Join my Discord via invite/XBuK6tCAB7 and/or visit SoulGamesInc on Youtube for all relative links and/or consider leaving a Review here to share your thoughts/comments :) all effort is appreciated and helps to encourage my continued writing.
Chapter 67: Prince of Ashes
"The future is dark. We all die there."
– Prince Willam Stark
Apathy was a calligraphy of violence, a message of blood-writ, that would require the lifetime of gods to translate. As he watched the fires, green and black and red, the screams muffled in the smoke and the great numbness gripped his chest ever tighter; streets aflame, banners burning, the screams of melting flesh both young and old – with a thousand horses howling like demons – hundreds of birds flew frantic to escape the inferno as every building in the city roared alight with flame and ruin.
Prince Willam watched it all with a nothingness in his heart. His brother was down there somewhere, his nephew, friends and allies all… and yet…
"What great a responsibility you are avoiding, my boy," the voice of the old Emperor rang from memory.
"I'm not avoiding anything," he'd argued at the time. A bold-faced lie. The Emperor's ghost smiled knowingly.
There was ever one thing he'd clung to. An excuse, perhaps, the old emperor knew. It was seared into his soul. Apathy. If a man was cursed, or if he believed he didn't have to care, then he didn't need to hurt when he failed. Those failures couldn't have been prevented. Someone or something else had ordained them – the gods or plain bad luck – caring about something made you vulnerable, made you weak, for in the end mortal lives were like a child's toy, easy to break and hard to mend.
He'd always knew himself broken, to burn over every refusal, to feel his blood rise at the slightest reminder of the past no matter how fleeting.
Knowing and fixing were two very different things. As he watched the city burn, flames dancing, he was reminded of all those he'd failed and lost.
"Stark," the voice came muffled, his ears ringing; wet to the touch of his fingers.
"Blood," Willam muttered quietly under the screams of the dancing flames.
"Cousin," another muffled ghost. He'd always had a natural fear of burning alive.
Then again, what man didn't shy away from fire? Also spiders… he hated spiders…
"Snap out of it, cousin!" His head snapped up, away from the dancing flames and ruin.
"Fisher," Willam hummed, eyes darting about the courtyard to the sight of destruction.
"The fires are spreading," Thorim had him by the cuff of his shirt. "We need to leave! Now!"
Ah, well that wasn't good. "Tunnels," Willam supposed, absent and blank. "If they're still standing…"
He still had the spider's map, crumpled in his pocket, it would – if they hadn't collapsed – lead them from here to whatever fate.
King's Landing burnt like an eight of the andal seven hells, flames dancing on the wind, consuming everything it touched while sticking to wood and stone and flesh alike, it hugged and squeezed with burning embrace, warm and ruinous, as foul winds sent by cruel gods blew the dance against the Red Keep; soon to be burnt black.
The world had crawled to a stop in his memory, as the once pristine white marble steps of Baelor's Sept cracked and moved, ripped and rumbled, green flames broke free like blood from so many thousand veins in a man; they sparked and spewed between a heartbeat – too fast for any man to react – as the great crystal dome shattered against a blinding light, equal parts magnificent and terrifying, it was all Brandon could do to turn and stare in awe and dread before the might of the end.
The wolves had noticed first, even a second earlier; his own grey wolf Sol had whined and nudged him in warning… and he'd dismissed it as hunger…
He'd scolded the wolf for it. Now had not been the time for begging, the greedy thing. In the moment, for whatever reason, his mind clung to that regret.
The wolf deserved better from him. Brandon saw how he'd leapt in front of the flames, as if to protect their master, hungry only for duty in the face of fire.
A tidal wave of green washed over them all and the Prince felt nothing but the dark – the world numb and cold – his vision turned to an endless night of memory. His father's voice gave him farewells, as if they'd never speak again, then he spoke to his mother; ever smiling and crying into his shoulder with talk of her love.
When his uncles spoke, their voices were strange… cracking, distant, lost behind the sound of waves and fire and an endless undying blizzard.
King Rodrik's voice was as if ash and a raging inferno, standing before him now, his shadow blotted out the flames… until the shadow burned…
Uncle Edrik was sorrow and longing, embracing him in a hug; he wept as his mother had done – though his smile was almost as warm as the flames.
And then came Uncle Willam, his smile lost somewhere dark, sat atop the throne in Winterhold with Frost resting against one of the direwolf handrests, his face was blank – devoid and shadowed – he did not smile for him nor offer comforting words as the other did, nor so much as move. He sat, motionless, flanked by the lone figure of a small child with snow-white hair and sparkling blue eyes, the pair surrounded by a thousand corpses littered around them like an eerie ocean with tides of blood.
Brandon found himself reaching for the sword, grasping Frost, the cold froze the fire and the corpses turned to snow as his uncle's eyes turned a haunted blue.
As he stood back afraid, the small child smiled at him; a girl with pale skin and those same blue eyes.
The words echoed "Who are you to defy the will of Gods" as Frost melted in hand and the hall emptied.
