Chapter 4

This took way too long.

BTW I saw a comment of a person who expressed confusion about how Domeric's life was saved. This shall be answered immediately in this chapter, which takes place the day after Ramsay's execution.

Also I forgot to post one of these last time, so now I have to do two:

Support the official release or Robert Baratheon will crush you with his warhammer.

Support the official release or Varys will sic his little birds in you.

One day later

Theon walked briskly to the training yard bright and early. Lord Bolton arriving meant the opportunity to spar against Domeric Bolton, which he had not gotten a chance to do on their previous visit to the Dreadfort. He liked to spar against anyone new he could, as almost everyone fought slightly better or worse, quicker or stronger, and adapting to exploit someone's weaknesses was the silver rule of combat, according to Ser Rodrik. The golden rule was to not allow them to do the same to you.

The trial had gone off as expected, with Ramsay giving flimsy excuses, like "They attacked me first". When that was disproven by everyone, he asked for a trial by combat. He got one against Jory Cassel. The fight had been bloody but decisive. Despite taking a wounds to the side and left arm, Jory impaled the Bastard of Bolton through the neck with a sword. He was buried in an unmarked pit full in the wolfswood, spending his death in this life next to the place he had burned in the last.

I wonder what happened after I died, if anything. His thoughts were the Northmen turning on the Boltons once they realised "Arya Stark" was dead. They would open a gate for Stannis, who would definitely beat the Freys. In that weather, heavy horse was unusable and Stannis's greater numbers would play to his advantage. That, or the snows would drown the Stag under its weight.

Saving Domeric, truth be told, had been a complete coincidence. After their last visit to the Dreadfort with Domeric not picking up on his hints to not meet his bastard brother, Theon had given him up for dead. He was more motivated to bring an end to Ramsay's crimes before he could do real damage. Theon had no idea that the raider he had shot with an arrow (Sour Alyn, that toothless, witless pile of meat, he remembered) was there to kill Domeric.

Roose Bolton had said that he would not live long enough to see another son of his become a man, so Theon had thought killing Ramsay after he had killed Domeric (which, as far as he knew, he had) would result in a more controllable boy lord being in place, delaying Bolton crimes for another decade. Plenty of time to counter any possible betrayal. That or House Bolton's line would end entirely.

Saving Domeric, he learned, had been a good stroke of luck. Now there was little chance of a sociopath in charge of the Dreadfort during the immediate future. Hopefully, the good blood would win out again with Domeric's children. The cruel blood of the Red Kings, ended by an ironman's words and a Lord's sword. That sounded like a good thing for a poem to include.

But soon, Jon Arryn would be poisoned, kicking off this whole mess. He needed a way to convince Lord Stark to warn his foster father of a plot that there was no factual basis for, beyond the word of his Ironborn ward whose family had rebelled not even a decade ago. There were so many red flags with this plan, he could make a dozen banners of Lannister crimson.

He needed to simultaneously convince Lord Stark he had not suffered a bad side-effect of firing a blunted arrow straight up in the air to see where it would land, which would be about as difficult as tying to pull a horse with a cart. Great. On top of all this, he had to make sure that Lord Stark wasn't captured for treason, King Robert didn't die in a hunting accident, and that, most importantly of all, his father did not decide to invade the North.

He was working with Jeyne day and night to try and find a good solution at the moment, but nothing really seemed to hold water. He had noticed that Asha was ominously silent about his query about what was happening on the Islands in their last letter. Once he convinced Lord Stark, he had to tell him to start building the North a fleet, maybe on Bear Island or Sea Dragon Point. Gods knew the North needed strength at sea son.

In other news, life in Winterfell was settling into a neat routine. Robb, Jon and himself would train at arms in the yard and receive counsel and tutoring from Maester Luwin, Sansa could oft be found in private education by Lady Stark and Septa Mordane about life in womanhood, or with Jeyne in the godswood of Winterfell. Arya would be raising hell somewhere in the castle, though thankfully nothing every going past the horse incident in Castle Cerwyn some years back (Theon had never quite figured out what had caused that: it hadn't happened originally.). Jeyne thought that it was because she spent less time chasing Sansa, so she came near the stables when the horse was bucking.)

Bran would be found as a figure on the walls, ascending and descending with free will. Theon had to talk to him soon, before he decided to take a peek at the prudent personal decisions Lord and Lady Lannicest (That had been one of Jeyne's). Rickon was hard to deal with even at this age. When it eas night and the life amidst the walls Winterfelll grew quiet and still, he fancied he could hear Rickon unconsciously trying to sense Shaggydog. From what he saw of the direwolves, they had distrusted those they found. He hoped that this didn't apply to alternate universes. His plans often tended to rely on not getting his entrails torn out by an angry direwolf.

Eventually he made up his mind. He had to see Lord Stark, and soon, if he had a chance of warning him about Jon Arryn's fate. He checked a calendar. Joffrey's nameday was the 10th day of the second moonturn, he had learned that from Jeyne's memories of his nameday tourney. Jon Arryn died a fortnight later. He still had 3 months until the fateful day, and a wildling party was about to arrive the next day. Maybe if he told Lord Stark now, and that he knew about said wildings...

The wolfswood would have been lovely, dark and deep if they wanted to stop and admire it. They couldn't though. Hakkar led his group down through winding paths used by the kneeler clans that lived here. He could hardly fault them. It was quiet here, with game and wildfowl aplenty. Few men to kill. Few who wanted to kill you. Hakkar thought that that life would suit him.

He was a tall, broad man of six-and-forty, with grey eyes that were slowly beginning to match the colour of his receding shock of ash-blonde hair. His windburnt, scarred face was said to resemble one of the garrons that crows rode, with a mouth of half-missing teeth, cheeks that were stretched thin over his visible cheekbones and a thick but small grey, spade-shaped beard that had a point which hung halfway down his neck.

