Voluspa Chapter 14: A Captive Lies in the Kettle-Grove, a Game of Thrones + Worm Crossover fanfic

A/N: Got the review responses out this time, in my forums like normal. Thank you all for reading and reviewing.

Chapter Fourteen: A Captive Lies in the Kettle-Grove

"Do you know anything about sewers?"

Maester Aemon tried not to jump in surprise at the sudden, inexplicable presence of Telos in the godswood near Castle Black. He, himself, had come to oversee the vows of a few new brothers, but lingered to look for some medicinal flora.

Only to find Telos standing next to one of the god trees, staff in hand and blindfold on. She looked unchanged from the first time he saw her some years past, now. "You startled me."

The young-seeming, supernatural being gave an elegant, unrepentant shrug. "I ended up inheriting half of a raider band. That's good news for you, I suppose, since they won't be raiding any more. But I suddenly have thirty people living near my hall, and the Free Folk just tend to dump their waste wherever's handy."

Aemon quickly collected himself. "And you wish to build a sewer? For so few?"

Another shrug. "Now that I'm there, babies aren't dying any more. It's going to be more than thirty soon. Do you have any ideas?"

In point of fact, Aemon remembered a fellow Maester of the citadel who made it his life's work to study the vast sewers and cisterns of the ancient, lost empire of Ghis. "It might take me some time, but I could get information for you."

To his surprise, the eternal maiden leaned over and gently kissed his cheek. It felt like a bloom of gentle sunlight that spread through his whole body. "Thank you, Aemon."

She turned and…was gone.

~~Voluspa~~

"Do what you will, man, I don't care."

Aemon regarded the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch with a pensive expression as he lay unmoving in his bed. Aemon came with missives from Lord Stark, but Adrick chose not to read them.

The man Aemon first met upon his elevation to Lord Commander was not the same man he saw now. Where before Adrick was a large, vital warrior filled with somewhat undirected energy, now was a sickly, wastrel of a man who rarely left his chambers and gave up all pretense of caring about the Night's Watch.

Castle Black suffered for it. Aemon did what he could by directing new initiates to the other few castles along the wall, but the truth is that Castle Black was only a fraction of its strength from even two years ago, when Telos first arrived and struck down a pair of deserters. But paradoxically, raids were down overall. The northern lords cared only about results, not the means. It was Telos who discouraged the raids, but credit went to Cerwyn. And so the Lord Commander continued to waste away while at the same time being acclaimed for his vigilant efforts to stop wildling incursions that never existed.

With his unread missives in hand, Aemon left the Lord Commander's chambers. He would read them later–he found it harder to focus his eyes in the mornings. Instead, he took his normal morning walk through the still sleeping castle. Doing so, he came across Orban Two-Toes packing his horse alone.

Aemon had noted the Head Ranger's frequent absences. The man rarely led large rangings any more because the forest north of the Wall was so peaceful, to an extent that they could travel openly into Free Folk settlements and be met with indifference. Unless they had things to trade, of course.

The large rangings had changed to single rangings, and the other rangers did not protest because of the same wretched laziness that afflicted their Lord Commander.

But that morning, Aemon could not help but notice how full Orban's saddlebags were. He saw all of the man's spare linens and his mail shirt, which he packed instead of wearing. The man packed his weapons, yes, but also a bag of coins and a few old, spare tools that the castle's stewards no longer required.

More importantly, Orban was attempting to be as quiet as he could. Aemon found him solely by chance.

"What is her name, I wonder?" the Maester asked aloud.

The old ranger, easily approaching his fortieth year, spun about with a knife in hand. When he saw who it was he faced, he frowned and sheathed the blade. "Never smart to sneak up on a ranger, Maester."

"I've never been able to before," Aemon said with a wry smile. He walked to the horse–it was a large, healthy mare newly arrived from Lord Stark with the latest of their recruits. "The Lord Commander will not care, Orban. He's lost to us, I do believe. But others will note it."

Two-Toes merely kept preparing his saddle; he did not protest or deny his intent.