Aunt Lyarra sat atop the throne now, legs crossed, wearing the same smile Willam once wore.
"Bran," she spoke, and her words seemed to echo in eternity.
"Aunt?" His voice was hoarse, rough and raspy…
"Hush now," Lyarra looked so very sad all of a sudden.
"W- What," it hurt it speak, like ash and powder in his throat. "What i- is-"
"Not yet," she told him, still sat atop the throne. "You cannot fight fate, little wolf."
What did that mean? Why the riddles, now or all times? "I – I don't-"
"Understand," she was in front of him suddenly, in the blink of lost eyes.
He jolted back, stumbling, not to the floor of the hall but the cold of snow.
"Your choices seal your fate," she knelt by his side. "Your choices and others…"
"Is-" Brandon groaned, his throat afire.
"Gone," she told him. "I am sorry, little wolf."
Gone? All of them dead? Did that mean He was….
"Not yet," came the answer, without needing it asked.
"I-" Brandon tried to stand but stumbled back to the snow.
Only, it was not snow, to crumble in his hands instead of melt.
"The Prince of Ashes comes," Lyarra told him, smirking suddenly.
"I-" Brandon struggled to speak. "A- Afraid…"
"Good," she told him with a hum, standing up.
Why was that good? Why was this dread that he felt-
"It means you're alive," her smile suddenly burnt like the flames.
"H- Help," he begged, though she made no move – head darting away – searching the dark.
"He is angry," Lyarra began to giggle like a girl half her age, joy echoing in the ash. "So very angry…"
Her hand outstretched, Brandon grasped it and held on his every ounce of his strength; what little remained.
The night sky sundered with stetches of blinding light, cracks in world, glowing and bright; they came with new voices and the taste of fresh air in his lungs – the vision of his aunt faded with a warm smile – the snows melted away, the dread departed with the cracks of light as "Here" and "Prince" echoed, and Brandon felt Lyarra grip his hand.
"Boy," it was not her voice anymore. "You hear me? Gods damn it boy, wake up!"
Brandon gasped, ash in his lungs choking; red raw – he felt alive – free from shadows.
"Gods," the man sighed and suddenly Brandon felt warmth.
The man was hugging him, arms wrapped, with salty tears flowing.
"Let the boy breath Sunstark," came the Towers grunt, moving more rubble free of the burnt wolf.
"G- Grandfather?" Brandon's eyes focused on the old man as he recoiled after the howl of pain shot through.
"Shit," Towers boomed voice demanded attention as the giant man hauled some wood free and tossed it away.
"My sweet boy," Arlan Sunstark was frowning deeply.
Brandon had recoiled when the pain struck, burning hot, he reached and-
"Arghh!" he screamed at the touch of his cheek, hand away bloody, his grandfather helped him up.
His legs were shaky, his vision partly blurry; one look at Lord Towers gave him some idea of the reason.
Lord Tyr Tower's right arm was a ruin of cooked flesh and charred skin, yet the man seemed to ignore the pain.
"We need bandages," Lord Sunstark was shouting aloud. "Now!"
When had he moved? Brandon's world was dizzy… and the terrible pain…
He dreamt of the throne room again, of his aunt and the girl with snow-white hair.
Maric watched the boy pass out with a heavy heart. They'd already lost too much to lose another…
"Bran," Sunstark was frantic, muttering "Not again" over and over as some Greycloaks lifted the burnt Prince free of the rubble.
Seastark and Sunstark were hardly the best of friends, truth be told, but Maric felt no small amount of pity for the old lord; the gods having taken most of his children besides the bastard – the grief in his voice as he pleaded was enough to add sorrow to an already bleak reality. As the ash drifted down, Maric struggled to hope.
In his hands Maric Seastark held the Crown of Winter, its iron swords half melted and twisted by the fire.
Across from him, away from the rubble, was the smoking remains of what was once the King Rodrik Stark.
How the boy Brandon had survived… no man could say… except for what few witnesses they dragged from the rubble.
"H- His Grace," they'd found Uther Wright under a cooked and charred horse, crushed and his faced ruined even more than the boys…
Wright grumbled the story of how King Rodrik had put himself between the flames and his nephew, taking the brunt of the green tide, the flames burnt the King in his armour as the building behind them collapsed and fell upon Prince Brandon; not before the fires consumed the King and crashed into the Prince.
"Uther," Maric held the man's hand as the light faded from his eyes. A friend lost, added to the long list of late…
A great victory had turned to ashes in their mouths…
"How did it come to this?" Lord Mormont uttered past sorrow.
Maric got to his feet with a heavy heart, turning his back on lost friends.
"How many," he asked of Mormont, the old bear coughing with some trouble.
"Too many," Mormont answered. "His Grace, and I saw a wall crush Lord Odyn…"
Fisher's heir was in the Red Keep with Prince Willam and some others… where they lost too?
As Maric turned his eyes up towards the Red Keep, it was alite with emerald and crimson, the last place for the raging inferno to consume.
