A/N: Chap 15 review responses are in my forums as normal. Thank you all for reading and reviewing!
Chapter Sixteen: Brothers Will Battle
Taylor never told Lord Edwyle, but when she healed his son, she placed a blessing on him. That he would survive his childhood and grow to be a good, strong man. Through this blessing, she linked his fate to her.
She grieved with him when his father died just five years after she healed him. Rickard knelt before the weirwood in his godswood and prayed for the strength to take on a man's duties at thirteen, because he was the sole heir of Winterfell, and the family's enemies were nipping at his heels.
When he wed his older cousin two years later–a match that in its first meeting had more warmth than his own father ever knew–Taylor rejoiced for him. Through her connection with the young Lord of Winterfell, she knew just what intelligence he was receiving from beyond the Wall, and what knowledge he intentionally didn't seek.
Rickard Stark was content with peace. He always remembered that it was she who saved his life.
As the years passed, his lady wife gave him strong child after child. Rickard had the large family he always wanted. He managed through guile or threat of arms to hold the wolves at bay as he grew into the man he had to be. But one day in the early winter of his twenty-fifth year, Rickard Stark received a raven bearing a terse message from his king far, far to the south.
~~Voluspa~~
~~Voluspa~~
Gold cloaks were waiting in the heavy winter rain when the Wave Dragon stored its oars, tied off to the pier, and lowered the gangplank.
"That's a sobering sight," Amory noted grimly. "I'm not as young as I used to be, m'lord. I might not be able to take them all."
"Amory, we don't have enough men on the ship to fight them. And if there's fighting to be done…well, we've already lost."
Rickard Stark looked down at the lower deck where his eldest son did his very best to get in the way of the sailors as they worked to secure the ship. The boy was only ten and one–two years younger than Rickard himself when his father fell from his horse while hunting and broke his neck. Never before had his role as Lord of Winterfell and as father been more at odds as when he received the summons from King's Landing.
The eldest child of Lord Winterfell is expected to attend the king.
"Gather the men," Rickard said. He pulled sopping wet hair from his eyes. "We'd best not keep the king waiting."
Old Amory Branch had gone gray, and did not move near as fast as he used to, but even so he was still a fair hand with a sword and had an even temper the men of Winterfell appreciated. Soaking wet from the rain and wind, the man looked almost skeletal as he gave his lord a firm nod. He turned to bark out orders to the other ten men. They quickly fell to as Lord Stark led young Brandon down the gangplank to the twenty waiting gold cloaks.
"Lord Stark, we have horses ready for you and your men," the commander of the goldcloaks announced. The man at least had the courtesy to look as put out by the storm as Rickard felt. "We're to head to the Red Keep right away."
"Anything to get out of this damnable rain," Rickard said firmly. "We shan't keep His Grace waiting."
He watched with some pride when Brandon, despite being smaller than the men, mounted his waiting horse smoothly. The other men did the same, and they began their ride through the crowded, stinking bowels of King's Landing to the massive red castle that rose on the western-most hill of the city, looking directly out over the bay.
The Stark men got barely a notice from the busy crowds that pressed around them in the fish market. The rain was a common thing during winter this far south. The people paid no more mind to it than they did the Northerners in their midst.
Nor did they get much attention from their guards. The gold cloaks did not bother to speak at all, other than to direct their way.
Despite having held his title now for over a decade, this was Rickard's first journey to King's Landing. It was deemed dangerous to have the young Warden of the North travel when he himself had no heirs. Fortunately, his cousin Lyarra, a year older, was amenable and available, and being the child of Rickard's great uncle, who was in truth a Sellsword in Essos, there was no danger of upsetting any of the other lords who were jockeying for position. The marriage was, in fact, one of the few things Rickard's mother did right before succumbing to a wasting sickness.
Not only had Lyarra gifted him a son and heir, but two other sons and a daughter as well. She was safe back in Winterfell with young Lyanna and Benjen. Eddard was newly fostered at the Eyrie under the tutelage of Lord Jon Aryn, one of the Stark family's long-standing allies. If the worst came to pass, at least the name would continue. Though he feared for the Kingdom if a Targaryen did harm to a Stark of Winterfell, he feared for his children more.
The Red Keep, being crowded within the city, did not have as large a footprint as Winterfell, but in every other way dwarfed Rickard's ancestral home. For one, its towers rose resplendently into the sky, one after the other. It was built upon a steep hill, with each rise holding a more important or grandiose structure than the level below.