"However, if I were to go with you as part of an expedition to study the flora and fauna of the forest, I could return and attest how you bravely sacrificed yourself to save me from a wolf or bear. Or a wildling woman, whichever was the greater threat."

Orban went very still. Aemon wondered if he was about to be the victim of violence despite having known the man for over two decades.

Instead of violence, however, he received words. "Twenty-five years, man and boy," Orban finally said. "My toes, most of my ear. I followed the Bloodraven up, but he left me here, and for what? Twenty-five years, man and boy, and I have nothing to show for it but scars. I had no idea what that fuckin' oath meant. I was ten and five. No idea."

The hollow loss in his voice echoed in Aemon's heart, firming his own mind on the matter.

"Prepare a horse for me, my good fellow," Aemon said. "I shall alert the Lord Commander of my expedition, and that I have requested your company for my personal safety. I shall make a note in the castle records."

~~Voluspa~~

Telos' influence could be felt everywhere in the forest. A short summer brought another winter, but like the last the winter seemed to rest gently over the forest. The snow covered the trees and the land beneath, but the sun still shone down more days than not. It grew cold, but not so bitter as to turn a man's skin to ice if exposed for too long.

More than anything, though, Aemon saw the strange being's influence on the people of the forest themselves.

White Tree was no longer a tiny little village. It now had fifteen houses, each built of sturdy brick and easily thrice the size of the original hovels. The communal fields were fallow for winter, but were now larger than the entirety of Castle Black.

They even had a brick granary, and a simple palisade of split soldier pines secured by cordage and ditches to keep the forest animals out of their crops and pens. Despite the winter, the small town had a well populated sheepfold and pig stye, and enclosed coops for the forest fowl to stay warm and lay their eggs.

"Is that a well?" Aemon asked as they rode past something in the ground.

"Aye," Orban said with a gruff chuckle. "You're the fool gave Telos the book about sewers and such."

"I suppose that's true enough."

Despite the gentle coating of snow, the villagers were not idle. The residents were out and about conducting the chores of living. He saw a few tanning hides in the cold, or repairing or building tools for the spring whenever it came.

Neither Aemon nor Orban stopped, but Aemon was surprised when one of the village residents raised an arm in silent greeting.

Orban returned the gesture. "Young Shaen is eldest now," Orban said. "That's Otor, Shaen's eldest boy. Good lad. He can read and do numbers."

Aemon blinked. "Truly?"

"He's brother to Morag. And Morag is Telos' chosen among the Free Folk. Bespoke, they call themselves. Wood Witches who learn from Telos. They teach the others."

Aemon was not so naive or foolish as to not realize the potential danger of an educated, growing population with a history of violence against the Seven Kingdoms. Even if Telos herself was a kind and generous soul, others might harness what she built to use for evil ends.

Yet, he could see children playing in the fallow fields, kicking a ball of stuffed, sewn leather and laughing and shouting during the winter respite. Was White Tree really any different than any similar village in the south?

They continued riding, and Aemon saw yet another new thing. "Orban, man, are those wheel trails? The Wildlings have carts now?"

"Aye. Riverbend, Wolf Hall, Two Trees and White Tree do a fair bit o' trade."

The turn to Wolf Hall was marked with a wooden placard of a wolf's head staked into the ground. The road was wide, and firmed with stone and soil. They turned onto it and made their way down the much-widened road. With the gentle snow all about, Aemon could hear nothing but the sound of his horse and his own breath.

When they arrived, Aemon found himself blinking in surprise.

Beyond the familiar brick and wood home Telos built into the side of the hill, he saw an entire community of thirty-eight brick and wood homes in a cleared section of the forest. Large fields sat fallow for winter in their midst, and animal pens were all around.

Children were playing in the glade in front of Telos' house. A dozen or more, with younger one's watching. A few adults stood watching the game nearby. One of them looked up when Aemon and Orban entered the glade and started walking to them.

At first, Aemon wondered if it might be Telos herself. But as she grew closer he was able to distinguish fiery red hair instead of Telos' dark locks. The woman appeared to be well past maidenhood, with the hard look of a hard life lived. Striking, with her colors. Beautiful in a way foreign to the courts of the South, but hard.