He looked around at his team. Two plain, short, similar-looking cousins with brown hair and buck-teeth, a homely, solemn and wiry spearwife and a lean, comely bowman with black curls that matched his type of humour. They had been six and not four, once, only the redhead with the injured arm had fallen down climbing the Wall, and the person that must have been the tallest and skinniest woman in the world was axed in the stomach by an ambushing clansman hidden as a bush, who was then shot by the bowman in the head a few seconds later.

Now they were four, and trying to survive here. They had lasted they two days since the ambush on acorn paste. Yesterday, the gods even saw fit to bless them with berries. Now, all their supplies had dried up: the rabbit that he had killed was stepped on and rendered inedible by the boot of a rushing spearman.

There were no food sources in sight, and the short twins were starting to become starving. However, the end of the woods, and the great castle in the distance grew nearer. Once they had a source of food hunting in these woods, they could steal things, kill guards, or just generally cause chaos for the kneeler. A nuisance here would mean units would be tied up and unable to throw the free folk back out the Wall. They would soon have enough have enough to make it out across the Gorge in a year or two.

Once he had enough things to trade, he'd make sure his son got the things he would never have. A sword, for start. One of the things lifted from dead crows. His son had made a wooden sword that he whittled out of a tree trunk, and he showed promise. Might be I'll get the death I've wanted, axe in hand and battle on us, and my son will get honour, glory and things I couldn't have have Mance succeeds when going through.

He had run with a raider in his youth, when he was just nineteen, for 10 years. Tormund Giantsbane. Tormund was always quite a but older than him, being thirty when Hakkar joined, that big boy who used his mace, or as most would call it, a rock tied tightly to a stick. His leader had a penchant for tall tales and collecting more names than a snow bear has kills. He used an axe now. He had been using it since the peace shattered. It was his sons.

The peace shattered when tragedy struck, or rather, the Weeper's men: The Weeper walked into his old home, a village in the foothills of the Frostfangs, and razed it because he had just been having a particularly bad day, and he decided to take out his frustration on the first little homestead he had stumbled on.

His son and daughter were his own blood though, and they went down fighting, taking five raiders with them, and almost taking out the Weeper himself in the caves. They found one with his eyes gouged out, ear bitten off, and had been stabbed through the neck with his own bone dagger.

But it had been for naught. He had buried his first son, four-and-ten and stocky, and his daughter, with ash-blonde curls falling halfway down her back, on the hill next to the caves were he made his new home. He had sworn bloody vengeance on the Weeper, all the good it did. He was one and the Weeper commanded at least a hundred.

Maybe why that was why Mance sent me away. He was no great thinker, but he realised that Mance was, and everyone here was probably sent out for a reason. The redhead had tried to force himself on a spearwife ("tried" being the key word there.), the tall, skinny woman had run so afoul of Varamyr Sixskins that she was no longer considered safe with the host, the cousins were rumoured to be cannibals, the spearwife had killed a man over a snow hare, and the bowman had insulted a Thenn warrior.

The army was already a stew pot of different types of free folk. Hornfoot men broke bread with Ice-River clansmen, cave-dwellers drabs mead with shadowrunners, and Thenn warriors jested and japed with dwellers of villages in the Frostfangs, like him. Any insult could teeter out of control and doom a whole army without an enemy drawing a blade or spilling allied blood. He had seen it happen elsewhere. Once Alfyn Crowkiller had getting big ideas about being King-Beyond-The-Wall. He had mocked a powerful local tribesman, and his cause had been doomed before it ever gained real momentum.

Maybe it was the best for him, Alfyn was no craven and Mance was killing off the competition left and right. He would have died, and Mance's position would be stronger than ever. As much as his present one could be weakened by unwelcome guests. So Mance had packed them off to make life Hell for the kneelers.

They had made good progress, slipping over the Wall using climbing spikes and taking advantage of the snake-like position of the western half of the Wall to ascend on a moonless night, kill the lone guard in charge, and then climb down. They had journeyed down this huge path called the "King's Road", killing the errant merchant or craftsman on the way. They were delayed slightly, as that bastard the Greatjon had sent out patrols, all bigger than the five under him.

They'd had to peel west due to that, into the low foothills of the Northern Mountains. They ran into a Mountain clansman, a champion with a great two-hander. He had put up quite a fight until the elder cousin stabbed him in the back. Then they had been ambushed by a group of slingers who killed his stolen garron form under him. He had managed to jump free in time, but the skinny woman's foot was crushed by her dying horse.

The bigger journey meant that couldn't provide fodder for the two surviving horses, and soon they had been killing them, storing them and eating them roasted whenever they ran low on food. There were many rabbits here, however, and the right snares and traps would have them feasting soon, if only the rope had not been held by the redhead when he fell.

Deciding his party had walked enough, he stopped under the shadow of an ironwood tree and told them that they would be staying here for the night. Wordlessly, they began to unroll their sleeping skins. The journey had been a tiring one for all. Their last horse, a fickle draft horse stolen in the dead of night from that kneeler village near Castle Black, was terrified and squeamish at the sight and smell of blood ever since the woodsman ambush. It had succumbed to a gangrenous wound after days, if not weeks of struggle.

His sleeping skin was unrolled. It was fine quality, the skin and wool of two (true) Northern sheep. It was not clean, but not outright filthy. The two sheep skins were bound by rope to make a comfy, spacious, warm bag. It was one of the few last good possessions he owned, apart from his boots and cloak, that he had luckily not left home when the Weeper came calling. Almost everything else has killed, burned or taken.

As they finished their unrolling, Hakkar kept himself, the oldest and the most experienced man here, on watch, pairing the cousins together to scout and forage nearby, and kept the spearwife and bowman to relax first. They had done most of the fire-building, often dispensing useful or simply entertaining and interesting information. Something was going on between those two, despite her homeliness. He had seen them give each other looks that may have seemed subtle to some, but to an old and seasoned mind like his, he matched it with the one his boy made at that red-haired spearwife once.

