowsy guard on the side of his neck with a pained gurgle completely out of commission. The second one barely manages to notice the death of his partner when Malik's entourage pinned him with two bolt quarrels at the chest. Without ado, he also fall on the ground with a thud.

Smiling in victorious silence, Malik draws his dirk ready for the last phase of their plan when unexpectedly the door opens revealing the face of a confused interim Lord of the North staring at them in confusion before moving his eyes to the two guards.

…

3 minutes Before.

Robb yawns as he places the fur cloak that he has been wearing the entire day. He has always expected that being the interim of his father would be hard, but not that hard. The Northern Lords have to be strong-armed by words and promises though some like the Greatjon needs a more literal way of handling to keep them from bloody rebelling. Suffice it to say, unhappy would be the best thing that can be described on the Northern Lords. The alliance of Rivendell with it has been a breathe of space from the troubles that the North has been experiencing for generations. Long story short, not a single one of the men and women from that hall is happy with his mother right now. Robb makes a mental note to keep his mother out of the public eye. One of the locals might club her especially with the bad news that food again has to be rationed till trading ties be established with the Reach again.

Right now however Robb stares at his unmoving brother lying at his bed. Maester Luwin has done the best he can do for him and he is now resting. While he would be crippled for life, he at least would be alive. Thank the gods for small mercies. He would need to take Summer back beside Bran's side soon. Seeing his Direwolf at least would lessen the already bad news that he would need to break to his brother. He also needs to send word to his mother at the Sept of hers where she is praying to her gods. He grimaces again. For the life of him he has no idea why his father keeps acquiescing to her demand that he repair the Sept that the Old Gods keep bringing down.

A loud thud makes Robb frown outside. That suspiciously sounds like a body falling.

"Did one of the guards sleep on the watch again?" he wonders to himself as he stands up to check. It is not the first time that a random guard would fall asleep during his watch. While understandable, Ser Rodrik makes sure that said perpetrators are disciplined.

Robb opens the door quickly, a word of reprimand already starting to emerge from his lips when he pauses. What he certainly does not expect to see tonight is three ragged looking strangers in tattered outfits standing outside his brother's door. Worse he also sees the obviously dead bodies of the guards lying unmoving on the ground, one with a knife sticking on his neck and the other with crossbow bolts at the chest.

Instinct takes over and Robb slams the door shut. It might have saved his life for in the next second he backs off from it as two quarrel bolts are sticking out of the door where his body is a few seconds ago. He is however unprepared for the door to suddenly burst open, courtesy of a kick from one of the assassins who is now charging him with a wicked looking knife. Robb just cursed as he realizes that he has left his own sword at his room. He doesn't expect after all that he would be fighting for his life tonight. As it is he grabs the only thing nearest to him that can be used as a weapon, the chair.

Blocking the first lunge at him clumsily, Robb puts himself between the assassins and his brother. It is pathetically obvious that they are here for him of course. If not, they would not have been surprised by his presence. He snarls however at the thought of someone wanting to harm his little brother. He needs to interrogate one of these assassins to get answers. That is if he survives that is.

The three are already attempting to get under his guard by lunging forward like snakes with their daggers. Robb knows in the next few seconds of the fight that he is at a complete disadvantage. To say the least, a chair is not a good weapon against long wicked daggers due to how unwieldy it is. It is the only weapon he has on his person though and it has to do.

Swinging it widely like an oversized bat, Robb tries not to lose his footing due to the extra weight offered by the chair on every swing. The assassins might have lethality and balance but the unwieldy chair offers Robb something, reach. As he expects the chair finally makes contact with one of the assassins at the shoulder making him curse as he is thrown to the side of the wall.

What Robb does not expect however is for the chair to also burst into pieces leaving him with nothing but a wooden stump that he is holding uselessly. Immediately the two remaining assassins are at him immediately blades flashing. Robb backpedals in a hurry futilely trying to deflect their blows with the wooden stump. Two painful stings erupt from beneath his jerkin and he hisses at the pain that follows. He at least has been stabbed twice shallowly and he can feel his body react in pain at the third one that follows.

Robb can feel his heart sinking though as he suddenly feels the edge of the bed touch the back of his legs. Any more backing on his part and he would be making Bran vulnerable. For good or for ill he has to make his stand here. Immediately he is engaged by the three assassins once more with the one he knocks before joining the fight once more. Robb just snarls as he whacks, counters and parries as best as he can their attacks. Like the sigil of his house, he is like a snarling direwolf clawing and ripping against the hands of fate trying to take his life away.

No amount of courage can snap reality however. Robb has no idea how long he has been fighting. The constant pains as his body becomes battered more and more is a constant that seems to stretch on for an eternity as he pushes every last visage of strength he can scrounge up within himself to stay on the fight. In the end he finds himself slouching at the bedside bloody and defeated, his body unable to support any more his indomitable will. As it is he just glares angrily even in defeat at his and his brother's would be killers who is smirking down on them with their fair share of bruises.

Robb s fully accepting of his death that is to come. If it is the will of the gods then then no amount of struggle on his side can change that. What he doesn't expect however is for the ceiling to suddenly crack open like an egg in a mighty explosion sending timbers and stone flying everywhere. Robb with a hidden cache of strength that surprises even him forces his bloody form to cover his brother's body from the burning wooden debris flying all around. The assassins on the other hand are not so lucky. Two of them are sent off their feet while the last one gets pinned on the leg by a burning beam, his screams echoing on the castle.

The sudden explosions and ruckus might have brought the entirety of Winterfell to the commotion. Unfortunately no one would see it at all. A large brown Gryphon slams in front of Robb a split second after the explosion hissing and shrieking loudly as its beak and claws tears apart the trapped man, bits and pieces of him decorating the room. A figure in a familiar black form fitting armor jumps off his back wielding two swords heading to the downed thieves. One barely has time to scream out in fear and alarm before he is pinned to the ground with a single sword thrust. The other is much wiser as he rolls away barely avoiding having his jewels decapitated. As it is, Robb's savior is after him in seconds swords swinging.

In normal events, wielding bastard swords in a room is a bad idea against smaller weapons like knives, short swords or dirks. However his savior apparently is skilled enough on wielding her weapons for even in tight quarters, she is easily outfighting the assassin who is trying his damnest not to get his head separated from his body. With such difference in skill level however, it is not long for said head to be sent flying, courtesy of a horizontal swing that cut off the dirk on the hilt where no metal reinforcement can be found.

As Robb finally succumbs to blood loss and exhaustion however, what he sees last is the familiar face of that Dornishwoman guard that follows the Lady of Rivendell around.

….

Author's Note: Hope you like the chapter. Sorry for the long update.