AND ALL THE KING'S MEN…
ROBB
It has been moons since he had been advised by the Great Father, the memory as fresh in his mind as his own name. Some part of him doubted he'd easily forget such a defining event in his life.
The Great Father…the term felt so natural for him, it felt right, as though that was how it's always been. The very land had whispered it into his ears, faint whispers but he heard it nonetheless. He had a feeling if he were in the North the whispers would be more like shouts…but the Riverlands weren't the North, it made sense why the Magics which permeated his homelands would sputter out here.
'There are no Weirwoods here, this is not our homeland.'
Home, the word brought him many feelings, his heart wrenching as he lost himself in reminiscence. The North was never kind or forgiving to its denizens, nor was it as rich and prosperous as the other realms…but only when the northerners left did the hole filled by their land rear its ugly head.
King he may be, but he held no doubt none of the Riverlanders even considered him as anything more than any other man or woman of the north, a barbarian from a desolate land of heathens.
Who among these people would extend aid to a northerner in need? Who could a northerner turn to when faced with injustice or prejudice?
The worst of lands is where no true friends are found, and the more he spent his days pondering over his situation, the deeper the saying struck his heart.
The Great Father's name often brought his heart calm, so he spoke it whenever he could, be it a joyous moment or a sombre one. His men had slowly but certainly taken to making the phrase a part of their everyday life as well. Robb didn't know if that was his influence or if they could feel the change in the air, same as him, but they seemed much more at ease even so far from home.
He had them fashion the likeness of the Great Father out of a branch from the Heart Tree, and established a shrine for those who followed the Old Way. His mother, as one would imagine, was not pleased, which made him feel even better about it. He couldn't deny the slight satisfaction bubbling in his heart despite his unfilial attitude, a sense of liberation granting reprieve from the weight of his responsibilities.
He had given his decisions a good deal of thought; what was this net he was swimming toward? Which men didn't wear their skin? How could he make right the wrongs that he had already done? He had been making strides surely, but were they enough?
His men, they seemed more loyal than ever, but how much of it was an act, and how much of it was sincere? The North has never been known for fostering traitors or schemers, but did such a reputation eliminate their capacity for it?
He sighed in frustration, shaking his head. Strategy on the field was his domain, and he was good at it, but all this cunning and scheming? It was southern cowardice, give him an opponent in front of him and he could defeat them one way or another. But having to worry about his allies as well was weighing heavily on his mental fortitude.
It was times like these he dearly missed his brother. Jon was an observer, a true wolf, who watches and stalks. He was intuitive and able to read the room and the people around him, differentiating friends from acquaintances. They would have been great, had they been standing side by side and back to back, they could conquer the Seven Kingdoms.
Robb couldn't help but feel guilty about the fate Jon was dealt. He knew in his heart of hearts Jon didn't really desire the watch as much as he desired to be more than what people spoke of him, mainly his mother.
When his brother was forced to walk away from him, who was capable of dissuading Jon from leaving had he been more persistent…was it him who walked away from them, or them who truly walked away from him?
He sighed, eyes absentmindedly gazing forward as nostalgia washed over him.
'In a perfect world'
It was too late for regrets.
The past few moons have been trying, to say the least. In his dreams he was free and untamed, prowling through the woods, hunting game without a care in the world. He swore he was Greywind, his most loyal retainer and companion. He would wake up in the middle of the night with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and he would be just a little bit more aggressive throughout that day. He was not sure what these occurrences were all about, but he had not the luxury of worrying about it at present.
Perhaps this is his wolf's blood, but he had no one to consult about it.
He was surrounded by men who he believed to be loyal and true, but therein laid the problem. It was a belief, he did not know for certain, and such a fact kept him up more than wolf dreams.
'Men who wear not their skin.'
After a moon of contemplation he had finally realised what that warning meant. It took him staring over one of the castle battlements at nothing in particular, then suddenly taking notice of the Bolton house crest for realisation to dawn on him. He wasn't surprised really, the Flayed Men have been trying to wipe out the Direwolves for eight thousand years.
But he couldn't prove any of this, not to any of the Lords anyway. He didn't need proof himself, for he trusted the source of the warning explicitly, hence why he had some of his more loyal men watching lord Bolton, discreetly.
What they discovered was…troubling to say the least. Frequent ravens the sources of which remained unknown, from where? Was he in communication with the North or someone else entirely? The man had always made Robb's skin crawl, yet he still needed something presentable to call his allegiance into question. He could only clench his fist in frustration as he frowned.
Speaking of wolves, Greywind was at his feet curled up sleeping, or giving the impression of sleeping, Robb knew he was always ready to defend.
