So, here we are with the next chapter, which I'm gonna use as a lil platform – if you've pitched a character, or are in the process of submitting one, you have two weeks left to send 'em, otherwise I'm just gonna start looking a-new – I'm not gonna make everyone wait, 'cos that wouldn't be fair to everyone who's put in so much work.
Now, I'm kinda… I dunno, I expected more reviews, considering how many people have been reading and following this but, hey-ho! Massive thanks to those that reviewed – I actually use those reviews during my story-planning and writing, so... I dunno, you want this story to be better, drop one! Some of you said you love my description, so, I decided to load up this chapter with a ton as well!
There's also some new characters I'm on the look-out for, so check out the Character Index if you're new or thinking about submitting another character.
I am also hard at work on the wiki – there are family trees and stuff uploaded now, so, you can check 'em out and really see who is who and why certain people have been given certain positions and so on. I've also started really rooting this in the canon, starting to explain where we diverge and what exactly happened - that should come through in the story (because, it'd be bad writing if not), but just in case it's not clear, there ya go.
With that out of the way, let's move on!
21st Day of the Fifth Moon, 152 A.C.
Tristifer
The castle of Riverrun stood on the banks of Tumblestone River as a formidable fortress in the heart of the Riverlands. Its massive stone walls, weathered by centuries of wind and rain and conflict, rose high above the water's edge.
As one approached Riverrun, the first they would see would be the castle's twin towers, slender and elegant, dominating the skyline. Each tower stood at the opposite end of the castle, connected by a curtain wall that enclosed a sprawling courtyard. The Tully sigil, a silver trout leaping on a field of blue, fluttered proudly in the breeze from the central keep's flagpole. The keep itself, a solid stone structure, overlooked the river with unyielding authority, its arrow slits and crenelations a testament to the many wars the rivermen had endured. The walls of Riverrun seemed to stretch on endlessly, the only entrance being the drawbridge which, upon crossing, one would enter into the courtyard, filled with the scent of the river-air as the Tumblestone flowed lazily beneath the castle walls.
That earthy aroma of earth and mud was not all a traveller would smell: the smell of fish would waft from the bustling fish market inside the walls, where traders hawked their catches of the day to the denizens of the castle. The mingling scents of wood smoke and roasting meat emanated from the castle's kitchens, a tantalizing promise of the feasts that graced Riverrun's grand hall.
Deeper into the heart of the castle, the sounds of life and activity enveloped them. The clattering of armor and the rhythmic thud of swordplay echoed from the training yards, where the Tully soldiers honed their skills in service to their lords, under the watchful eye of Tristifer Tully, the master-at-arms of Riverrun, with his sister-by-law, Saera.
Tristifer was a stout man, with his flowing auburn hair tied back from his scarred face, his hands clasped behind his back as he slowly paced around his young students, watching his nephews, Emmon and Lucius, who both swung at the pell with his son, Tion Rivers. Though he knew that Tion was older than the pair of them, and had more time to spar, what with lacking the close eye of Maester Orlyn, but he still felt a flicker of pride, watching his natural-born son flourish the wooden blade. Tion even stopped to try and instruct his younger cousin but Tristifer spoke out, loud and clear.
"Focus on yourself, Tion, Lucius just needs to practice."
His son nodded and returned to his practice. Meanwhile, Saera's amethyst eyes flickered over the ravenscroll she held in her hands. "Truly, Tristifer?"
"Arlan Baratheon sent that today," Tristifer nodded solemnly, his blue eyes fixed on the boys. "Emmon, it's a sword, not a rattle!"
Saera handed the ravenscroll back to her brother-by-law and clasped her hands together. Tristifer's mother, Jeyne, had always said Velaryon's could be solemn at times.
"Do you mean to accept?"
"It is addressed to my brother, not me," Tristifer responded.
"That is not an answer."
Tristifer turned around, matching Saera's expression. "My brother is Lord of Riverrun. If he means for me to accept, I will."
"You can't," Saera insisted. "She's a child."
"Yet her own father wishes to marry her."
"Arlan Baratheon is most likely fuddled with milk of the poppy," Saera half-laughed, "it is her brother, Durran. All know this."
"That may be, but Cassandra Baratheon has no such ailments." He crossed his arms. "It's a good match."
"You're happy with this?"
"No, I'm not happy with this. Oraella Baratheon is ten-and-two. She's likely yet to have even bled…"
"Yet you will wed her?"
Tristifer turned around and cocked his head at Saera, crossing his arms. "Do you wish better for her or for me?"
"I wish better for us," Saera explained. "If we enter into a marriage pact, we'll doubtlessly be expected to march south into Dorne."
"Ah, yes…" Tristifer murmured boredly, glancing back to watch Tion and Emmon square up against each other with their wooden swords to spar. "He won't go through with it."
"No?"
"He's a boy," Tristifer muttered, "he's never seen combat outside a tourney. And he's now betrothed to a Princess – I'd wager he won't even leave his keep for his war of faith."