That hadn't amounted to anything. Nor would this, if the kneelers in Winterfell got word of their presence. He had made sure that they had killed the two riders out from Deepwood Motte after the fire they started there, which tore a hole in the bailey's side. One had begged for mercy as Hakkar opened his throat, the other had been speared in the eye by the younger cousin before he got a chance to widen them, as he dismounted to get a drink of water.

He couldn't take any chances. They were all dangerous men (and a dangerous woman), but only amongst the free folk. The kneelers had clean mail and castle-forged steel on their backs and on their hands. One or two could cut right through them like piss through air. That is, if they didn't capture them and take their heads off at dawn at one of their holdfasts.

Best not to think on that. That could make it real. So he made a fire using the technique the spearwife told him about, listened to some ribald stories by the bowman that convinced the spearwife to join him in his sleeping skin, and collected the meagre rabbits that the cousins had collected. He dearly hoped one wasn't kneeler meat.

(...)

It was already real, sadly. He had organised the killings of one rider and then the other. So even as the little cousin, who was on night watch, sounded the alarm on his warhorn, he was confused. How did they signal the others? Both riders had been killed, and the bowman was sure he'd slain the raven. But that didn't matter, all that truly mattered where these fucking kneelers!

He grabbed his axe, long and strong but brown and rusted, donned a chainmail hauberk and iron halfhelm with a noseguard, and charged into the fray, the spearwife to his left and the elder cousin on his right. The bowman shot an arrow through the chest of a young guard as they advanced. The spearwife found her target first, and peeled off further to the left. T n Hakkar found his foe in front of him.

A guard faced him. He was maybe the same age as the bowman, but he had a squat but strong body, with a jowly face covered in boils, clad in furs and grey boiled leather, a faded direwolf patch adorning his broad chest. The man in grey hissed as he swung his sword high and aimed a blow at his neck. Hakkar had learned a trick the kneelers didn't, though, in all his years of fighting crows.

He blocked the blade with the flat of his axe, then twisted and drove his shoulder into the man's nose. As the man stumbled back, his sword shifting into a guard, Hakkar was still young and strong enough to carry on with his momentum, dropping into a crouch and scything through the kneeler's thigh, ripping easily through the leather. The man cried out and stumbled back, but kept his balance as he limped away.

Undeterred, Hakkar caught the man's desperate blow head on, throwing it to the side and leaving his enemy's torso unguarded. He positioned his axe in his grip and and chopped through air to fur, cutting through the overcoat and the boiled leather jerkin to the lung. The man let out a final breath, as his eyes narrowed in pain and then rolled in death, and fell when Hakkar pulled the axe out.

Stepping over his foe, he charged at his next opponent. This guard was slimmer and older, and he seemed more experienced. He wielded a sword, which already had blood on it, and was clad in blue-grey plate over mail. He screamed "Winterfell!" as he charged head in towards the axeman, thin cloak blowing gently in the cool breeze. Hakkar raised his axe to block the sword party, but the man in plate twisted away quicker than he expected before he could copy his shoulder-block that had kept him alive North of the Wall.

Hakkar redoubled his attack, but was pressed away with the flat of the sword again. He saw the elder cousin flanked and driven back by two spearmen, the younger one a corpse two metres away, his chest a ruin after two deadly slashes. The swordsman attacked this time, trying to cleave Hakkar in two from above. The sword made a noise like a whisper as it travelled through the air.

Hakkar raised his axe and blocked it, but this put him at an awkward angle, courtesy of his weapon. This was exploited by his foe, who whirled and would have gutted him where he stood of Hakkar had not turned with the sword. Even then, he was hit with a glancing blow that hit and damaged his lowest rib. Hakkar took a step back. The next blow he hit aside with the flat of his blade and forced an opening. He feinted north and struck south, ramming his nailed shoulder into the plated belly as the man's guard was parrying an attack which never came.

Plate was too stiff, and the man was only forced back slightly, however. He charged the man as he was still recovering, and forced him back another step with forceful downward blow, but the man parried the next blow, a swinging one to the side of the face, and his vicious backhand reprisal was cut short by the man stepping back then charging. Hakkar twisted, and his leg exploded in pain even as he blocked the man's strike down there.

The pain increased as he fell to one knee, releasing one hand off his axe to help support him as he attempted to rise. He did so, but staggered back to find two spears pointed at his back. Both were dripped with blood. He turned to find the elder cousin pierced mercilessly by what looked like a torrential rain of spear strikes. Another spearman searched the body.

He was about to twist and start fighting to his death, a good death to sing sings and ballads of, when something hit him on the back of the head, then his vision went white then grey and then black, the pain only subsiding into blank numbness.

About 4 Moonturns later

The Black Wind manoeuvred over the waters of the Whispering Sound, closer and closer to their ultimate destination. Well, technically further away, but they had already been delayed twice by the patrol ships in this area. The first were one of Lord Paxter's converted merchant ships. The second of that ship (or "first mate") recognised the Black Wind, and sent her in her way.

The second was a proper warship, equal to a warship of the Iron Fleet. She counted just under 300 oars. The Hightower blew proud and tall on the mast. Unlike the sigil, the captain was neither of those things. With a weak chin dressed in stubble, and a short temper matched only barely by the shortness of his stature, he ranted and raved about "Ironborn scum" coming here to "burn our fleets in anchor like that cowardly move at Lannisport."

He forced them to come with him to Three Towers, the nearest port, where Ser Baelor Hightower, called Baelor Brightsmile was visiting. I doubt that anyone not under Hightower rule ever started that nickname, Asha thought as she was led in to the hall. Credit where credit was due, Ser Baelor realised what happened immediately and demoted the captain to paperwork duties.

With his sincerest apologies, they were sent on their way. This was annoying to Asha, as he was sure to send word to his father about the incident. Her whole plan had been to not draw attention to herself. That's why she had removed the ornamental kraken on the front, to her father's dismay, told the crew to tell everyone else that the ship was called the Salt Seal, in homage to the eyes of a particular person who had insisted on accompanying her, and dressed herself in an even more mannish way than usual.