It hadn't erupted like so much of a city – small mercy aside – the ensuing flames had burnt without mercy for days and nights; moving with the wind to lick at the Red Keep as if the fire knew where to find the living. Maric had watched from the ashes as the fires consumed the keep and many of its roofs collapsed after time.
He'd been the go-to for order in the chaos, with the King lost and – they'd assumed – the Prince with him… he was the only Stark blood here…
"Father," he found himself praying to the dark brooding sky. "I need you here damn it…"
Every fibre of his being screamed "find Prince Willam" yet he couldn't wager how to Do that.
The Red Keep was a raging inferno of fire and smoke. Nothing inside could've survived… yet alone anyone sent Inside to search…
It would be rubble and ruins before they'd be able to issue a proper search of the ashes, such was the story with the rest of the city. The flames had consumed everything, moving onto new prey once it eat its fill, leaving behind only ashes and sorrow. If the Prince Willam or the others lived… it seemed unlikely…
"Don't doubt that boy," Mormont was confident bordering on madness.
If anyone could survive, the burnt bear decreed, it was the Stubborn Wolf.
Maric only huffed, ash in his lungs, he coughed and scowled at the sight of the inferno.
Smoke blotted out the sun in the sky and it shined through lazily in the rarest of moments.
It had all gone horribly wrong again. Connington's world had slowed at the sight of it, as his son-by-choice tried in vain to shield the Tyrell girl from the waves of flame and destruction, the dragon could not be burned some claimed – fools and idiots – the tale of Summerhal could've taught any man the reality of Targaryen fire. The dance could've taught it as well, when dragons burnt and devoured themselves, men were only mortal in the end of time. They all died, no matter how unjust it felt.
In his mind's eye, it was Rhaegar he watched leap to the guard of the helpless maiden, so eager to fulfil his role as hero that he'd thrown away his own life.
It was a madness of a different type, the love of these women; thought the Griffin as he darted for the boy and his maiden.
The flames licked at his clothes between a heartbeat, burning them away. They licked at his flesh, melting and twisting it with chainmail.
When it found the grey skin, the fire recoiled as if in fright – burning around as if it were valyrian steel – forged of old magic. He roared through the pain of it all, eyes raging, for nothing mattered expect the boy. Aegon was his future, his heart's son, his own son; his one and only reason to cling to this life they lived.
"He'll be King," Jon had promised, vowing against the flame.
The fire did not answer his whims nor wishes.
"I promise Rhae," he'd pledged in his heart.
The fire did not care to negotiate…
"I won't fail you again, I won't…"
He held the boy and the screams echoed…
His own? Aegon's perhaps? The girl even? He could not say…
"I've got you," his mind raced, tears on burnt flesh. "I've got you son…"
It burnt his back, it burnt his scalp, his grey flesh defiant against the heat.
In his arms he clung to the future, the only future that mattered, his son and his heart.
Jon Connington wrapped the King in his arms and thought of his life, the good and the bad.
Rhaegar was smiling at him, and the son was gone, vanished from his hands; as if he'd never been there.
Gone were the flames embracing his flesh, melting his skin and boiling his blood. Gone was the pain. Nothing remained.
Jon's hair was as clean shaven as he'd been in youth, he realised, hair a fiery red – his hands were smooth – his aliments cured.
"Hello Jon," the voice echoed from afar, with indigo eyes and a charming smile.
Gods, how he'd missed that smile. Jon wept to see it and his troubles melted away.
His heels scrapped against rough stone as they descended. It was cold within the stairwell, a damp bone-chilling cold that might have set most men shivering in a heartbeat if most of them weren't used to colder winters. "How far does this go," one of the Lannister guardsmen asked from behind. "I never knew it went this deep…"
In the face of a fiery oblivion, most among the Red Keep had forgotten the war in favour of survival.
"Lots the Lannister's ain't told you I wager," Thorim replied with a scoff as they descended.
"I just do my duty," the guardsmen complained. "I've a family to… feed…"
If the fire hadn't cooked them. It went unsaid. Most men here served merely to put food on their tables.
The Black Cells were deep and deeper still, cold and damp, with no windows or sunshine and no fire. A noted improvement.
This is were Willam had spent so many nights, once upon a time, it was also the final resting place of Eddard Stark. As they walked, with a flank of Greycloaks and Goldcloaks and Redcloaks all – any whom wished to live – Willam wouldn't help but wonder if Ned's ghost might haunt them… or if they'd join him soon…
They had reached the bottom of the steps, opening an unlighted door before them.
Glancing at the map Vary so kindly gifted, it was marked with a cross… for some reason…
As they opened the door, with a creak and a groan of ancient hinges; the sight sent dread into bone.
"By the gods," Thorim blurted out, holding the burning torch in hand.
The hallway ahead was lined and stacked tall with hundreds… thousands…
Willam knew these jars, these barrels and casks…
Wildfire. An endless and void dark hall full to the brim…
They doused their fires and hushed what voices perked up in protest.