She walked right up to them and stopped before Orban. "You came. Thought you were just fuckin' with me."

In answer, Orban reached into his saddlebags and removed a leather-wrapped steel knife. He tossed it to her. "Too fuckin' old to go fightin' to steal a woman. Here's my fight."

She caught the knife one handed, then removed it from the leather. Aemon found the woman's expression fascinating. A young coquette in King's Landing would blush prettily and then curtsy to the knight who gave her a gift. She would say the right things and then go back to discuss with her cotagerie and her family if the gifter was worthy of further attention.

This woman, who had obviously seen more days than any maiden, stared at the knife with slightly parted lips. From the bone knife at her hip, it was possible she'd never held steel before. "This for me?"

"Gave it to you, didn't I?" Orban said gruffly.

"What'd you want for it?"

"You."

"I'm not gonna live with no fuckin' kneelers an' sheep fuckers."

Orban shook his head. "Gods' sake, woman. I came here!"

The wildling woman gave him a long, appraising look. "Right. 'Kay, then. Come on."

Aemon watched the entire exchange with a lingering sense of confusion. He'd had a definite idea of what was going on when they began their journey, but now…

"That may be the most unromantic courtship I have ever seen."

Aemon jumped; of course Telos stood beside his horse. She had her staff, but did not bother to hide her extraordinary eyes here within her domain. "Leyta was a raider. Her band chief challenged me for my sword, but he was really, really stupid. She looked around and saw the people in the forest had food, and beds, and their babies were living, and convinced a lot of the others to stay."

"Will they be happy, do you think?"

Telos laughed. "They're so perfect for each other I couldn't have matched them better if I tried. The only surprise is that you came. Do you mean to stay as well?"

Aemon shook his head. "I made an oath. Unlike my friend Orban, I did so as an adult fully knowing its meaning, and it is one I intend to honor." He smiled at the happiness he saw in the fields. "No matter how tempted I might be to do otherwise. No, I came for Orban. And when I return, I will report that he gave his life valiantly defending me against a forest beast."

Telos did not grin; she regarded him frankly, with a gentle smile. "If ever you need shelter or rest, Aemon Targaryen, you'll be welcome here. But that's for later. Would you like to join me for supper?"

"Why, that sounds delightful!"

~~Voluspa~~

Amory Branch was the first to see the palisades of Last Hearth, though the train saw the smoke earlier.

Lord Edwyle rode at the head of the column of twenty men, determined to have a large enough force for protection, but not so large as to make their soon-to-be hosts concerned at an invasion, or angry at so many mouths to feed.

Rickard rode at his father's side, four and ten and looking every bit the Stark in his wolfskin cloak. Neither of the Starks looked particularly pleased, but both carried on with a look of grim determination.

The gates of Last Hearth opened. Amory couldn't help but feel a touch of relief to see the giant, gray bearded Hoarfrost Umber standing in wait with his latest wife and four children in line beside him. A small part of Amory feared the man would have tried to force his own liege lord to meet him in his own hall, a terrible breach of etiquette.

Young Rickard must have thought the same. "At least they meet us in the open."

Rickard was a sight smarter than most Northman would have thought. Then again, so was his Pa. "He'll not risk the betrothal," Edwyle said to his son. "He wants his girl in your bed. If nothing else, son, she's a lovely child."

Indeed, as they rode into the bailey of the ancient wood and earthen fortification, Amory could see that the youngest child and only daughter of the Lord Umber was a girl of unusual beauty. The Lady Lizbet Umber carried the rich, black hair and brilliant, sky blue eyes of the First Men with such fair skin and features that it took all the will a man had not to just stare. Her face carried such perfectly symmetrical features that it looked almost as if she'd been sculpted from the chalk at White Harbor.

Hoarfrost stepped forward, clad in his heavy ringed mail with his tabard of a giant with broken chains. "Lord Stark! Young Rickard! Be welcome in Last Hearth!"

Edwyle climbed down and accepted a crushing hug from the larger, older man. Rickard followed, and the two Starks let their host lead them down the length of the Umber children, each only slightly smaller and less brutish than their bear of a father. When at last they reached the Lady Lizbet, Rickard gallantly bussed her knuckles to his lips.