Sure, no-one would be fooled at close distances, but it helped. She hoped her other measures would help too, especially the changed name. She hoped to avoid the curse that befalls any renamed ship by having her men only say the name Black Wind in private. A watery death would mean only mean an eternal feast in the Drowned God's watery halls, and success would mean possibly bringing House Greyjoy and the Iron Islands independence like they had not enjoyed in 300 years, as well as endless feasting.

A free kingdom, where the bravest and the best ruled, made by the Drowned God to tear across the waves in their longships, and kill and burn and steal anything and anyone they wished to, for that was the Old Way. That was the meaning of the Iron Price, the system that was fundamental to a true Ironborn. The truth that had been forgotten by Theon, sadly. That was a tragedy. She had always thought that he was a better swordsman than both their brothers.

Her mind was beginning to wander to him freezing his arse off in Winterfell, but she willed it to stop. No, she thought, no time to get sentimental. We have a job to do. Indeed she did. Father had issued more complicated instructions later. She was to not take an offer that did not include independence for the Iron Islands in it.

Additional boons to be granted to the Islands were exclusive fishing rights off the coast of the Westerlands, additional lands in the Westerlands to be put under their control, including Lannisport and Casterly Rock, all lands of House Crakehall, Fair Isle, the Bronze Cape and the castles of Kayce and Feastfires atop it, and a sizeable chunk of land including at least one of the following: the Pendric Hills, Nunn's Deep or Castamere.

How exactly that owning gold mines helped Father pay the Iron Price was left unsaid. She had set off roughly a moonturn or so ago, with the crew of the Black Wind behind her, as well as a few others femmes by Balon to be worthy of sharing the glory of her great mission. . Tris Botley, Qarl the Maid, Dagmer Cleftjaw Harris Harlaw, all able men and tough warriors in their own way.

They would fight with her to the bitter end, no doubt about that.

Upon docking in Oldtown, she knew the next ride would be some time yet, so she set off with her crew to explore the city. Oldtown was said to be rather beautiful, in truth, and am she was about the experience that truth. She would be barred from the Hightower and the Citadel, but she may be able to marvel at them from afar.

Travelling on her own through the streets, she noticed that unlike Lordsport and Ryamsport, Oldtown was a true city. Organised with proper streets and the like, Oldtown was encroaching on a village that had already been built up slightly, but all the same the city was threatening to assimilate it into its own area.

Oldtown had a city watch that patrolled the streets. Silver cloaked, clad in mail and halfhelm, clean and shiny. They carried spear and shield and cudgel. Few would think city guards and militia would make effective actual soldiers, but these guards seemed like they could work either in peace or in wartime's.

She walked to the Hightower. It was hard to miss it, and shops around there would produce the best quality fare. She was looking for a shipwright, as the rudder was slightly damaged, only slightly, but this was the last large port until they reached Sunspear. There were a tiny smattering of them on the southern coast of Dorne and up the Hellholt, but they wouldn't be able to fix the rudder entirely if it broke.

She arrived at the Hightower. A large number of guards were patrolling, and they allowed the public to stand nowhere near it, in a space dictated by many guardsmen in a line, who, this time, all wore plate over their mail, and Hightower circulars over that. It didn't look like the original, but she thought that taking it up with one of the Hightowers would be rather poor judgement.

She could not help but notice the smoky black stone at the base of the Hightower was missing glaringly on the surcoats. She wondered why, but she was not able to tell. Her nuncle Euron would now, but exile complicated conversations with him somewhat. He had always liked the occult.

Euron had been banished about 4 moonturns ago, for sleeping with Victaruon's wife. Victarion had had to beat her, to death, to uphold his reputation, as Ironborn law said was necessary in such a scenario. She would never forget the fury on Victarion's face, the grimness of Father, and the silent mockery evident on Euron's face.

Why? She had always known him as the most cunning of her uncles, but this held no trace of cunning in the slightest. His act was an evil, cruel impulse, stupidly decided and made, in her opinion. It never failed to baffle her how the functioned as a family. The Ironborn said that a wedding when here is a calm sea would be long and boring, and a stormy sea meant excitement and thrill and danger, but a short rate of one until the axe came, or the arrow, or the sea itself.

If that was the case, there must have been a tempest when Father married. He had not died, but the storm had passed to his children, and his brothers already had the storm in them, in droves. She began to make her way to the shipwright that she had found, owned by an Ironborn who washed up in Oldtown after a storm. He had worked with the Gold Price for many years.

She felt little shame in taking th Gold Price now. Theft or murder here was suicide with such a watch. And, despite disliking the Dornish, they would send a raven or message to Sunspear to warn them. The Hightower did not lack for ravens, after all.

She bought the necessary kit to fix the Ryder and went in her way, back to the Black Wind, or "Salt Seal". Some crewmen disliked the alleged change, whilst others were superstitious. They kept their mouths shut though, so she was especially glad for that. She assigned Dagmer to assemble a small team and fix the rudder, which the had never quite gotten the hang of, whilst she led some others on the drinking binge they wanted.

They had been dry since Lannisport, the last true inn they found. They had occasional picked up some tankards of kraken urine from the inns in tiny villages between Lannisport and here, but the best ones had been those at the taverns near Old Oak and Crakehall., and even those were spoilt, Old Oak for poor quality, and Crakehall due to the loss of a crew member, so she didn't let any men have it for the days they docked there unless they really needed a drink, any drink.

One hangover out of the Hells later, she had been adamant to keep her crew sober until Oldtown, with the Ironborn crew acting Ironborn and proving that to be the most taxing task of being the captain of the Black Wind. So, she had saved up all the plunder they had taken on the way, grabbed Tris and Qarl and most of her crew, and hit the town.