'The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.'
The pack, he had no pack, at least not anywhere close. His mother, for all her so called love, was a fish and wolves eat fish. He needed people he could rely on, but which of his bannermen was he to keep in his sights and which could he trust to guard his back?
Did his father have to navigate such waters when he was in charge of the North? Of course not, Ned Stark secured his place and proved himself worthy when he went to war for his sister, father and brother and aided in the almost extinction of the offenders. He repaid the Targaryens for their crimes to his direct family, as well as the many insults and broken promises their family and the North suffered under their reign.
Who would dare question the warrior who brought the dynasty which wronged the North above all, when it remained loyal and steadfast through the insults, to its knees and had it suffer their grudges?
Where did Robb stand compared to him?
"What am I to do Greywind? Who can I trust? They put a crown on my head, but why does it feel like shackles and chains?" He asked his trusty friend, looking to him for answers.
"..."
"Aye boy, you're right. A king is more of a servant than even those who serve him." He sighed and scratched between his wolf's ears, thanking him for his wisdom.
"I'm losing this war, aren't I? Jaime Lannister is still nowhere to be found, Lord Karstark is foaming at the mouth with revenge, I still haven't married the Frey girl, which my mother keeps reminding me of, and I'm no closer to getting my sisters back, with each move I feel further away."
"..." His companion whined softly, its tail flapping every now and then.
"Oh how could I have forgotten about the Mountain that rides, pillaging and burning his way through the countryside. A rabid dog Tywin Lannister had set loose to show his displeasure." There was a lesson somewhere in these things he kept playing over and over in his head, something he had not the ability to pinpoint…or mayhaps the mentality?
Greywind raised his head and growled softly, more of a warning than a threat. He was looking to the entrance of the Godswood.
"What is it?" he asked his companion. That's when he heard approaching footsteps, someone was coming. He sighed in frustration, solitude could not be found anywhere it seemed. The newcomer was a soldier, no doubt to inform him of some disastrous news or the other.
"Your Grace." The man said in a small bow, awaiting Robb's attention. He was almost tempted to let him stay like that for bothering him. Alas, duty.
"Raise your head, what is it?" He asked, a bite in his question as he straightened his clothes and narrowed his eyes.
"It's the Lords, my king, they seek an audience, there's been a…development." He was clearly reluctant to relay the information. What could have happened that would elicit such a reaction. Surely, the Lannisters weren't foolish enough to have killed any of his sisters, surely not.
"Where are they?" His tone turned frigid as he observed the soldier with cold eyes. Worry and rush plagued his mind and body, but he kept his demeanour neutral as he should as king.
"I will lead you to them, your Grace."
"Go then, Greywind!" He followed behind the soldier with his direwolf by his side.
He was led to the solar he had taken control of, the soldier opening the door and announcing his presence. The lords were already standing when he entered; lords Karstark, Umber, Cerwyn, Bolton, Dustin, Manderly and lady Maege Mormont...along with one of the Freys, he wasn't sure which anymore, there were too many of them. Everyone bowed and greeted him when he entered, a few nodded at him, a few stayed quiet, as they usually did.
Their faces were as stern as usual, but more pulled together than what was considered northern politeness. Clearly whatever happened was displeasing, at least to some. He noticed the Dustin representative was standing close to lord Bolton, not enough to be ontward but just enough to convince Robb of what he had already suspected.
'Great Father, grant me patience.'
He composed himself and gave the occupants of the room a quick once over. "My Lords, my Lady, There's been news, I'm told?"
"Aye your grace, it's your sister, seems Tywin had the little lass married off…to the fucking imp." The Lady Maege stated with a great amount of contempt, her voice dripping with loathing and hatred.
It took him a few moments to properly process the statement, Robb's blood boiled as he gritted his teeth, barely reigning a fury more befitting a Baratheon than a Stark. 'How dare they, how DARE THEY!'
"So, killing my father wasn't enough? They take even more from us still." His calm voice almost cracked, the hurricane of emotions barreling through him threatening to break his restraint.
"A vile injustice, my king, vile." Ser Wendel Manderly growled from his position, his own outrage written all over his face.
"I say we cut our way to the Red Keep. Just us, here in this room. Smaller numbers n' all that and we carve the dwarf from tit to balls and rescue the little wolf!" Lord Greatjon was never one to mince his efforts, or his words. His eyes showed his sincerity, awaiting only a nod from his liege.
"W-well I'm not sure about..uhh…I don't have much of a sword arm you see-"
"Oh don't piss yourself Wendel, I was only half serious." Greatjon Umber admonished Ser Wendel without even looking at him. "But still your Grace, what's to be done?"