"Out of the fire into the inferno," Willam growled the notion. Fucking Varys.
He'd never told them about the wildfire cashes under the Keep of all places, the bastard.
Now, perhaps the spider was oblivious, but given the mark on the map… one doubted that much…
"What's it all here for," Thorim asked aloud in the dark, as they followed the wolves and Flash's nose.
"The Mad King," Prince Oberyn wagered, scowling in the dark as the tunnel sloped downwards.
Ser Jaime's words echoed in the dark of his mind at that passing notion.
"I stopped it," he'd said. "I had to stop it… or what was it all for in the end?"
If this hall was set alight… if there were other stockpiles even half this size…
"I saved him," Jaime Lannister had chuckled, hollow and oh so joyless.
In the end, the honourable fool was indeed him….
It seems, Willam scowled, that they were all the fools.
In the dark and the damp, thought wandered to memory, of old stories from Winterholds library that spoke of the Red Kings and the dreadful deeds committed to knife and scalpel beneath the Dreadfort. In those depths, it was said, hidden from prying eyes – from Starks and other judgment – the Red Kings performed their experiments, their torture and their play. They would cut and slice skin from meat and meat from bone be they man or woman, young or old, lowborn or high, none escaped the flayed man's knives. A peaceful people to frightened to step out of line meant a peaceful land. According to legend, the Boltons kept their tradition even under Stark reign.
Willam recalled the tale of Beron Stark, the Halfling, who inherited Winterfell through his mother's line when all male descendants failed; it fell to the bastard half-wildling son of a princess to take up the mantle. As the story went, Beron unknowingly killed his own father in battle, King Bael the Bard, who had plucked a winter rose.
Beron knew not the truth of his birth, but his father knew and could not bring himself to slay his own flesh and blood.
In his hesitation, Beron struck down his own father, cursed as a Kinslayer, he brought his own father's head back to Winterfell as a trophy.
When his mother saw the severed head of her wildling lover, their son his slayer; she flung herself from the tallest of tower. Such was her grief.
Years later, the Boltons rose in rebellion against the Halfling and his reign, although the exact details were lost to time; all accounts spoke of how King Beron Stark was defeated by his foe and flayed alive by the Boltons, only for Beron's sons to avenge their father in the bloody war-torn years that followed the kings death.
It was said that Beron's flayed hide still hung proudly in the cold depths of the Dreadfort, on display beside a thousand other pelts.
Such was the fable…
If it held any truth was-
"Did you hear that?"
Willam halted. An echo in the dark...
"It's probably just the ghosts of Maegor's Builders comes to feast upon our tasty flesh," Willam supposed aloud.
Nobody seemed to find the jest amusing in the dark.
"We taste like shit," Thorim declared, so very helpfully.
Oberyn scoffed at that. "Speak for yourself Northman..."
"There you have it," Willam sighed. "They'll eat Oberyn first, while the rest of us escape – nothing to worry about."
"Yes indeed, well that is-"
Oberyn scowled in the shadows.
"Very funny Stark," he scoffed again. "Very-"
The echo returned, louder, like a groaning... or a wailing...
"Ghosts," Willam dismissed, taking a step forward.
"Shouldn't we look, cousin?"
"For the ghosts, Fisher? Gods no..."
It was wailing again, fainter, far down a corridor that only led further down into shadow. It went nowhere pleasant on the Spider's map where only a slope headed towards a crudely drawn skull of blackest ink with a few hundred marked warnings for trap spikes, pitfalls and crossbows primed to strike with poisoned tips. It was all as welcoming as the last. No. Whatever laid down that path was no path to freedom, but quite the contrary; there laid the path to a cell designed by the blackest of hearts.
Again, the wailing screams echoed in the dark, as if calling out to them for help – or the help of anyone – be they man or god or beast.
Several of the Lannister stragglers were losing their nerve, it seemed, shifting feet and hushed whispers. They'd have no business with ghosts.
"Gods," Willam prayed. "Save me from the curiosity of fools and madmen..."
Categories he himself could fit snuggly into, truth be told, but no man was brave enough to voice that little nugget of wisdom.
"Viper," he called through their all too chilling shadows. "What say you? Ghost Hunting? Yes?"
Oberyn smirked, though it was far too dark to see, Willam wagered there was at least the tug of a smile.
Curiosity killed the Dornishman, as the saying he made up went.
It was a fine and good thing indeed that Willam wasn't one of those...
"Sounds fun," Oberyn sighed. "I'll never hear the end of it if I flee while a Northman does not..."
"True enough," Willam hummed. "I'd planned to mock you relentless if you fled, Viper, what say you?"
"Cousin," Fisher nudged. "I'll head for here," he poked at the map, a way ahead away from the echo; out from the dark and unto the Blackwater.
Willam hummed his agreement, focused on the ghostly sounds.
"We'll see the bulk out, and wait for you..."
"Not going to try and stop me eh, dear cousin?"
Fisher only blinked. "Would you listen to reason?".