They arrived before the cut, pale red stone of the curtain wall. He saw iron ramparts and drumtowers on either side. The top of the walls were marked with crenellations and firing nests for archers, while two rotting heads hung between the crenels of the gatehouse. The gates were made of heavy bronze with portcullises beyond. The hooves of their mounts rattled on the cobbled square in front of the massive barbican.
A single knight in full plate armor, with a resplendent white cloak hanging about his shoulders, stood waiting within. Beside him stood a great bear of a man in fur and Qartheen silk glittering with jewels. He had a broad, voluminous beard lined in gray, with gray at his temples. Over his mail, he wore a tabard of a great stag. The rain barely pushed down his huge mane of black hair.
"By the gods, you're the spitting image of your pa!"
Steffon Baratheon filled the cobbled lower bailey of the Red Keep with both his voice and presence. What matter that he addressed the Warden of the North and a scion of the Starks of Winterfell? All he saw was the son of a long-dead friend.
Rickard barely had opportunity to dismount before he was wrapped in the garrulous man's massive arms. "Let me look at you! Maiden's tits, if not for the beard I would swear I was looking at a young Edwyle! And is this your boy?"
"Aye," Rickard said. "Brandon, this is Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. His son Robert is fostering with your brother Eddard at the Eyrie."
"Aye, he is at that!" Steffon ignored Brandon's hasty bow and wrapped the startled boy up in a hug. "Oh, it's good to see you, boys! We're going to have an adventure, we are. And Smith's balls, is that old Armoy Branch? Hasn't that old harridan of a wife of yours killed you yet?"
"Not yet, m'lord, but the day's still young."
Lord Steffon bellowed his laughter; it seemed the only volume available to him.
"M'lord, the summons did not give reason for my attendance," Rickard said.
The older, larger man sobered. "Aye, though I'm sure you've guessed. Brace yourself, lads. The king's in a foul temper, and is like to use a few choice words for you. But I've a plan, just you see. The rest of your men will need to barrack here, but Armory can come. And your boy. Prince Rhaegar's eager to meet you, lad. You're going to fit in just fine with he and his circle, just you see."
Lord Baratheon led them personally up the first of the many serpentine stairs of the Keep, while the helmed knight of the King's Guard followed wordlessly behind. Though Lord Steffon was quick to point out the many delights and curiosities of the castle, Rickard dwelled on the one thing the other man said. Brandon was to be a hostage here. Which meant that Rickard himself was viewed by the king with suspicion.
And a copper's bet I know exactly why.
When they arrived at the great hall, Rickard was surprised to find not the king, but a silver-haired lad who would be the same age Rickard himself was when he assumed his lordship stationed just inside the massive bronzed doors. Handsome to the point of beauty, young Prince Rhaegae looked every bit a Targaryen of legend, with the white-blond hair and the striking violet eyes common to his ancestral Valyrian people.
Another of the Kingdsguard stood behind him, though this man had his helm open to reveal the young, vibrant face of Ser Barristan Selmy.
Rickard bowed at the waist. "My prince, you honor us. May I present my eldest son, Brandon."
Brandon bowed just as Ancient Maester Adelbard and his mother taught him, but even so it was an awkward gesture. Young Prince Rhaegar's answering nod looked natural and graceful. "The honor is mine, Lord Stark. When Uncle Steffon informed me that your son was coming, I asked father if I may host him. Brandon, we have good quarters waiting for you, with all that you desire. With your lord father's permission, I can show you everything!"
"Thank you, my prince," Rickard said. "May my man Amory accompany him? He's been Brandon's instructor and friend for many years."
"Of course!" Rhaeger, young as he was, seemed to know exactly what was happening. He played his part with the aplomb and confidence of a man grown and wise. He draped an arm around the shorter, younger Brandon's shoulders and led him further into the Keep.
Ser Barriston nodded firmly to Rickard and Lord Steffon before turning to follow his prince.
When the boys were gone, Steffon lost all his overwhelming humor. "On my life, my friend, I shall see no harm done to that boy."
"That bad, eh?"
"I know this Telos healed you as a boy, Lord Rickard. Your father and I exchanged more than one raven about it. But the witch stopped being a novelty and became a threat when she started mining iron ore and trading directly with Braavos."
That news surprised even Rickard. "Truly?"
"You didn't know?"
"Lord Commander Adrick was not forthcoming with his reports from the Wall, Lord Steffon. Now that he's dead, I'm just now learning about what has been happening. I swear I didn't know about the trade."