Robb pondered the question for a while, his frown deepening as he paced back and forth. His anger has yet to diminish, aye, but mayhaps it is the reaction his opponent expected of him. To do something out of impulse and leave his position opened for a counter. It was smart, the pack was everything to the wolf, to hurt one was to send the rest into fits of rage. But, his decisions affected not only him, he was a king, a sovereign, he was the people of the North and his mistakes would become their mistakes.
He had always known those words as a fact, but it was only recently that he had started to understand them. He needed to start making better decisions…and so he did.
He searched his desk for parchment and a quill and sat down to write down his decision. The other occupants in the room must have been growing impatient, feets shuffling and throats clearing, but none interrupted him until he finished writing.
"Your Grace?"
"Lord Wendel?"
"What conclusion have you come to?" The overweight knight asked.
Robb placed down his quill and stood up slowly while scrutinising what he wrote on the piece of parchment. "Let it be known my lords, that as of this moment, Sansa Lannister, has been disinherited from the line succession for the North. I hereby name my brother, Jon Snow, as my heir and upon my death he will be absolved of his oath to the Nights' Watch and be known as Jon Stark."
The nobles stood in shock, as he surveyed the entirety of the room's occupants with interest. He kept his face blank and his eyes firm so they could see his seriousness, unaware he was gouging their reactions in the process.
"So you would abandon her, your grace? Your own sister?" Lady Mormont asked, a peculiar tone to her voice, a bit accusatory but not truly so. Her face betrayed neither admonishment nor approval.
"I abandon Sansa Lannister, my lady. Sansa Stark will be returned to the North, but I would deny Tywin a path to the Northern throne." he said and observed his bannermen for their reactions, a nod from Greatjon, a look of pondering from Wendel, a sideways glance among the Boltons, Dustin's and Frey's. Lady Maege, though, searched his face for a moment before nodding.
"You are learning, young wolf."
"You, my lords and lady, will all sign this document and you will all be witnesses. Copies will be made and sent to every house, so as to avoid any…unfortunate misunderstandings, I will be overseeing this task, personally." Once more, he probed them for any mistakes, his eyes turning to each of them without lingering too long.
The Bolton side of the room looked to be bursting with anger at the seams. Not Roose, no, he was far too cunning and reserved for that and it would be naive to expect him to risk his efforts going to waste. His allies were a different story, mainly the Dustin's couldn't hide their displeasure. He expected them to protest and protested they did.
"You would give the crown of the North to the bastard!"
"Be careful Ser, that bastard is my brother and has just as much Stark blood in him as me, some would even say more." He shot back heatedly, they would not doubt or step on his pack in his presence.
"Has our time in the Riverlands corrupted you so deeply in so little time? When did we become southern septons with their delicate sensibilities? A Northman is a Northman, his circumstances of birth notwithstanding. We are a people of ability and my brother is more than able. This is not a debate, this is a king's decree." From the otherside of the room he saw looks of approval, it seemed he was finally being a Direwolf, he had the Great Father to thank for that, for reminding him he was of the cold, rugged North.
A North which was currently being fucked by the Ironborn with impunity.
'Theon fucking Greyjoy.'
He needed to reclaim his home and the home of his bannermen, he's been fighting the wrong battles and trusting the wrong people. No more, it was time for the wolf to liberate its den from the squids and other…nuisances.
"There's more." He said and waited for their undivided attention. "Recall the scouts, have your men make ready, we return to the North. Aye my lords, we have squids to burn." His declaration brokered no further discussion as he watched them leave, before he opened his drawer and opened a map, his eyes narrowing at Moat Cailin.
He had plans to sort out.
JEOR
They were entering the courtyard after receiving the Northern lords, the same ones from before. They introduced themselves on the way; Harold Karstark, brown-eyed pleasant looking man with short brown hair, the acting lord of Karhold while his father and two older brothers were fighting in the Riverlands.
Smalljon Umber, an imposing young man with long hair, a thick beard and a straight nose with the typical Northern scowl on his face, as his father's only heir he was left to man Last Hearth on the off chance the Greatjon did not return home.
Lord Robett Glover, brother of lord Galbert Glover, who was also away fighting in the war. He was the oldest of the group, his hair and beard already graying, but age seemed to have mellowed him out somewhat.
Last but not least there was his niece Dacey Mormont, daughter to his sister Maege. She had grown to look much like her mother at her age; a bit more muscular than other girls from swinging her mace around and pulled back dark brown hair, with hard calculating eyes. A fierce young woman she was, she had made it clear that despite being the youngest in the group, her voice was just as strong as was her commitment to the North.