The resulting binge was worthy of being held in great regard as legendary. They sailed on alcohol through inns and taverns, navigated winesinks and mead halls, and braved the uncharted waters of fancy wineries and distilleries. Drinking side by side with hedge knights and sailors, runaway septons-in-training, acolytes and novices of the Citadel.

Every establishment they entered had a good or dubious reputation. The wines were mocked by the older Ironborn as drinks for mewling women. Asha had made a point of forcing wine down the throat of one of them, until he admitted it was a good drink. There was this new drink being developed, made up of some sort of fermented rye. She tried some, found out how hoarse and smoky it was, and drank another two.

In the Quill and Tankard she lost Qarl, who had gone off with this Dornish or Summer Islander lad with a widow's peak. He seemed to walk off hesitatingly until the Dornishman whispered something in his ear, smiling. He practically ran after him after Asha waved him off, smiling. The Ironborn had not mocked him, as was customary: they were too busy getting drunk.

She lost Tris soon after, in the Small Steps, run by a Volantene ex-sellsword who had come of age whilst fighting in the War of the Ninpenny Kings. She left him after he seemingly forgot how he was the most reserved of the Ironborn, as he played a drinking game with queer YiTish wine with a group of merchants from Yi Ti, and he then proceeded to lose his share of money at tiles.

Her favourite areas of the entire night absolutely had to be the beer halls, huge and low and loud buildings piled with musty benches, torches hanging form every precipice, filled with serving wenches teasing the patrons when they ordered, and giving out the drinks later, ale from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

They drank the Ironborn beers, strong Northern ones too, the thick, foamy Bear Islands and the strong, harsh gargle-blasters from the Barrowlands. Sweet meads from Lannisport and the Quiet Isle in the Riverlands, and ales. Rich ones from Tarth, bitter and dark ones from the Marches, pale and mild ones from the Reach.

That didn't include the multitude of other drinks she sampled. Pear brandy, apple wine, blackbelly rum, wines from the Arbor and Dorne, hippocras, cider, stout and summerwine. All of those had been drunk by her and her companions. Of the roughly 30 men that had accompanied her, only she remained, staggering merrily through the cobbled streets.

I could die here now, happy, she thought. She quickly banished that thought. She could not think that, or rather, she would not think that. She had a duty to her house.

We do not sow.

A report for the Hand, four moonturns earlier

A comprehensive study of the activities of Lord Leyte Baelish, or "Littlefinger"

Our master of coin, ever since your recommendation, has increased the profit percentage-wise by 300%. However, several anomalies occur, along with certain shady moves in the game of thrones that he has played.

Firstly, let us consider his wealth. Littlefinger explicitly states that he owned multiple high-profit brothels in King's Landing, and a few in Gulltown. A note by Lord Tywin Lannister in the annual balance and finance ledger sent to us via raven last year shows that he owns many in Lannisport as well. I also suspect White Harbour, Duskendale, Stony Sept and Oldtown.

Some of the operations related to these establishments are odd, to say the least. Lord Baelish, according to you, had repeatedly called for tourneys to be held at namedays and the like. This behaviour is not wholly different than most, but Baelish seems to do it on every occasion.

Many other businesses are thought to be connected to Littlefinger, including the barracks of the River Gate garrison, of the City Watch, and it is rumoured that Janos Slynt, the current Commander, is in Littlefinger's pocket. Whilst Grand Maester Pycelle was the one to actually suggest Slynt, he has since adamantly acted to acknowledge some of the rumour about Slynt's reign. Given that a week after Lord Slynt was sworn in, an argument was heard to occur (according to Varys.) between the two (Pycelle and Slynt)

Given Pycelle distrusts and despises Varys, it is not hard to believe that Littlefinger could have faked this argument somehow, or somehow brought it to Varys' attention. Pycelle could been persuaded or blackmailed to target the Spider during the resulting argument in the Small Council room. Also, the embezzlement thought to have been caused by Janos did not benefit the Lannisters. Additionally, many Gold Cloaks are patrolling in areas that allow them their master to operate with immunity, as honest guardsmen are sent away indefinitely.

We most now uncover odd facts about the things that become oddities, such as Littlefinger's men in position of power. The men in charge of minting and counting are in his charge. This means that, if Littlefinger, so desired, he could change the value a golden dragon by minting more or less. Dragons are worth less in summer as goods are plentiful, and more in winter when supplies are scarce.

Irregularities in the count are also noticeable. Many issues spring from the fact that the treasury is very much in debt, apparently. This is strange as a series of quick calculations pointed out that the extravagance of the King could not completely financially sink due to Aerys the Mad leaving a full and almost overflowing treasury.

Sadly, we cannot seem to surprise the counters whilst they are performing the suspected financial crimes as word always seems to go and find them. The books appear hastily written and are chock full of errors and blank pages. There are several inconsistencies in the books, showing them to be far cried from the alleged Iron Bank-level accountants and pursers.

Let us now turn to Lord Baelish's political dealings. Many plots are underway in King's Landing, and Lord Baelish appears to be interacting more with Lord Renly Baratheon. Renly Baratheon has his own ambitions, of that there should be no doubt. But Renly works differently than Baelish and Varys. They prefer to work almost entirely in the shadows or with nobility, whilst Lord Renly approaches intrigue in a way similar to Tywin Lannister or the Queen, cultivating an image in the eyes of the smallfolk and nobles that defines them.

Renly Baratheon has been involved with the Tyrells a significant amount. After all, he and Ser Loras Tyrell, who reached maturity a few weeks ago, were known to be squires and constant companions in adulthood. Statements said by Lord Renly about how Margaery Tyrell would like court were often heard. This will probably not happen for some time yet, but in relation to your "Lyseni dealings", this may mean that Lord Renly is planning to replace the Lannisters with the Tyrells, giving him possibly a higher position as Hand if anything should happen to you.

Given that Lord Baelish looked particularly interested in Lord Renly, this may mean that Lord Baelish knows about the Queen's children. If so, things could be particularly dangerous as Lord Baelish may have additional incentive that we yet do not know about. This brings us to my last point, motive.