Amory watched intently; the young girl tried to act demure, but the gesture elicited no blush of her lips, nor any sign of fascination or anticipation. She was supposedly to be the future bride of the future Lord Stark of Winterfell. She did not appear to consider it much of an honor.

"Amory."

The speaker was old Gab Snow, a bastard of Umber's own father, and a long-standing soldier in the Umber forces. "Come, let's get your men and animals settled. We have bread and salt."

"Aye, and my thanks. Winter's come."

"Light as it is." Old Gab spat into the light dusting of snow as he led them to the stables.

As they went, Armoy looked about the bailey. Even for Last Hearth, he saw a lot of dour, angry people, and far more men at arms than should have been warranted. "Raiders?" he asked.

"What?"

"You been having raids?"

"Raids? No, no raids for a few years now, more's the pity. Nothing better fer cooling the blood than killin' wildlings. No, they don't raid no mere here. Only raids I hear of are across the wall, far west the likes of Bear Island and such."

The absence of raids did not actually surprise Amory, not with Telos controlling most of the forest Wildlings. He didn't know much for sure, but he'd heard strange rumblings from Castle Black.

"Why the long faces and swords, then?"

"Nothin' to talk of," Old Gab said.

The Umbers did no care to lie, Amory knew. They tended to just not say anything at all.

After the men were billeted and their animals cared for, they made their way into the crowded Great Hall of Last Hearth. The ancient old oaks that made up most of the structure were stained black with centuries of suit. He made his way through the crowd of dogs and rushes that covered the ancient planks and took a seat at one of the two long, narrow tables.

Hoarfrost Umber sat at the table with Lord Stark beside him, while the younger Rickard was seated beside Lizbet, while her brothers sat further down the table pretending not to notice. The bread and salt had been shared to secure guest rites, and now the full feast was brought out. To Rickard's credit, he seemed to be trying to entertain the beautiful girl as best he could, but she showed little interest.

At the head table, Edwyle Stark drank and listened to Hoarfrost's stories of the many wildlings he'd killed during their raids. Though Edwyle was a Stark of Winterfell and Warden of the North, Hoarfrost Umber controlled the mines that supplied much of the north with iron. Their mines fed smithies from Winterfell to White Harbor, and their steel often made its way even further south.

With the Umbers, Lord Stark had no choice but to either go full-prepared to slaughter them wholesale, or let them do what they wanted. There was no in-between. The hope that betrothing an Umber daughter to Rickard would help solidify the relationship did not seem very strong, judging by Lizbet's absence of reaction to Rickard's best efforts.

The girl looked miserable despite her breath-taking beauty.

"Breaks the heart to see a girl that lovely so sad."

Bobbie Littlefeather, like Amory, had carried a sword in Lord Stark's service for most of his life. The others in the Stark train echoed the sentiment. Amory was going to add his own comment when an old serving wench placed a tankard of golden Umber mead in front of him, with a single red leaf on the handle. The leaf slowly uncurled and fell to the table top.

Amory tried to find the wench, but she was already gone.

Lord Stark was politicking with his vassal, doing what was necessary to keep the peace, the King's law, and the iron shipments flowing. His standing order to those men he brought was to do nothing to offend.

A red leaf meant something, though.

The meal consisted of steamed barley and pork stuffed in a sheep's stomach and served on a truncheon of bread. The sauce for it was a cheese melted with beer–and it tasted better than it had any right to as long as the cheese lasted. Amory ate his fill, but when the mead pushed his bladder enough, he excused himself from the hall to find relief.

Cold winter air slapped him awake as he left the wooden great hall for the shit houses. In the center of the open pen of the hall, he could see the lone god tree dominating the back bailey. Standing near the white bark of the trunk, he saw a single figure staring intently at him.

Needs must, Amory did his business first. But after, he braved the cold of Last Hearth and made his way across the snowy grounds of the bailey until he stood near the figure. He found himself staring at an older woman with thin gray hair covered in a shawl against the cold, with a woolen gray blanket wrapped around thin shoulders.