They came with a few guards, not like those would be of any use if there was to be an attack, but it showed that they were prioritizing their security. No man or woman here would harm those who were invited, that would be an affront to the Great Father himself. They all dismounted their horses and began to ascend the stairs leading to the Meal Hall. Jeor stopped and cleared his throat to get their attention.
"My lords and lady, before you enter that hall, I must ask you to prepare yourselves." He said after taking a deep breath, his solemn tone and sombre look piquing the lords' curiosity.
"Well that's not foreboding at all Mormont, what is it you're hiding in there?" Smalljon crossed his arms, his eyes ever weary of his surroundings as he spoke.
"Your world, all of it, is about to change. You are of the North, don't tell me you haven't noticed? The very air you breathe is richer, more game in the woods, the land yields more crops and a strength has returned to our bones, strength we've never known but have always had?" Jeor became slightly impassioned, the thrilling sensation of his boiling blood and rumbling heart ever present in his mind.
They exchanged a look among themselves, then Smalljon Umber asked. "Aye, we have noticed those things, we had all dismissed it as signs that summer would be longer than ever. You saying you have something to do with it?" there was an audible scoff in his voice as he asked that question. His disbelief was going to be short lived.
"Not me, no, but the one who does is here. When you meet him you'll know, all will be clear, just...ready yourselves." Their shocked faces made it clear he must have rattled them. They were rough Northerners, but so was he, and if he took the time to warn them then it must have been something worth being worried about…at least he believed that was their line of thought.
"Come, he awaits us." He turned around and led them on.
It didn't take them long to get to the spacious hall, the table already prepared for them under the watchful eyes of the men around. Sitting at the table, bread and salt was passed around immediately, Guest Rights observed, but tensions no less high. The delegates clearly wanted the talks to be underway as soon as possible. Patience in negotiations was never a Northern trait.
"What is this? Snow, you and the lord commander had gotten us here for talks." Karstark said then made a show of looking around. "No one is talking." He observed shrewdly, his glare rather admonishing.
Jon cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat. "My father is dead-"
"You state common knowledge, boy."
"- and the North has been overrun by Ironborn scum. They have taken control of Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, Winterfell, and small houses along the coast." Jon continued unperturbed, his eyes meeting Karstark's without an ounce of fear.
"Aye boy. We are in a bad way, but it's not why we are here. We are here to receive answers as to why there is an army of wildlings on the wrong side of the Wall, if they are here to add to our recent misfortunes and to know why in the Great Father's name you and the lord commander seem to have betrayed us!" Lord Glover has evidently reached the limits of his patience, his voice sharp and unbending.
"What do you know of the Great Father, kneeler?" Tormund asked in a casual, inquiring voice. His eyes widened briefly as the man hummed and held his ax tightly, and Jeor noticed him ask the question to himself again, too quiet for anyone to hear. If Jeor wasn't already paying attention to him, he would have missed it. What was that about?
"Do not question my faith, savage. We Northmen are of the First men and unlike some, still hold to our forefathers' faith. What would you know of it?" Glover lashed back, a bite to his voice as he held back from spitting in Tormund's direction.
Tormund let out bellows of laughter which echoed throughout the hall before he composed himself once more. "We don't need 'faith', little lord. We know, and you…" Tormund said, and pointed at each person in the group individually. "You know nothing." He finished, a large shit eating grin under his thick beard.
KRATOS
"Was this your doing Raven?" Kratos noticed all of his people have started calling him 'Great Father' as of late, unprompted and suspiciously natural. They have fully accepted him as their God now, he was being worshipped…as his father was. But he was not his father, and he hoped to never become him. He had a duty to these people now, a promise was made, and Spartans kept their word. If they saw him as their father, then they were all his children, and no child of his would be ill prepared for the struggles of life…or lack discipline.
"No my lord, this was the result of what happened between you and the Old Gods. They didn't just impart their essence onto you, they departed their History as well. You are now as you have always been, the Old God, the Great Father of the First men, at least to their knowledge." The old bird finally answered, observing their surroundings casually.
Kratos hummed nonchalantly, his eyes narrowing slightly at the bird for a second. "You are not affected by this 'Changing of history', why?" Kratos asked the illusive oracle.
"I AM history. Tamper with it, change it, erase it, I…" He said, pointing to himself. "...will always know what was." Kratos nodded. The answer made sense to him, how? He did not rightly know, but he had heard and seen more outrageous things. So, he did not react to that news, it was ultimately immaterial.
"The wolf boy, how goes his campaign?"
"He learns Lord, he adjusts his perceptions and acts with more conviction, he may yet circumvent the fate that I had foreseen for him."