The way Petyr Baelish acts terrifies me. He is certainly hungry for power and wealth, but no-one knows specifically. We do not know if he is content with his council postion and simlky wants greater infleunce, whether he wants to solidify his grasp on finance or whether he wants to raise House Baelish to a much greater strength. We do know he is planning to overthrow the Lannisters to do so. He may take Casterly Rock for his own as a reward.

There may be a worse motive. You may recall that Petyr fought a duel for the hand of the Lady Catelyn Tully, now Stark. Small facts, such as that Lord Baelish appears to enjoy strangulation methods for assasination, may hint at Brandon Stark's death at the beginning of Robert's Rebellion. This shows that Baelish appears to like periods where Lady Catelyn's possible lack of marital responsibility, or, in simpler terms, her being "open".

I know not how this web is truly spun, but every man in Westeros should fear Lord Baelish.

Lord Roose Bolton departed that day at Winterfell without his son.

House Stark had offered to take Domeric as a ward, but the Lord of the Dreadfort refused. He did not need the courtesies of Winterfell, he needed to put his plan into motion. It all risked on one variable, Domeric. Domeric Bolton had been raised for as long as he showed promise with a horse to be a possible tourney champion. He had been trained formally at Barrlwton and the Redfort.

When he grew to be an eligible young man for marriage, he had been hardwired towards the goal of winning a tourney. But he needed time. The problem was, the boy had confidence issues. He had hired him a woman for a night as a coming-home gift, but he turned her away and, according to the guard on duty, stammered and stuttered all the time before emerging red as a flayed man.

He also had this odd feeling of self-doubt in relation to the one thing he was brilliant and not just very good at. Jousting. When he had brought up the idea of Domeric going south to King's Landing to compete at Prince Joffrey Baratheon's nameday tourney joist, Domeric said he would been beaten almost immediately. It was quite frustrating.

He did not love his son, not really. Love had no fixed value: it could not be traded like gold, fought with like a sword, or protect like a shield or armour. Love was an an emotion he has never felt. That was good. Love can and will clouds judgement. If even half of what he heard of Rhaegar Taragryen and Lyanna Stark, it was that letting love take control is political suicide.

Love was abstract and incomprehensible, almost horrifying to him because of the fact that it affected people without reason, seemingly. What was the point of love, when you could be safe and comfortable without it, and none of its stress in the slightest? But people kept fighting for their love or someone else's.

Nevertheless, his son was still his blood, and so far he had performed admirably, snd performed more than any Bolton before him had in terms of intellectual ability, jousting and music. He was simply a great heir. That was why his son had the respect, because he would not end up like his brother, put down outside Winterfell.

For the plan to succeed, he has to consider each and all outcomes. A large tourney was going to happen, as the last truly great and large happened at Lannisport after the Greyjoy Rebellion. Unless the King died. However, Joffrey, from his descriptions, he would end up to be cut from the same cloth.

So a tourney would he held in time, with Domeric riding. If he won, no-one would think of the powerr grab. He would havee subtly brought the Dreadfort to higher he lost… well, there was little enough chance of that. His son truly rode like the wind, for all else that could be said of him.

He wondered what had driven him to seek out his brother. Yes, there was affection which he could never give, and which he only found in the company of Lord Redfort's sons, but he wondered… he had had the pleasure (or displeasure) to know people who loved battle, thrill and excitement.

He dearly hoped his shy teenage son was not actually one of those. That could be bad.

On the subject of a bride for his son, he had decided. Ysilla Royce, daughter of Lord Yohn. A tall and comely girl, not yet flowered, but expectant, with deep, dark grey eyes, small breasts, wide hips, who wore her hair in bunches, secured with bronze clips. He had decided to make Lord Yohn an offer by raven as soon as he arrived back at the Dreadfort.

House Royce was a strong house, and, from what he knew of Lord Redford, would appease him too, to see a ward of his marry into a house with the same First Man roots. It was a good match, certainly. The only problem was whether the girl may be too tall. Domeric was taller than average, but it would not be good for a man who was to be feared to be shorter than his wife.

The ravenry in the Dreadfort had two rooms, with him creating an expansion next to the rooms underneath the Dreadfort after Ramsay's birth. He had secured a winch there to bring ravens up to the place where they would fly away quicker. It had birds that flew to almost very major castle in northern Westeros, bar only Old Anchor, Deep Den and Stone Hedge.

He looked forward to going home. Home, of course, was no different than any place for him, but there he felt an odd and twisted sense of… safety? Probably. There was less chance of him being speared through the heart in the Dreadfort. If he did, he wouldn't be much of a lord, would he?

He sighed and decided to look at the scenery. Domeric was talking to the guards, but unfortunately they had blocked his view of a seemingly nice forest. Winterfell at this point was probably a small-ish sight at this point, and he had no interest in looking back. Back there was the that one day, his descendants would take.

They would storm the walls with a hidden army or take the castle with stealth, when the time came. They would massacre the guards and capture the Starks and their household, to take them back to the Dreadfort. He had not passed on the message to his son, but he would pass it on go his grandson, if he could while he lived.

The message was that, one day, the North would live under red and pink, ruled by the Boltons for centuries. Their enemies flayed and resistance crushed, their men's swords drilling with blood and their bags full of plunder. Even if a second Long Night came, all that could be found after civilisation had died out would be the Bolton banner, hanging proud in the snow.

Domeric had moved up and now the forest was free to look upon. It was dark and green, mostly made up of trees found in the wolfswood, most deciduous, a few conifers. He amused himself by looking at it until he rode to where he had to crane his head round to see it and looked back.

The rest of the ride back to the Dreadfort was quiet. Looking at the scenery there made him feel safe, as he was within sight of the stronghold of the Red Kings. He knew that as long as he had Domeric, House Bolton would rise...