"A fair point. We'll catch up... stay safe and keep your eyes open…"
They watched Thorim and the others move ahead, with noses on four legs to lead their way and a straight path ahead – it was left to Willam, Oberyn and a handful of Greycloaks to hunt the ghosts in all of their spiritual dread and deadness. Just another day.
"What is it truly," Oberyn pried, clearly not buying the Ghost nonsense for a damn second.
"Ghosts," Willam countered, before a deep and tired sigh.
It was getting harder and harder to pretend and jest these days.
"I don't know, the map is marked with skulls and chains, perhaps ghosts, perhaps those who wish they were?"
The echoes had stopped. The ghosts slept.
Or they were dead…
"Prisoners then, you think?"
"Perhaps," Willam supposed, as down the hall ahead a faint orange hue flickered defiantly against the shadow and overhead the ground shook, sending dirt and dust sprinkling down. There was no time to wonder of the damage above. Wildfire would not melt the Red Keep as if a dragon might, but it would still cling to steel, melted chainmail and seeped into cloth, every banner, tapestry, rug, cat, rat, servant – all would ruin with time and the fires would spread wherever its food could be found.
As they approached the dim light, Oberyn took the torch in hand and held it out to light their way while Flash sniffed the ground – tail wagging stiffly, his head suddenly darted; hackles raised and teeth on full display. When the door opened, Frost entered the strangers throat, in and out with one fluid thrust. Choking, soon to die, as Willam stepped over the corpse without care. Inside, one of the Greycloaks emptied the contents of their stomachs across unknown and sticky floors.
It ran, chunky, down graved sloped drains lined throughout the room, to mix with foul smelling blood, puss and other things better left undescribed.
The room was vast, blighted with the stench of death and decay, a thousand chains hung from the ceiling; many hooked with rotting meat – hands and heads and legs all – the decorations of a grand display. In the centre stood a great metal dragon that bore mighty spread wings adorned with so many hooks, its maw closed shut and its stomach glowing red hot. Smoke came from the dragon's nostrils coupled with a smell most foul. Something cooked inside...
"An oven," Willam named it, as Oberyn held his nose and nearly gagged on the stench.
"Gods," the Viper exclaimed. "What is this foul place?"
"I'd rather not know," one of the Greycloaks muttered wisely.
"My Prince," another pointed unsteady. "Look there..."
Cages, hung from the metal dragon's tail like ornaments...
Inside were dead men, some fresh, some rotting, some-
"H- He-"
Alive. By the Gods…
Oberyn sprang into action first, with a fury of his own making; the dornish prince broke the chains to every cage.
"He's practically dead," Willam observed of the prisoner, all skin and bones, his hair thinned, lips cracked, fingernails missing and-
"P- Prin-"
Willam caught the man, failing as he did to rise; knees shattered.
"Do I know-"
The eyes. He knew those eyes.
Raven hair, grey eyes, Stark eyes...
Ned, was the first thought; but this man was too tall...
"Karstark," Willam mumbled the name aloud.
A light sparked in the prisoner, however briefly.
"Gods," Willam looked up around the room. How many others were here?
How many dead?
How many alive?
How- "D- Dra- Drag-"
"Dragon?" Eyes fell on the metal beast, its maw closed shut, the smoke from its nostrils and the smell of cooking meat mixed with the decay of this forsaken place. Dragon, Karstark had muttered, but what did it have-
"Gods," Oberyn seemed to have the answers.
"I have you," Willam was busy lifting Harrion up, with the aid of the Greycloaks who covered the naked skeleton of a broken man with their own cloaks and were quick to give him water. If what remained of Karstark could survive the tourney from this place… they could not say… he was weak beyond words…
"I've seen this before," Oberyn was saying, hushed, eyes narrowed. "In the Hellholt. When the dragons came, House Uller alone shot down Meraxes and took its rider as their prize. They held Queen Rhaenys for years, keeping her on the very edge of death... making Aegon the Dragon a promise... that if ever again should wings sully Dorne's sky, then his beloved sister would meet a fate befitting a dragon..."
Willam eyed the great beast, metal, smoking, cooking something. Someone.
"Half the Uller's are mad," Oberyn claimed, echoing old words. "The other half are worse. In ages before the Conquest , they would put their most hated enemies into contraptions forged of bronze, to be lowered above pits of molten fire, where they would slowly cook alive..."
The dragon was an oven... he'd not been wrong at first guess it seemed...
How many had died in the belly of this beast? How many Northmen... how many friends...
"The ghost we heard was no ghost," Oberyn revealed, though none would've asked to hear the words.
"Wa- Wat-"
A Greycloak handed Karstark more water…
"Watch," Harrion managed, barely. "Sta- St-"
"Stark," Willam finished for his kinsman. He was saying Stark…
"They kept him alive because he's a Stark, made him watch the others," Oberyn caught on. "He was the closest thing they had to a Stark."