"...Good. He should return, no war should be fought when your home burns."
"Do you want me to call him back?"
"No, let us see if he arrives at that conclusion on his own." The three-eyed raven nodded his ascent then took a pensive look. His face went blank for a moment then he frowned and cleared his throat.
"You know, those talks could use you. The hate these two groups feel for each other is real. I fear no peaceful resolution will be reached if you do not make your presence known. I dare say, I don't think there would need be negotiations after the Northern lords see you."
"I will go." Kratos spoke no more, moving with clear purpose as he approached the meal hall.
"By your leave, my Lord." Bloodraven bowed and had his familiar follow after him.
TORMUND
'What do you know of the Great Father?'
His own question brought him up short, it took him asking it of himself for him to realise he and his people knew of the Great Father, but they didn't know him. He was a warrior God, aye, and the ideals they had seen from him so far were of a soldier. Was it all there was to him? They served him and worshipped him but…could they really call it worship if they knew so little of their God?
What if this ignorance brought him dishonour someday due to foolishness borne of assumptions?
He would remedy this problem. He was no woodswitch, but he knew one. Aye, that's what he'll do. He swore it on the Great Father's name, he would make the worship of him as far spread as Essos and they'd build huge stone halls in his honour, aye, he could do that. But first, he'd have to get to know his Lord better. He was a man of few words and fewer emotions still, he had a hard task ahead of him.
For now though, these 'Northmen' would have to submit. His Lord wanted to give them a chance, if they weren't craven cunts, they would take it.
"Enough with the vague statements! We want to know why you're here. You said you aren't invaders, then what are you? Why bring an army to the North?" One of the lordly cunts bleated, his aggression failing to prove nothing more than entertainment.
"...We didn't, we brought an army south." He rebutted, taking no small measure of amusement from the kneeler's growing frustration.
"My questions still stand, you finally decided you wanted to leave that godforsaken tundra, why?"
"We didn't want to leave. We had to leave, for survival, for our people." Karsi spoke up for the first time in the meeting, her eyes shifting from her hunting knife.
"Survival? Your idea of survival is raiding the nearest gathering of people!" The big one among them scoffed.
"Those were raiders, and most of them are dead anyway. They were a blight in our communities, as I am sure you've had your fair share of bad men."
"So what are you surviving then? You are the only ones out there and we have no idea which is which."
The captains exchanged looks between each other, a silent exchange occurring in a few moments of eye contact. He gave his nod to Val, signalling that she should take the talks from there on.
"There are worse things beyond that wall than even our raiders, far worse things…dead things who still roam this world." She said in the most vulnerable voice Tormund had ever heard from her.
He couldn't blame her, undeath has its way of slipping through the cracks of one's courage and fortitude.
"Dead things?…Whitewalkers? Fucking whitewalkers? You expect us to believe in old wetnurse stories?" The old crow's niece asked, looking around incredulously. Her feelings were equally shared by her companions.
"Ye best do girl. They're worse than any story you've heard about 'em. Can you imagine, seeing someone you love die beside you, then get back up, with horrible blue eyes, no life in 'em at all and try to rip your throat out? Can you?" Karsi was more than familiar with those things, she had lost more than most to those ice fuckers.
There was stunned silence as the girl just stared with wide eyes and pale face. She seemed to have been properly frightened. If that is her reaction only hearing about them, she may not survive the sight. A scoff came from one of the men beside her.
"You believe this horse shit, Mormont?"
"...It's not a matter of believing or not, Lord Glover. I've seen it with my own eyes." The old crow sighed and for a moment, to Tormund, he looked his age. "We recovered two ranger bodies beyond the Wall and brought them back to Castle Black, I was going to send them to their families, guess they didn't want to go, huh?" He chuckled to himself, it was not a happy laugh, Tormund knew happy laughs.
"W-what happened, uncle?"
"One of them..woke up? Aye, he woke up, and came to kill me in my sleep. I would have been dead, if not for Snow there. Gave him a fight, it did, he tried every which way to kill the thing, nothing he did worked, not until he threw a lamp at it. Caught faster than firewood, I couldn't believe it, but I saw it." Aye, seeing the dead walk and crawl even as you cut them down over and over would reduce any man to whimpering fool, he definitely did see it.
"...So that's it then? We're supposed to just take you at your word? How do we know it's not some story you pieced together with the Wildlings?" It was the tallest one out of the group that voiced his scepticism. Tormund's had enough really.