"Perhaps… but men are stupid. Very eager for war – long for it…" Tristifer could feel the weight of Saera's eyes on him. He remembered the warring all too well – the way that his boots slipped in the blood and wet grass. The ringing sound of steel, the shrieking as blades squelched into bellies. How his arm had vibrated from wrist to shoulder as he cut through to the bone of an ironman's neck with his falchion. Tristifer remembered the hammering of his heart as he closed with Lodos Codd. That day, when he had been only six-and-ten, two years older than his own natural-born son, he'd ran through the ruins of Oldstones with Brynden Blackwood, how he'd spotted the Ironman leader and chased him down into the crypt, found him cornered before the sarcophagi of River Kings. He remembered Lodos, an angry and foul man, had spoke of what he would do to Tristifer – what he would do to his body, what he would do to him in the Lord's chamber of Riverrun. 'Run home, little fish,' he had said to Tristifer, 'run back to your castle, and pray to your gods I do not find you.'
Tristifer had not run, and Lodos had not surrendered. It was a long, arduous fight, but Tristifer remembered little of it. Only the taste of blood filling his mouth as he'd sunk his teeth deep into the ironman's cheek. He'd grappled with the man on the cracked slabs of the crypt before pulling the man's long knife from his belt and sinking it deep into his foe's neck. The blood seeped out – out of Lodos Codd's neck, out of Tristifer's mouth, along the cracked stone slabs that lay before the bones of Tristifer IV. He'd stayed there a while, looking up at the ruined statue of the old River King. He fell against it, his limbs heavy and weak from the fight. Then, figures had entered with torchlight and found the ironman commander dead, and a bloodied squire still breathing. 'The Bull Trout', some of them called him. It might have been intended as a joke – as trout were hardly devils of the rivers. But Tristifer cared not – it was a name given to him by those that had bled beside him, and he would not shy away from it.
"Tristifer?"
He was brought back to the lively chatter of servants as they went about their daily tasks, from washing linens in the courtyard fountains to mending banners in the armoury. The murmur of visitors and petitioners could be heard in the antechambers, seeking the wisdom and justice of Tristifer's brother, Garret, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. And in the distance, the soothing melody of the river's gentle current provided a constant backdrop to the castle's symphony of sounds. Saera was standing there, a hand on his arm, eyes fixed on his.
"I'm fine," he assured her, his eyes flitting back to the boys. Tion was patiently waiting for Emmon to retrieve his sword from the ground. "Swords are sharp, Emmon, you don't need to swing it too hard."
"These boys will be just as eager for-"
"That was different, Saera," Tristifer explained. "It was my lands that were afire, my people that were being killed."
"I thought your Lord Father ruled over the Riverlands."
"Ruling has little to do with it," Tristifer responded darkly. Saera nodded and sighed.
"So, you'll wed Oraella Baratheon?"
"If Garret wills it, I'll be betrothed to her. I won't take a child into my bed."
Saera glanced up to the approaching rain and began to retreat inside. Tristifer looked back over to his natural-born son and trueborn nephews, who were beginning to walk away to stow their practice swords.
"You boys think a battle's never been fought in rain?" Tristifer called out to them. "Back to the pell. We'll be starting with you, Emmon: ten-and-three and still over-swinging…"
Freya
The throne room of the Red Keep was a chamber of awe and opulance, an illustration to the dragonlords' grandeur and their conquest of the Seven Kingdoms. The immense space unfolded before one's eyes, with towering, crimson marble pillars rising high to support a vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate dragon motifs, depicting Meraxes, Vhagar, and Balerion the Black Dread. Torches and braziers cast a warm, flickering light that danced upon the polished black marble floors, reflecting the shimmering ripples of the Targaryen banner, a three-headed red dragon on a field of black, that adorned the walls.
At the far end of the throne room, the Iron Throne itself seized attention. Constructed from the swords of vanquished foes, it was a jagged monstrosity of a trophy that seemed to grow out of the stone dais upon which it sat. The blades, twisted and dark, formed a fearsome seat that rose no less than forty feet into the air, a monument to Aegon's Conquest, and a testament to how the Targaryens truly were closer to Gods than man.
The scent in the throne room was a heady mix of polished wood, incense, and the faint perfume of the courtiers who filled the hall. Fragrant oils burned in braziers, filling the air with exotic spices and sweet floral notes, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that masked the underlying tension of the court. The occasional waft of ink and parchment came from the scribes and Grand Maester Torwyn who lingered near the Iron Throne, ready to record the decrees and judgments of the king.
A symphony of murmured conversations and hushed whispers played throughout the throne room. Courtiers in opulent attire, bedecked in silks and velvets of rich Targaryen red and black, Tully blue and Hightower green, moved gracefully about, their voices mingling with the soft rustle of their garments. Court musicians, with lutes and harps, filled the air with melodies that ranged from hauntingly beautiful to triumphantly regal.