Ned was dead, and they'd escaped... leaving the enemy with nothing better to bargain with… and at some stage they must've lost their minds…
"This is my fault," Willam muttered aloud, eyes locked on the dragon. The smoke hissed from its nostrils and the smell lingered in air; like cooked meet tainted with sorrow. Images of the dead passed through memory, of Ned meeting this dread fate, of all those who'd ever followed him, of all those he'd failed...
In his mind, it was his father's screams. It was his mother, his brothers, his friends, his wife, the screams of everyone who'd ever cared.
"Come brother," he told Harrion Karstark, and the ghost of a man wept as they carried him. "We're going home..."
The boy was laid out on a makeshift bed, outside what remained of Kings Landing where survivors turned from a tide to a trickle – wanderers in ash – as the smoke continued to blot out the sun and the Red Keep still glowed an eerie emerald between clouds of black smoke. Aegon of the House Targaryen, last of his name, could scarcely be recalled under all his bandages half red and stinking, what healers they had on hand spoke with great uncertainty. In the hands of the seven, they said.
"If the boy dies," Lord Tarly was at the young dragon's side, as the highest ranking and most respected lord left among them, he took command like a fish to water.
"The men are restless," his son Dickon all but whispered, coughing indignantly.
What few remained to them, Tarly knew, half had deserted… the other half burnt…
Those who remained had nowhere to go, were too afraid or in rare case too disciplined.
All of that was a small matter compared to the greater issue. The Northmen had lost their king to the flames, and he'd expected, even hoped, that they'd suffer the same desertion; only for nothing of the sort to happen. If anything, he'd never seen soldiers so determined, as if the inferno of the capital had fumed their hearts. In the place of a king one Maric Seastark had taken control of Stark's forces. How a mere cadet branch of the family commanded such unquestioned request was… impressive…
There was another, one Sunny- or Sunstark? An older man, though lost in worry over one of the Stark's left in only slightly a better state than Aegon laid…
"We maintain order," Lord Tarly decreed for his son and heir.
"And if-" Dickon paused, weighing his words. "If the worst should pass?"
Lord Randyll sighed, exhausted in truth; for the evacuation and organisation had taken a toll.
"We leave," he decided. "If the boy dies, we have no king, no orders… without a light we cannot travel blindly…"
"As you say father," Dickon cared not to argue. Home had never sounded sweeter than in these moments. He'd seen enough war for once lifetime.
To say nothing of the Greyscale problem. The way they'd found the boy, shielded by the melted corpse of Lord Connington… although not so melted, his felt half grey stone, defiant against the file, the man had been infected and told nobody of the danger he posed to the whole army. If such a curse spread… now of all times?
If the gods were cruel, that would be the end of them. Whoever survived the fire now might well risk a worse fate if they weren't careful.
Tarly had ordered every man who made contact the remains of the Stone Lord removed, discreetly, all except for King Aegon.
If the boy himself became touched by the greyscale… well… no man would follow a cursed stone dragon…
"M'lord," one of Tarly's knights appeared at the tent, his cloak charred; the cloth huntsman missing his legs.
"Speak," Lord Tarly bid the man without embellishment.
"It's the Northmen," the Knight said hushed. "They're…"
Randyll sighed, waving his son away to deal with the issues.
Dickon left his father to the comfort of his maps and battleplans.
"M'lord," the Knight pried as they walked. "Is- Is it as bad at the men say?"
Dickon frowned. "We'll handle ourselves Ser, as we've always managed before."
"Yes," the Knight hummed. "Only, m'lord, these savages… they outnumber us…"
Savages. "Allies," Dickon reminded the knight. "Numbers are all the more reason to not forget, our King named them friends."
The Knight kept his silence with that, an unspoken understanding; best to Not call the larger camp of survivor's bloody savages…
Dragon banners, scorched and ruined, fluttered in the light breeze under blackened skies that shined in the rarest moments above.
The Tarly huntsman flew alongside them, by far the most dominant amongst the Dragon's banners.
Most of the Stormlords were lingering with the Northmen now, their Lady safe and sound…
Dickon sound Maric Seastark looking as imposing as ever, tall and muscled, the Northman was barking orders.
A small party of lords followed his every step, with men in grey cloaks and wolves at their heels following, he looked every inch a King in Dickon's view, as they approach to be met with the cross of spears halting their advance. "I am expected," Dickon frowned at the poor welcome to their camp. "Let me pass…"
They did so, spears moved from his path, a show of force if he'd ever seen one… friends and allies… heh…
"Lord Seastark," Dickon called out, causing the man to halt.
"Lord Dickon," Maric replied, with a few chuckles from those behind him.
Dickon fought the urge to sigh. "You called for me?"
"I called for your father, lad; he Is in charge is he not?"
"He sent me," Dickon dismissed. "How can I be of assistance?"
"You can fetch me your father, boy, before I have him fetched personally."
The Knight beside Dickon scowled at that, opening his mouth with "You dare-"
With a snap of Maric's fingers, spears were at the man's throat – his eyes wide.
"Oh," Maric added as they made to turn away. "Your pet spider, bring him, I have words."