"You think we're some fucking kneeler cowards? That we need to sneak around, whisper and plot in the shadows? We are SPARTANS! We kill you to your face or we leave you alone-"
"Easy Giantsbane, Easy." The old crow tried to calm him. It wasn't working, but Val gave him a hard look and a shake of her head.
When he finally simmered he took notice of the few 'guards' who had come with the 'Northmen' had half drawn their blades and were making ready for a fight, their openings painfully clear to him from his position. Tch, They weren't ready. He heard the old crow sigh and massaged his beard.
"You're children, most of you, you don't know me. You wouldn't know the trust me and your fathers had garnered for each other over the years. They'd know I wouldn't dishonour myself with a lie, especially not about something as this."
"Aye they are children, true, but I am not. There's no denying your honour is well known among us, but…what you ask us to believe now, it's madness at best, and you have only your words? How are we to believe?" The oldest among the group asked, crossing his arms as he awaited an answer.
"...You're right, I'm just a man and as fallible as any other. You may not believe me, but mayhaps, you would believe HIM." Tormund followed his gesture and saw who was entering the room, his smile growing as wide as his face would allow. All his fellow captains stood and bowed their heads, so did the old crow and Snow.
The Lord had come.
NARRATION
Boom boom! frábær faðir!
Boom boom boom! frábær faðir!
The Northern delegation was astonished, taken by surprise; The Spartans were stomping their feet and chanting in what they assumed was the old tongue. The energy and overall ambiance of the room shifted massively and centred on one being. Their passion, their spirit and their resolve were laid for the world to see as they chanted with unconcealed pride.
What was a common man in the presence of a lord? What was a lord in the presence of a king? What was a king in the presence of… this?
His figure was staggering, his air so domineering as he stood at the same height as Smalljon Umber…yet he felt way larger than any in the room. The ever present chill they grew so accustomed to, which was only amplified by their proximity to the Wall, dissipated with each step he made into the hall. His gaze was firm and rigid, his gait structural and physic carved from the bosom of the North herself.
The longer they stared at him, the clearer the realisation of just who they were looking at became. Somewhere in the back of their minds, whatever surviving slither of scepticism fought for dear life, but doubt could only thrive for so long in a presence such as this.
How could they doubt?
How could they question?
Everything, everything about him was how they had been told, how they had believed it to be. He felt like a moving weirwood forest, his presence bringing the sombre calm their sanctuaries provided, and looked every bit the same. His pale skin, the markings over his body, and winter quite literally running through his veins.
This…this was no mere king, no fellow man could command such a presence and such zeal, such devotion, in the people around him.
This was their God, the Great Father.
The realisation came to them all at once, their bodies, made of mortal coil as they were, couldn't handle such a revelation. They fell to their knees one after the other, mouths agape and eyes unwilling to be closed as a numbness slowly crept in their bodies.
"To your feet." A voice cut through the chants and pulled them from their state of shock. "Kneel to none." This voice was as if the rumbling earth was speaking to them. These were neither requests nor suggestions. It was a command, the words were spoken and the world reshaped itself to accommodate them.
Tormund and the rest of the captains in the room were physically unable to be any more proud than they were currently. There stood their God and those who had just met him had an appropriate response to his presence as expected. The chant was something they came up with after hearing the giants talking about the Great Father. It was mostly Sigurn's idea, the giants were loud by default and their footsteps were heavy. He thought they could stomp in unison to mimic their rumbling steps and chant his title in the old tongue when he entered the room.
They had done it successfully, they had shown their reverence and devotion to their lord, greeted him as befitting his Holy self. They were proud.
"H-how? How is this possible?" Dacey Mormont asked the deity, after getting to her feet shakily with the rest of her companions. All were affected, shock and awe leaving them disoriented.
"How, is not as important as why."
"So…what they spoke of, it is true?"
"As real as I am standing before you."
They absorbed that statement and the implications it came with. Whitewalkers, stories told to them by their wet nurses to scare them when they were children. It was all true, hells they had seen giants outside, things they thought to only be stories as well, just going about as one does. But what did this revelation mean for the North? The rest of the realms? The rest of the realm didn't even know what was happening even now while they squabble over a metal chair.
These were the collective thoughts of the Northern delegation.
But, there was still something which puzzled them.
"Great Father, these…wildlings, they are savages. How can we trust them to cross the wall? For thousands of years we've been enemies, they come and rape and steal and murder, the worst kinda people."
"Aye, no doubt more innocent blood was spilt by them while taking the Wall, why should we allow them into the realm?"
"It was I who took the wall. Lives were lost but barely and they were not innocent." Kratos said with a great deal of force, turning his head to look at the faces of the lords individually. "Crimes were committed on both ends, take responsibility on your part and move on, as they will. All those who raided are dead and the spartans are a single tribe, a single rule. They are my people and as of now…of my image." He waited for someone, anyone to object to his words, when none did he nodded and went to stand beside the table.