"You're Mama Obal's man, yes?"

The question itself answered Armoy's question about the woman. She was Wildling born, and just like his own woman, she'd been taken by a local man and brought into a semblance of civilization. "I am. Who are you, woman?"

"A mother," the woman said. "My son, Byrne. Good lad. Workin' the mines like all the others. He's a handsome boy, Stark-man. Handsome boy. Caught the little lady's eye, and a damned sight more. Any babe born of Stark and Umber will be a Snow, mind you."

Amory sucked in his breath. "Words like that could get a person killed, woman."

"Or worse," the woman said. "My boys been put in shackles, he and his friends. They're made to work the mines like slaves. He begged my lord to take the black. Lord Umber said nay. Means to work him to death. It's not right, Stark-man. Lord Stark has to do something! I beg you!"

Amory's stomach lurched at the idea of free men held as slaves. It was the oldest law. But at the same time, him saying anything would put his lord at odds with Lord Umber. "If your boy cupped Umber's daughter, woman, then Lord Stark will not intervene. Not on a slight like that. I'm sorry. Best you can hope is to slip him a knife to end it."

The woman shook her head and bowed down. "Love. Young, fuckin' love. He's my only boy, Stark Man. My only boy. No one else. What do I do?"

A strange thought came to him, then. Something his Obal told him. "We can't help you, old woman. But maybe others can. Pray to the Old Gods, and one of the new. Say a prayer to Telos of the Trees. Mayhap she'll have mercy."

The old woman recognized the name. "Why would she care about us here south 'o the wall? She only tends to the Free Folk."

Amory shrugged. "And you want your boy to be free, do you not?"

A burst of laughter from the nearby hall dragged his attention back. "Remember what I said, woman. Pray to the tree in Telos' name, and she might hear you."

~~Voluspa~~

On the second day, relief for the Stark men came in the form of a raven from Winterfell. Hoarfrost was as literate as a dog, but his son Mors not only could read, but was bound for the Citadel to become a Maester soon. He stood and read the message to the entire hall during their second day of feasting.

"To Lord Stark of Winterfell and all the Lords of the North, hear my words this year after the conquest, two hundred and fifty-nine. With great sadness and heavy heart, I say unto you that our beloved King Aegon V Targaryen has perished by fire at his retreat of Summerhall. Lost in the same conflagration was Crown Prince Duncan. All hail Jaehaerys Second of the name, King of…"

"Enough, boy," Hoarfrost growled. "A Targaryen dying in a fuckin' fire? King's justice indeed."

There was no love among the lords of the north for the Targaryen kings. Edwyle stood. "My lord, friends. This is grave news. As Warden of the North I am obliged by custom and law to travel south and pledge the North." He smiled wryly. "Unless you would rather go in my stead?"

Hoarfrost bellowed laughter. "Those southern whoresons wouldn't know what to do with me! Go, my lord. Your sword and your words do well to keep those southerners where they belong, and with my thanks. We shall make further plans for our children when time permits."

"Agreed," Lord Stark said. "Prepare the horses, Amory. That missive is a week old already. We'll need to be to White Harbor to catch ship south."

The feast broke up, and despite the late hour the Stark column formed up and in less than an hour was making good time south.

Armory rode at Lord Edwyle's side, while Rickard rode opposite.

"Out with it, Amory," Edwyle said when he was sure no Umber could hear.

"It was not young Rickard's fault he could not win young Lizbet over," Amory said.

Stark snorted. "Noticed that, did you?"

Rickard blushed. "She just didn't like me, father."

"You're a Stark of Winterfell, like should have nothing to do with it." Edwyle turned back to his must trusted man. "What do you know?"

"Young love, and miners enslaved and worked to death for the sin of it. The girl might already be with child from one of 'em."

Rickard looked stricken at the idea. Edwyle just shook his head. "A shame, and a wrong as well. But not one worthy of splitting the North. Rickard, you'll be staying in Winterfell as my voice. No point in dragging you to that pit of vipers in King's Landing."

"And Lady Lizbet, father?"

"That's for the gods to decide," Lord Stark declared.