Winterfell's solar had a distinct air of professionalism that was hard to much anywhere else in the great castle. The furniture was all leather, the rugs wolfskin, all the bookshelves made of Ironwood, but there was little of any of it, in fact.

Lord Eddard Stark liked the minimalist style in the room. It was a reminder to work hard in all. The sonars of Southron lords were much more lavishly decorated, and even other Northerners tended to put great reminders of great deeds, captured armour or hunting trophies, in their solar.

But not the Starks. Living a simple life and managing his people and were his tasks as the Lord. Starks had lived in Winterfell for millennia, since the days of Brandon the Builder. The Starks endured, above all. Living with all the world's comforts made one soft, in a way.

He would never criticise his lady wife for living the way she was brought up, but he heard queer tales sometimes, queer ones indeed. Northern men whose Southron wives demanded more of something, and more and more and more, until they ran their keep and honour into the ground.

Jorah Mormont was the best example, but it was truly uncanny how many lords of the North married Southron Lord's daughters who wanted a breath of fresh air. It was truly odd, and he had only just noticed how the world was changing and growing stranger either every passing day.

10 years ago, he would have talked to Hullen about the state of the horses, and Hullen would have said everything matter-of-factly. But now, Hullen appeared to be more active in his old age, he smiled more. It had been a slow change, but a noticeable one. It wasn't just Hullen either. Almost everyone in Winterfell seemed to be happier.

That wasn't even getting into the things which couldn't be explained by regular means. For example, since Theon came to Winterfell, whenever he went to pray after him (for some reason the boy showed an oddly strong faith on the Old Gods.), the wind made sounds of waves, almost, crashing against rocks.

Soon, it wasn't just after Theon. He had noticed that they got stronger whenever he went to pray the days something unexpected happened. They had been so strong the day that Ramsay Snow came to Winterfell in irons that Bran, whilst climbing, saw birds fly out of the godswood thicket when the party was sighted.

Bran seemed different now. He was learning archery from Theon and Jeyne Poole seemed to be taking an interest in him. He could already tell how much her odd sense of perceptiveness made Bran nervous. Also, he seemed to be waking up quieter, as in, he stumbled into the Hall yawning instead of bounding towards the high table.

His son had seemed oddly interested in animals for as long as he could remember. At his birth, a raven was present. There was something off about the raven, something queer and cold, but Bran came squalling soon after, and his thoughts were lost in his joy. Bran was interested in animals even then, for when he held him, he tried to look over his shoulder to see the raven.

Sansa was different now too. Much more so, in fact. She was a little girl in many was for a few years, but over time she had become more sensible, if still optimistic. She had learned to keep her head in the clouds but plant her feet on the ground. Somewhat like Lyanna.

He remembered once, she had managed to (like Arya a good few years back.) accidentally bring a whole horse into the hall, right when Lord Cerwyn was visiting. He laughed out loud, and Winterfell-Cerwyn relations were better than ever. With Sansa it was much the same, except her unexpected thing was that she seemed to have taken a distinct pleasure in making the Septa wary.

She had sewn, with amazing skill with special Myrish lace usually only used for bride cloaks and the like, similar to that of Jeyne's (no surprise there: Little Miss Maester, as Vayon Poole had called her whilst smiling widely, was apparently a good teacher.), a bleeding lion, which had gotten her disapproving looks from Catelyn and Septa Mordane, and a smirk from Jeyne. Next lesson, she had sewn a sprinting wolf with blood on its lips.

And... he tried to ignore the message he had gotten from Sansa, at least until he couldn't. About "the future" and the like. It had been left in the solar, and the reason that he had been sitting here, staring into space as he awaited the arrival of Theon, in the way he had seen some men do after the Trident.

Father,

I am writing this letter to inform you of something very important for the safety of House Stark and, most likely, Westeros as a whole. This tale is long and complicated, and so, I will attempt to tell it to you slowly. It all begins with...

It couldn't be true, it was simply impossible. But... why had the message seemed so real? It couldn't be true, but Sansa had arranged her points smartly and matter-of-factly. She pointed out how Jeyne was unnaturally mature, acting like a woman grown, almost. She had also pointed out that Theon had barricaded himself in his room one day, up to his neck in military strategy books and an account on getting people to believe you by a famed Lyseni whore proprietor.

He didn't know what to make of the boy.

Reality echoed his thoughts, with a heartbeat's delay. Theon Greyjoy, de jure (if you wanted the Valyrian term.) heir to Pyke and the Iron Islands, walked in, black eyes which were normally cool and serene, matched his features in being ridden by puzzlement and unease as he walked through the sort into the solar.

"Lord Stark?" he said without hesitation in his delivery, but discomfort evident in his voice. He noticed this, collected himself, and spoke clearer. "You wanted to see me?", he said, regarding the man who had began to rise and walk around his desk.

Lord Eddard Stark regarded Theon Greyjoy with a troubled gaze. "Theon," he spoke. "There's been a message. From Sansa. About... we'll, you'll see." He passed the four page text to Theon, who read through it worriedly.

Theon's expression changed from confusion to shock to disbelief... and then resignation. "It's true, Lord Stark. All true. Me and Jeyne are from another time. The Old Gods sent us here to stop a bad future. Why, I know not. All I know is the truth. I am here, and there are important things, albeit unpleasant, that will have to be discussed. You may need a tankard. Or three."

Lord Eddard Stark had always been the quiet sibling, but for once, he was at a loss for words. He gathered his wits, nodded chopping, then took out a very strong spirit, the one gift he had gotten from the Skagosi (unless you counted the letter that came with it, when he had returned home from the Rebellion: a mass of illegible Old Tongue writing.), and poured a glass, but did not drink. He had a feeling he was going to need a lot of Skagosi Magnar's Shine.

"Very well. Tell me." he commanded in a hushed voice, his hand-held glass of spirits... and immediately drank them when Theon smiled slightly and said the following: "You are more open minded than people think, Lord Eddard. I doubt even Sansa accepted this so easily. Very well. Four things.