Rather than cast doubt or judgment, Steffon nodded. "Good. Very good. We're going to use that, my friend. You are Stark of Winterfell. The Night's Watch is responsible for the Wall, and it is their failing alone. Come!"
The Lord of Storm's End stormed through the great hall like a ship crashing through the tides. Servants scurried out of his way; Steffon barely seemed to notice. He led them out of the Great Hall with its infamous Iron Throne made of the melted swords of old Targaryen enemies, and through a maze of various halls until they arrived at a more modest, workman-like chamber.
King Aerys was cut of the same material as his son–though much more pale. What stood out, though, was a wine stain on the King's doublet. The white, jewel-encrusted satin sparkled more brightly for the ugly red stain beside it. The king did not seem to notice.
"Your Grace!" Steffon's voice boomed through the room. "Just as I thought, it was that cur Lord Commander Adrick that allowed the wildlings to go unchecked for so long!"
The King appeared to be somewhat distracted and in his cups. He lifted his head oddly as Steffon entered. He blinked, gathered himself, and then in a thin, peevish voice, demanded: "Then why hasn't Stark done his duty and taken this Adrick's head yet?"
Steffon turned and stared meaningfully at Rickard. The young lord of Winterfell drew his sword and knelt. "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours! Lord Commander Adrick is dead."
King Aerys II Targaryen stared at the kneeling figure with a slightly confused expression, which soon turned dark. "Did the bastard suffer, Stark?"
"Yes, your grace. He most assuredly did."
The King jabbed one long, ring-strewn finger at Stark. "So will you, if you don't clean this mess up! All of you! I'm surrounded by fools and traitors. Clean this up, or I'll find someone who can!"
The king stood clumsily enough to tip his chair and stalked from the room.
In his absence, a dry voice asked, "Lady Melantia, what did Lord Commander Adrick die of?"
"Pneumonia, Lord Hand."
Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and accounted one of the richest men in the Seven Kingdoms, stood. "Lord Stark, now that His Grace has established his desires and expectations, would you care to join us? Wine."
The last was spoken curtly to a paige, who began pouring bright red wine into the most ornate crystal goblets Rickard had ever seen. Steffan sat, and motioned for Rickard to join him. "My lords, m'lady. Is the king well?"
Tywin curved his lower lip, though one would struggle to call it a smile. "The king is distraught to have discovered that the Wildlings are trading with Braavos, and doing well enough to have a blasted delegation in the city."
Rickard never met Tywin before, but he'd heard about him through correspondence. A man of tall but thin build, with thinning hair despite his youth and vigor, Tywin was both feared and respected, having slaughtered rebelling families in the Westerlands without mercy. From what Rickard knew, every policy that could be attributed to the king's success was actually at Tywin's hand, but he was never given due credit for his work.
Of Lady Melantia, though, Rickard knew very little other than that she was a Velaryon by birth and station, and the long-standing Mistress of Whispers. A woman of advanced years, her thin white-blonde hair had gone pure silver, and her violet eyes watered constantly. She sat as still as a statue, and instead of wine she appeared to be drinking a steaming porcelain cup of tea on the table before her.
Lord Steffon was the only other at the table. When the servant placed wine before him, he doffed almost the entire goblet and held it out for more. "Leave the pitcher and be on your way, lad," he added, not unkindly.
When the four of them were alone, it was Lady Melantia who spoke first.
Her voice, though thin and piercing, enunciated every word with clinical precision. "A lucrative contract that would have benefitted one of the trading houses of King's Landing was lost to the Freehome Trading Company. The Braavosi trading house secured an exclusive five-year agreement to purchase and distribute a popular spirit called potato wine through a partner swan ship captain. The drink is all the rage in Braavos and Lorath, and others of the Free Cities are making inquiries."
She sipped her tea before continuing. "My agents infiltrated this Freehome Trading house in Braavos. It was only then that we discovered that this Freehome is also selling raw iron ore, as well as furs, timber and other items. They're production capacity is quite low, less even than Lorath, but even so, because they charge no fees and pay no taxes, their prices are half that of ore at White Harbor."
Which explains Lord Manderly's latest raven. Rickard kept the thought to himself. "What has become of this trading post?"
"My agents approached the House of Black and White to hire a faceless man."
"And?"
The Mistress of Whispers stared at him intently. "They said the god of death walked with the followers of Telos, and so they could not accept our bid. How could they possibly know who Telos is?"
Rickard considered. "May I assume, my lady, that you are aware of the ailment I suffered as a youth?"