"Come, let us discuss."
ROBB
"Your Grace, a word?" The leech lord bowed his head, his voice as calm as always.
"Lord Bolton, what is it?" Robb made no move as he turned his attention to the lord.
"Your orders, your grace, forgive me but… is this really the decision you wish to make?" Roose spoke slowly, his attitude rather reserved despite the lack of emotions on his face.
"You find fault in my choice to return home, my lord?" His eyes narrowed, his tone getting slightly colder as he turned fully to face lord Bolton.
"Not as such. But you made that choice unilaterally." Roose protested, his words carefully chosen.
"Unilaterally? Am I not the King?" He frowned, eyes narrowing as he questioned his bannerman.
"Indeed, but are we not your council? Are our words of such little import?" His questions seemed innocent enough, sincerely concerned even if one was charitable.
Robb got the feeling that he was trying to elicit some form of reaction for him, he was staring at him with those pale disturbing eyes of his. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of showing his discomfort.
"Is that all my lord?" He crossed his arms, gouging to see what reaction the flayed man would have.
"I'm afraid not, your grace. You think this is the choice your father would have wanted you to make? The one he would have made? He went to war with the Targaryen's for his family but he did not return North until after there were no more Targaryen's left to kill."
What did he seek to accomplish with this? He came under the guise of a concerned party, but this could not be genuine advice. He wasn't a fool to think so, but he could not figure his aim. Oh how he longed for the leech lord to make a compromising move so he may rip his house out of the very soil of the North, root and stem. Mind games were things he abhorred on principle as a Northerner, seeing lord Bolton was so fond of them was proof of his unnaturalness in the lands of winter. He did not belong, he was more in his element with the vipers and snakes of the south.
At least he could say the North wasn't without its intrigues now.
He was frustrated with the lord and some of his displeasure he could not control, slight hostility inevitably bled through. He frowned at the lord and got very close to him, mere inches separating them, then he spoke through gritted teeth.
"Be certain, my lord, us returning to the North does not mean retreat. We move to secure our homes, something my father didn't have to worry about during his war. Know this; all those who have wronged me and mine, will be dealt with. All those who are in my way, will be dealt with. Do not question my decisions again or presume to use my father's name as a whip to get me to move how you desire. My father is dead, I am king in the North." He turned and stepped briskly away before impulse got the better of him and he strangled the man with his bare hands.
The conversation was a moon and a half ago, and Robb still contemplated it in his mind. What was he missing? Why would lord Bolton suggest they stuck to the war efforts with the North scattered and in disarray?
He was not certain, but he doubted it was anything good. He had quietly and individually alerted those he had the most trust in, namely lord Manderly, lord Umber and lady Mormont. He did not outright accuse the leech of anything, but he had relayed what he said to him and they had all found it strange. They all were in agreement that moving to re-secure the North was his best decision yet, they weren't aware there were any who didn't approve.
He had been slowly filtering the details of men around him at any given moment. More faces he recognised and could trust to some degree. No large or obvious changes as to make his suspicions palpable to his prey, but subtly and slowly.
They were currently almost to the twins in their progress to get back home. Moving the entire army back to the North was proving to be a chore logistically. They had made plans of attack for the castles which were being occupied but one person had made a good point. How were they to get into the North?
The Moat had been one of the first castles taken, no doubt to prevent exactly what they were planning for. It was the only way to get the Northern army back in the North. It was surrounded by wetlands and marshes, no stable ground to speak of. The castle was a terrifying marvel of craftsmanship, dilapidated as it was in its current state, made to be impenetrable from the south and look as imposing as a mountain.
How were they to capture the uncapturable? It was the question which was at the center of the discussions for the time being, thoughts needed to be visited and things needed to be remembered.
For now he was on his way to his mother's tent, her cell, to check on her. They hadn't spoken much over the travels and wherever they did she would try to reprimand him about something or other. He rolled his eyes whenever he thought about it. She was his mother and he loved her, but she could be insufferable most times.
He reached her tent, guarded by two of his faithful men. They bowed their heads when he passed them to open the flaps. He entered and saw her sitting on the bed, her face pulled taught in her stern southern way. She said nothing, simply watching him in silence.
"Mother."
"Your Grace…is this to be my tomb then? To be guarded day and night by Stark men at arms? Men who seem to have forgotten I am still Lady Stark?" she asked, her displeasure clearly visible and audible.