Dickon departed, the messenger between two men who thought themselves above the rest.
To say Lord Tarly was unamused was an understatement, although he was less mad than Dickon expected.
This whole affair has taken a great deal out of him, Dickon found of his father. In better times, he'd have gathered a thousand knights and marched into Maric Seastark's camp as a show of force – to tell the realm and anyone else that needed to hear – that House Tarly was not to be pushed around.
In the present, the Lord of Horn Hill called upon only twenty knights, face a mask of stone and weariness.
They met in what had become a no-mans land of sorts between the two camps, one large, one notably smaller.
The ground was an ashen and black field, long since burnt, where once a lowborn farmers livelihood had grown.
"Lord Seastark," Dickon spoke first, their twenty knights against Seastark's fifty.
"Dick," Maric smirked, then his eyes darted to the Lord of Horn Hill in a heartbeat.
"Stark," Lord Tarly called him, for that is how he seemed to hold himself of late. "Your purpose?"
"The future," Maric said, hand resting on his pommel.
"That is what, exactly, Stark? Speak plainly…"
"King Aegon," Maric pried. "You've been deathly quiet."
And they'd rebuffed all questions about his health, Dickon knew.
It would not do for their own men yet alone the Starks to know the truth.
"His Grace is resting," the Huntsman told the Wolves. "The siege has taken its toll."
"On us all." One of Maric's men muttered.
"Quite so," Maric frowned. "Still, you're keeping secrets from us…"
The Huntsman revealed nothing, hand wrapped around Heartsbane's pommel.
"My Lords," the perfumed voice of Varys the Spider spoke from Tarly's side, all smiles.
The Northmen eyed the fat perfumed spider with even more suspicion than they did Tarly.
"His Grace is recovering," the Viper spun his web. "In this trying time, we have all lost; but we must remain strong."
"The Spider spins a pretty web," Maric scoffed. "All shiny, and equally sticky I'd wager – too easy to catch flies for lunch…"
Varys only smiled. "The loyal dog is kicked," he declared, feigning hurt. "No man ever loves the spider, no, but I do not lie my Lord."
"Nor do you tell the truth," one Dickon knew to be Sunstark growled at them.
"Easy," Maric glanced at the older man, who calmed only a little; scowling across.
This wasn't getting anywhere; Dickon could see plainly, as could his father. Nowhere good.
Seastark's men carried crossbows – loaded at that – they stood spaced… and if they wanted…
Just as Dickon's hand moved to his sword, a shout cut at the thick tension and ash in the air around them.
A new part approached, from the city no less; some hundred men looking ragged and ash-covered from head to toe, smelling of death.
At the groups head was a man with ashen hair, dirt and black soot on his face; he held up another man in his arms – his grey cloak fluttering behind.
"Sunstark," Maric spoke the name and the old lord obeyed, taking ten of their men to intercept the new arrivals.
Dickon was, despite the situation, gladdened to see more survivors.
"There has been too much death," the young heir said aloud, and all eyes fell on him.
"Boy," his father tried to cut him off. "You-"
"Father," Dickon's eyes burnt. "It is enough…"
Lord Randyll looked ready to argue, his face wrinkled.
Sunstark returned, having failed to dispatch the new arrivals.
Maric stared blankly across at the man beside Sunstark, who was smirking.
"Prince Willam," Maric's words hung in the air, and every northman turned their heads.
"Seastark," Willam replied, his expression blank as he handed the man on his shoulder off to some Greycloaks.
"You're alive!" Maric had embraced the young Prince, chuckling to himself before taking a better look. "And you look like shit!"
Willam did not smile, his eyes cast across the field, starring into the soul of those away.
"I-" Maric's joy shattered. "I- I have something, you should guard it my Prince."
Stark's eyes held no light at first, devoid and glassy; except for when Maric handed him the crown.
He could've sworn, in that moment, that some flash of fire sparked in the Prince's vision.
Willam pushed the crown back into Maric's hands, walking past the man and across the field.
At his rear strolled a dornishman, hair a hit of black and grey ash, twirling a spear in hand causally.
"Prince Willam," Lord Tarly was firs to acknowledge the young man, hand outstretched, only to be ignored.
"You," the Prince growled, lower than even the wolf at his heels.
"Prince," Varys betrayed nothing. "I am gladdened to see you surv-"
A flash of starlight is all Dickon witnessed, an arc of crystalline through ash.
Lord Varys blinked, then fell to his knees like a puppet freed from its strings; as half his face slid away.
The prince's sword was at Randyll's throat and Dickon could only stare, the blade so thin and eerily beautiful.
"Stand down," Willam ordered quietly, even as Tarly men held their swords and Maric's pointed crossbows.
"What is this," Randyll demanded, uncaring for the blade at his neck.
"Justice," the Prince exclaimed. "Only the Spider needed suffer it, however…"
Dickon's hand gripped the pommel of his sword, too slow to have drawn it; as the Prince moved too fast.