Melantia nodded, but to the others said, "The Maester of Winterfell wrote a missive to the Citadel, lauding the healing prowess of Telos, who cured young Rickard and several villagers of Grayscale, and did so without leaving any scars."
"My nan, the wife of my man Armory, knew who Telos was. This was a woman who'd been serving in Winterfell for years before anyone heard of Telos. When I was older, after I assumed my Lordship, I asked her how she knew Telos was. She told me, 'All the wise know her name.'"
"Tell us about Hardhome, m'lady," Lord Steffon said. "Or Freehome, as they now call it. Surely you sent agents there. Any word?"
Melantia sipped her tea. "A small place. A few brick buildings on a desolate shore, with a wooden pier large enough for perhaps two or three galleys. But it is not the size of the place that is of concern, but rather that it exists at all. The wildlings were a primitive people, using stone tools. Now they have bricks, and even glass windows. They are mining ore, and distilling liquors. And though my agents weren't able to go very far into the forests north of the Wall, they spoke of a fast-growing population."
"And all raids south of the wall have stopped," Rickard felt obliged to point out. "Which is why Lord Commander Adrick's tenure was never questioned. I'll admit I just accepted they were doing their job on the Wall. But it seems that Telos simply controls all the paths to the wall, and permits no raiders to pass."
"This is all very interesting, and entirely beside the point," Tywin said abruptly. "The king has ordered the destruction of Hardhome, whatever the savages call it, and all wildling settlements for fifty leagues north of the Wall. He commands that Telos be brought back alive and marched through the city streets to the Sept of Baelor, where she is to be burned as a witch."
Rickard bit back his first response. Beside him, Steffon slapped the table. "Yes, and yes again! I'll be leading a fleet of ten ships to raze Hardhome to the ground. And you, Lord Stark, you're to call your banners and to purge this threat once and for all. Between our forces, we'll crush these primitive bastards beneath the heels of our boots!"
Rickard forced himself to take a deep breath. "And my son is to remain here to ensure I do not falter in this mission?"
"I'm glad you understand the situation," Lord Tywin said sharply. "I feared you northerners would be harder to reason with. I'm glad you have proven my assumption wrong."
"I will do as the king commands. I am concerned, though, for my son. What happens if I fall in battle?"
Steffon scoffed. "Fall in battle? These are wildlings! They don't even know how to wipe their own arses!"
Rickard shook his head. "The head ranger of Castle Black witnessed Telos call lightning from a clear sky to kill an ordained knight," he said. "Maester Aemon Targaryen personally affirmed the cause of death. My own man Armory witnessed Telos raise a storm that blinded a force of fifty Umber men, and drove them off the King's Road. A missive from Maester Aemon not a year ago reports that, despite being twenty years since she traveled to cure me, Telos still looks like a child of ten and six."
He met the eyes of the other three at the table. "When I march against her people, and I will do as I am commanded, I will not just be facing an army of wildlings who raise their young on raiding and killing the people south of the wall. I will be facing storms, lightning and every beast in the wild. And I will do this anyway, for my king and my son. I ask you now, on your honor, that should I fail my son not be attainted because his father could not kill a god."
Tywin frowned furiously—his first overt expression. He glanced to the Lady of Whispers.
"You truly believe that," Lady Melantia said. "That this creature is a god."
"I do. And because my king commands it, I will try my very best to kill her regardless. I wish only to know that my son will not suffer if I fail. You are a father, Lord Tywin. Would you not ask the same for your children? For your beloved lady wife?"
For the first time, the dour man's countenance softened. "The boy will not be made to suffer harm should you fall," Tywin finally affirmed. "This much influence I still have with our king."
"Thank you, my lord. Then, by your pardon, there is much for me to do. I must return to Winterfell immediately."
~~Voluspa~~
~~Voluspa~~
Taylor opened her bifrost eyes and stared deep into the sky. Far, far away, she could see the corrupt tear in the heavens that even now, twenty years after she arrived in the world, left her anxious.
"Telos god dreams. What did you see?"
Leaf in the Wind hung from the branch of the young weirwood that dominated the godswood in the middle of Wolf's Hall.
"I saw a young man I care for forced to choose how he will die."
Leaf dropped down from the lowest branch lightly and took her hand. "You grieve."
"I do."
The godswood covered the old hill where Taylor first found Morag so many years ago. The first weirwood she planted now had four siblings. All were young as such trees went, barely the width of her leg. Each would see thousands of years if left untouched. At a distance around them, soldier pines, birch and alders had grown up as well, forming a copse that surrounded and covered the entire hill.