1. The wildlings that Jory Cassel will bring back or kill will include a spearwife, their leader, who is an old warrior, a young bowman, and two similar-looking spearmen.

2. Your sons, barring Rickon, in a few month's time, will join you as you execute a Night's Watch deserter called Gared. On the way back, you will stumble across the first 5 direwolf pups found south of the Wall since the days of the Old King. ...I know not why exactly, but you must keep these pups. They are gifts from the Old Gods.

3. Jon Arryn will be poisoned by the Lannisters. You will receive news of this not that long after the execution, I believe, but you should act in advance.

4. Finally, when King Robert came north to ask you to be Hand of the King, your son Bran came across the Queen cuckolding him with her own brother the Kingslayer, and was pushed form a window and crippled, whilst you went south and never returned, because the Lannisters executed you whilst you were in King's Landing as the King's Hand."

Winterfell had plenty of hot water running through its walls, but now it seemed to freeze. The cawing of the crows ceased. The godswood grew silent, and all the people still. The only movement that could be discerned to the head of Lord Eddard Stark was that of a vein throbbing on his forehead, not out of fury, but furtiveness. He had known that something bad would happen, but this…

"What?" the Lord of Winterfell inquired softly. The words had to be incorrect. Had to. Only in tales or myths or legends were people able to perform such sorcery on the level that was being said then. This had little to no factual basis. It had to he fake, an illusion of sorts. But why did it feel so real?

The Greyjoy boy was an odd one. A superb fighter, but Ser Rodrik told him that Jon was quicker and that Robb had more skill. He was cleverer than usual in a boy., but showed no interest in learning or scholarship, only reading books in his downtime. He showed faith in the Old Gods, was courteous and calm, and took to archery, apparently, not like a duck takes to water, but how a duck takes to being a duck.

He showed the oddness in him with his next words. "I may have gone slightly quicker than what is good. I shall repeat them, if you wish it, Lord Stark." Lord Stark shook his head and sat down. Only his wil kept himslrf from fainting. Whether that was a blessing or a curse he did not know, and at the moment did not care. "All of that?" he heard himself ask, in a voice like a scared child's. "All." Theon answered. "We must act now, if you believe me. Send a message to King's Landing, and warn Lord Arryn."

"Very… well, but what if the Lannisters find out? We're bound to be found out by the Lannisters." Eddard said. "Hmm… maybe a proxy letter? Send it to someone else? We still have time, more than enough for a raven to reach there." "Yes." said the Warden of the North, his composure regained. His foster father needed him, and the North would not fail. "Please, fetch me Maester Luwin. We have need of his experience."

8 Moonturns Later

The Black Wind, whilst wounded, was as swift as ever, not stopping for anything as its crew sailed and rowed though the Stepstones.

Asha stood at the front, steering. A summer storm had nicked them, as they did. It was mild though, merely some of the cooler currents from Braavos and the North fleeing down towards the Narrow Sea. They were mild as less currents were cool, and the fact that some of the Stepstones had already reduced the fetch, the amount of sea that the waves travelled over, and broke the wall of wind, slightly. Unfortunately, they had also funnelled some of the wind into the straits.

She was now sailing up a storm. This was not good, but bearing any way was a death sentence, mild as this was. The wind would blow them as they were turning, and she couldn't reliably make for coasts that seemed rock-free, not with the "good" coasts running parallel to her port side, where there was bad steering, caused by an accident with a swan ship, Two particularly quarrelsome members of the crew had tried to attack the ship, but they were pierced mid-air by Summer Islander arrows as they tried to swarm it. That had left 27 men of the 32 that had cast off with her.

Droopeye Dale had slipped and broke his neck on the side before Lordsport was out of sight. Then, a new crewman had his ribs crushed into his organs by a knighted scion of House Crakehall for trying to play with loaded dice in a local inn. They thought they had lost one of the men brought over by Dagmer Cleftjaw from the Foamdrinker in Oldtown, until Tris reported seeing the man's corpse being taken away by the City Watch, having been stabbed by a former man-at-arms of House Beesbury, who had been crippled at Pyke.

They had passed a few ships, who had not helped them in the slightest, because they were pirates. The Ironborn were determined to reach Bloodstone, and they kept going, steadily advancing through the storm. The clouds were dark, the moon was partially hidden, but all Ironborn could recognise the dark red hull of a familiar ship. Their salvation, which had apparently decided to come in the form of the Silence. Euron Greyjoy was bearing down at them.

The Ironborn cheered, including Cleftjaw. But Asha felt a sense of apprehension. Why would he help us? He's ironborn by blood, and blood only, Father had stated that. He was on the same level as Theon. So why? Her fears proved to be incorrect though, as they saw Euron give commands to his crew hurriedly. Despite the distance, Asha could feel his smile. They had been saved…

….until the Silence changed course and tacked into the starboard side of the Black Wind.

The side was half-split asunder. Tris was in its path, and went flying, tumbling over the cracking deck and into the sea, knocking another man with him. The bow gouged into the wood. As it continued, the deck split fully, and both halves drifted away from the other. The dark red hull advanced to block their view. They had been hit at an angle, and she was on the smaller half, with eight other men, taking on water rapidly. She heard the mast of the Black Wind bouncing of the Silence's hulls, and hitting the larger half.

This shoved her into action. She began to order her crew to hang on, and tip the broken half down until they were no longer taking on water. She did so herself, too. Well, until she was pierced through the shoulder with an arrow, of course. She eas pinned, the pain making her burn and feel still and cold at the same time. Qarl, who was on her side, and had dodged a similar arrow, ran to her and pulled it out. She pulled herself up with her left arm, with his help. Then, she realsied that the broken half was taking on more water, and there was no chance of fixing it without risking arrow fire. There was nothing for it.

She pulled Qarl with her and jumped.

…you remember how Theon saved Jeyne, and how Balon died?

I think going down is in the Greyjoy genes, both figuratively and literally.