If the Lord of Horn Hill was scared for himself, he did not show it; yet as eyes darted to his son… the man seemed to relax…
He gave a hum to the Prince, and that was all the understanding he required.
The crystalline blade fling and sheeted in between an instant, and Lord Tarly gave the orders.
"Stand down," he commanded, waving his men away as Lord Maric did the same. "Explain yourself, Stark…"
The Prince was already gone, wolf at his heels and the laugher of the dornishman dancing on the ash; as Maric followed his Prince.
"Well," Dickon said, breaking the silence and confusion about them.
"Starks," Randyll scoffed, eyeing the dead spider in the ash and snow.
The Prince's strike had been too fast, Dickon hadn't noticed it… cutting clean through the spider's skull…
"Leave him for the crows," the Lord of Horn Hill sighed as he departed back to the relative safety of their camp.
Dickon was the last to depart with his father and the knights, watching the Stark's depart at the heels of their Prince.
Brandon drifted to the sound of voices other than those in his dreams, these sounded tired, or they were arguing, then when only one remined he heard the sound of crying, he could've sworn, though it passed with the light. When he finally woke, his throat was dry as sand, his words difficult to forge forth.
"Bran," a hand grasped his own, smiling down at him.
He knew that face...
"U- Un- Uncle Will?"
"Welcome back to the world of the living lad…"
"Not blue," Brandon mumbled, looking to his uncle's silver-grey eyes.
Willam looked confused for a moment. "The fire damage your wits, lad?"
Brandon found laughter stung like no pain he'd felt before, as if he'd drank fire.
"Sorry," Willam was smirking. "I'm afraid all I've got for you is bad jests, Nephew…"
Brandon didn't mind, pain aside, he looked around for- he wasn't sure what for exactly...
"H- Have you seen Aunt Lyarra?"
Willam frowned. "My sister? No…"
Brandon hummed, trying and failed to sit up.
"Rest lad," Willam told him quickly. "No rush, we're safe here..."
They outnumbered the dragon's remnants three to one, much to Tarly's growing concern.
Four or Five to One in truth as more of the Winterfell Fleet made anchor to reinforce their position, and the remaining Dornish spears came over to their camp under cover of night with Lord Yronwood. In all truth, the moment Brandon was strong enough to be moved – they'd leave for the fleet and sail North.
Or perhaps the Riverlands? Harrenhal would be as good a base as any, as a matter of fact, perhaps a safer one too…
That said, none of them wished to remain here…
"Uncle," Brandon groaned. "What- What of the King?"
At that, Willam's thoughts halted. He placed Rodrik's crown on Brandon's chest.
"You look after it," he told the boy. "Darion will want it, and you're closer in succession than I."
Brandon closed his eyes at that. Dead. His uncle hadn't said the words, but they needn't be said.
"He saved you, by all accounts of the thing; shoved you away and tried to shield you from the flames."
As his hands touched the Bandages, it seemed his uncles attempts to save him from the flames had ultimately failed.
"H- How- How bad is it?"
Willam frowned. "You look as good as I feel, lad…"
Brandon tried to smile, his face sore and stiff from the burns.
"You were never a looker though," Willam jested. "It could be an improvement…"
Again, the laughter hurt, but it was nice to feel some small flash of joy before the bite.
"You're badly burnt lad," Willam's smile died. "I won't coat it in honey for you; but you're alive."
"Alive," Brandon groaned, sighing. That was… good… wasn't it? Alive, when so many others were not.
"Here," Willam handed him a skin of water. "Take little sips, don't strain yourself, you hear?"
"Yes father," Brandon managed a scoff, taking the water and sipping it.
Water had never tasted so sweet to his lips as he felt it run down his throat.
"U- Uncle," the Burnt Wolf asked. "W- What do we- do now?"
"The future is dark," Willam told him, icy cold. "We all die there."
"T- That- is very reassuring," still his throat burnt like a thousand suns.
"We'll get out of this Bran," his Uncle promised. "I've had enough of Westeros."
Brandon tried not to laugh. The Wandering Wolf was homesick, and all it took was desolation.
My Note(s): This chapter is a little full of feels huh? Hopefully it'll get some damn reviews :) whenever I do a chapter and I get basically no comments it's a little disheartening; makes me think the chapter wasn't noteworthy to readers or worth leaving some feedback or so much as a thought – although I don't blame anyone – I myself have been reading fanfic for years and I think I've written a total of four reviews in that entire time? The majority of people just don't ever review ha think I get one review for every thousand views on average? Ah well, such is the way of things, my thanks go out as always to those of you who take the time to comment :)
At any rate, you get this chapter pretty quick after the last one, purely because the mood took hold and I put everything else on hold to write it! :D
It's a little shorter than my usual 10k word goal but sometimes there's such a thing as "too much" dragging down the quality etc.
246vili: Ah, vili, basically the only person I can count on to review practically every chapter haha – bad news about those sparrows… and Aegon solidifying his rule… and really any hopes you might've had for all the characters I've killed this day :) Time shall tell if Aegon pulls through to reign over this kingdom of ashes.