Just like Taylor used to sleep on her mountain in her domain back on earth, Telos of the Trees found herself often sleeping at the base of the weirwoods rather than her house. Perhaps it was because of that fact that people tended not to enter the godwood.
"It is the nature of the younger races to die," Leaf noted. "Is this a bad death?"
"He must try to kill me and my people, or risk the death of his offspring."
Leaf sucked in a breath. "A bad death, then. What shall you have of me, Telos God?"
"Watch and listen through the trees for when the men come north to do war," Taylor said. "And keep you and yours safe."
"And you?"
"I will tell my people of the risk."
With a trill of farewell, Leaf disappeared into the tree. Taylor stood and brushed leaves from her skirt. Billows of dust came away too. "Goodness, how long was I there?"
She climbed the hill to her house, moving lightly through the trees, until she crested the hill and looked out over the village of Wolf's Hall.
For a brief moment, she confused herself with a memory of the creek and the woodline encroaching next to the rocky shelf where she first started building her home. But that was a long time ago. Now a well-built rock and wood bridge spanned the creek; the large glade in front of her house held an amphitheater where the village elders met every few months.
Beyond the creek, she saw houses and cobbled streets. Brick and timber, actual glass from a Volantine slave who escaped through Braavos and crossed the narrow sea to ply their trade here. There was the town granary, and the greenhouses for the long winters. She saw Tayla's husband leading a horse and a cart of coal toward the forges where the blacksmith worked.
Tayla. Morag's eldest daughter was married, with a child of her own. Morag was a grandmother.
It was in these quiet moments, when Taylor spent time in the trees or sleeping, that the passage of time snuck up on her. She delivered Tayla; and she delivered Tayla's first child. The babe she helped Morag birth now looked older than Taylor herself did.
In fact, everywhere she looked around the town of Wolf's Hall, she saw familiar souls that she helped bring into the world. Hundreds…no. More. We've passed a thousand people.
And all of them were in danger.
Taylor left her hill and began walking toward the largest field. With spring in the air, the first crops were already planted. She could see Doji and many of the other men in the village preparing the next field for the annual rotation in the distance. The village still practiced communal farming, but she knew several of the villagers who were plying other trades that they used to feed themselves.
Flurry emerged from nowhere, sidling up beside her with an affectionate push. He'd fathered a few litters but only he stayed close to the town. She scratched behind his ear, sharing her love for him through their bond as she walked.
The fields always called to her, for some reason. Something about a newly-planted field just made her happy. So she walked over the field itself as she approached the men. Doji was the first to notice, caught by the glow of her bifrost eyes. The other men of the village ducked their heads respectfully as she approached.
Doji had aged into a man who could easily have stolen hearts in Hollywood. Tall, strong, broad-shouldered with gray at his temples and a well-trimmed beard, Doji of Wolf's Hall had led his town for all twenty years of its existence, first by common assent, and then by formal vote. He watched as she came.
"You've been sleeping for many days," he noted calmly.
"I guess that explains why I woke up covered in leaves and dust," Taylor said with a smile. "I had a dream of Lord Winterfell."
One brow rose. "What did you see?"
"I saw the kneeler king forcing him to choose. Us, or his son. Warn the other villagers, Doji. An army will come from the south. Ships will come to Freehome. We have time, but only months."
"Old Two-Toes warned us, years ago when we founded Freehome," Doji said, obviously worried but still speaking calmly. "It's why we formed the militia, and train every winter. But we have no fleet."
"The sea will swallow the enemy ships," Taylor said. "I will make sure of it. Do you wish the earth to swallow the army as well?"
Some of the farmers with Doji were either new to the village, or young enough not to have had much dealing with her. They looked alarmed and surprised at her offer. Doji, though, just thought carefully.
"Morag tells me a boy can never grow into a man until he begins to shoulder a man's responsibilities. It is the same for a free people, I think. If we cannot fight our own battles, then are we truly free?"
"They'll be coming on horse, with heavy armor. Several thousand, at least."
"Well," Doji amended. "A little help might be appreciated."
Taylor laughed. "Morag's a lucky woman. Send word to the other villages. You have my love and blessing, Doji. You are all my people, and so I will help however you ask."
He motioned behind her. "That will help very much."
Taylor turned, and saw she'd unconsciously blessed the newly planted field. The barely had sprouted full and ready for harvest already, much to the shock of the other farmers.
"Every grain is important," Taylor agreed.