"But you are not lady Stark are you? You are queen mother now, but you still committed treason. Any other man would have had his head taken from him the same day the news was relayed, but I spared you because you are my mother even when it made me look weak to my lords." He waited to hear her reply, retract or even seem even a bit apologetic. Alas, no such reaction. Instead her face just got tighter and she looked away from him, stubborn as always.
"Do you even understand the position you had put me in, mother? The North is a harsh and unforgiving place, weakness is the worst of crimes in a place like that, especially in leaders-"
"I did what I did for my daughters! To guarantee their safe return, I already lost your father, I can't lose anymore of you. If you were a mother you would understand, but you are not so you do not."
"...You are wrong, not being a mother only allows me to see clearly, your vision was clouded and you didn't think before making a decision which affected the entire North. A nature I seemed to have taken from you. Let us add reason to your actions and see what they have wrought." He stood to pace back and forth in the tent, as he did when he was in thought.
"Do you think Tywin Lannister would have armed them while we had his golden heir within arms reach? He wouldn't have risked it. Instead with his son now free from our grasps he has wed Sansa to Tyrion Lannister. He has now gained a foothold to the North, any children they have he could claim has royal Northern blood-"
"So you abandoned her? Disinherited your sister and gave the right to that bastard!" She yelled, her glare feeling feral for a fish.
"You will not, call my brother that in my presence again. That is a decree from your king. All his life he has done nothing to slight you, to cause you to hate him with such fervor. He causes no problem and stays to himself mostly, so why?" His voice was low, a tone dangerously close to being threatening as his frustration boiled.
"His very presence is the slight. He is a vile and unnatural thing, the result of lust and a moment's weakness, nothing more."
"My father's lust, My father's weakness. Your husband is at blame, yet I do not hear you slander him and curse his very existence as you do Jon's. He played no part in his own conception, he didn't ask for this life! He is a motherless boy, who barely had a father because you wouldn't allow him to get even an iota of affection in your presence and you made sure to always be present." He could hold it in no longer, his heart wept for his brother. It was hindsight but he could finally see how he suffered for no wrongs of his own.
He had taken it for granted because he had his mother, and though Lord Stark was as stoic and rigid as the North, he was his father at all times. He could only be a father to Jon in the most private of moments and even then it was an awkward exchange.
How had he not seen it sooner? Was he even a brother to him? He spent most of his time with Theon galavanting about in whore houses and the like. If only he had given his brother that time and attention, they would be together now and there would have been no reason to doubt, they would have had each other's backs. Jon wouldn't be at the edge of the world freezing his balls off because he felt he had nowhere else to belong.
He would make right that failure, he swore it.
He sighed and calmed down as he sat back in the seat he was on initially. "I did not come here to argue with you mother, what's done is done. I look forward now." He saw her take a deep breath with her eyes closed but didn't reply, her face was still turnt away.
"...be wary and pay attention to your surroundings and what is happening." She turned to him swiftly at this warning. Her face ran through a myriad of emotions before she swallowed and asked.
"Why?"
"Not all in this camp are trustworthy, and some form of treachery will take place sooner or later. I can feel it in my bones as strongly as Greywind knows when a storm is brewing. I make no accusations, but be prepared for anything at any moment." Her eyes hardened and she nodded. Good, no questions, no arguments.
"You had a meeting with the lords?" She fished for information, trying to be involved. He decided to humour her.
"Aye, we were discussing the best way to cross into the north. The moat is the only viable way but it is being held by the Ironborn and it's impossible to take from this side. So we are at an impasse, for now. We ponder the best way forward." He said, no specifics, no details. It was strange for him to have to be so intentionally vague with his mother but she had already proven impulsive once, it is far too possible for a mistake to occur again.
"The Moat? Hmmmm, what about Howland Reed?"
"...H-Howland Reed?"
"Yes, he was one of your father's closest friends and most loyal bannermen. He is Lord of Greywater watch, which is in-"
"I know where Greywater Watch is! Great Father, how could we have been so short sighted! It is painfully obvious. No one knows the marshes better than the men of the Greywater. They could get enough fighting men through it to retake Moat Cailin from the other side and regain access to the North! I must go mother, I have riders to send, there is no time to waste." He took off to his destination with gusto. Not noticing his mother's pleased smile at his back.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I'm using Icelandic as representation for the old tongue because I think it is fitting.
Another chapter, a little later than promised but a lot sooner than the last so, small mercies I suppose huh? I hope you enjoy it and as usual CONSTRUCTIVE (and I cannot stress that enough) criticism is encouraged. I won't even try to predict when the next chapter will be out. Who knows? I might surprise you yet.
P.S. Roxas, I see you!
~The Basilisk