But beyond the visual splendor, the fragrant ambiance, and the mellifluous sounds, there was an almost palpable sense of history and power that pervaded the throne room. It was a place where kings and queens had ruled for generations, where the Iron Throne had seen a parade of monarchs, some just and noble, others ruthless and cruel. The room seemed to vibrate with the echoes of the Targaryen dynasty, the very essence of their dominion over the Seven Kingdoms woven into the very fabric of the Red Keep.
And Freya suddenly felt small. She was already a somewhat dainty and delicate young woman, but being in the immense expanse of the throne room, standing before the Iron Throne, in the sea of courtiers, entirely on her own – how could she not feel small? How could she not see why her family failed in their rebellion?
How could anyone ever hope to defy the House of the Dragon?
She walked through the gallery, passing the stone corridors and watching in silent awe and trepidation as the willowy figure walked through the throne room, watching the crowds part with a smug. The way he swung his arms, swaggering forwards, flanked by olive-skinned servants in colourful, plush silks. They carried something on cushions, but Freya was more focused on the man. The long, silver hair that fell to the small of his back, the violet eyes that fell on the Iron Throne, the retinue of Kingsguard knights that stood sentient before it, and the nephews and nieces that lined either side of it. Aemon stood there, a hand on his black cane, his other arm linked with his wife, Vaenys Celtigar. She could see him wincing slightly: Aemong was afflicted with a sickness that the maesters could not understand – one that left him unable to walk or run as the others. It were as though his bones were glass.
On the other side of the throne were Aeric's two daughters, Daelaena 'the Chaste' and Rhaenerys – the next Lady of Storm's End. Freya was reminded of the Targaryen's queer customs as she watched Daelaena coyly smile at her uncle. Meanwhile, Rhaenerys seemed entirely uninterested, staring up at the ceiling, her purple eyes narrowed, blinking slowly and heavily as they rolled around, trying to find something of interest. Her lips, which had been pressed into a thin line, parted to let out a heavy sigh. But Maelor barely noticed – he was focused on the King he stood before.
It was the first time in years she'd seen her warden sat there, with the crown of gold and garnets forged specifically for him. 'Aeric the Ascended,' he had dubbed himself, for his rise after the Dance of Dragons. 'Aeric the Arrogant', is what most had taken to calling him (amongst other things). Freya was glad to be his ward – after all, she could have been Maelor Targaryen. She watched him in the hall, halting in front of the throne and crossing his hands on the hilt of his sword. He may have looked beautiful and strange, but he was the man that had massacred her family fifteen years ago on Pyke. Or, so she had been told – being less than three, she had no memory of the castle, nor the island, nor those she shared blood with. All she knew of them were the stories whispered at court: how her brother Uller had been lanced through the heart by Willum Arryn, her other brother, Sigfryd, had been cut down by Ser Connas Corbray, who had been appointed to the Kingsguard as a reward, her father, Ragnor, had taken his own life – too much of a craven to face the wroth of dragons. It had not spared his mother or the rest of her brothers the dragonfire, though. It had been Maelor Targaryen himself that executed them with his dragon.
And he was standing right there, his eyes settled on her with a slight grin before moving off onto the other ladies of the court.
"Maelor," Aeric said, his voice clipped. "You've returned."
"Apparently," Maelor looked back to his brother. "Eight years has been a long time, brother."
"I am your king, Maelor. You will address me as such."
Freya's dark eyes settled back onto Maelor. He didn't frown, nor did he over his smile. He simply glanced to his feet, still beaming, and scratched his temples. He was clearly amused. "Forgive my familiarity, Your Grace." He looked back up to his brother. "I have not returned without gifts. Gifts befitting the last scion of Old Valyria."
Maelor swept a hand forwards and his servants approached the throne, kneeling down and holding up, what Freya could finally make out to be, sleek and polished wooden chests. Maelor opened one and removed a dark, gleaming circlet.
"For the Princess Vaenys," Maelor said as he climbed the steps of the stone dais, paying no mind to Ser Connas Corbray, Ser Osric Royce, or Ser Lucan of Lannisport. He placed the circlet upon her platinum hair and smiled down at her, "As she will one day wear a crown as Aemon's queen."
Maelor retreated down the steps, his eyes flickering towards Prince Aemon, who had clenched his jaw and tightened his arm around Vaenys'.
Maelor opened the smallest chest and produced a handful of something else dark and gleaming. This time, he approached the Princess Rhaenerys, reaching into his palm and holding out something. She suddenly blinked and her face fell blank, eyes focused on the gift.
"A ring," Maelor said, "a reminder that, no matter her husband, she shall still possess the blood the dragon."
"Thank you, Uncle," Rhaenerys said quietly, turning over the ring and examining it with (apparently) genuine interest.
"And the Princess Daelaena," Maelor turned his attention to the older girl, whose lips were ever-so-slightly parted, doe-eyed as she watched her uncle lay a necklace around her neck, his hands slipping behind her neck to fasten it. "A gift as rare as her beauty."
"Thank you, Uncle Maelor," Daelaena said softly, eyes trained on Maelor the same way a hound would eye a cat.
"I thank you for your gifts, Uncle," Aemon said loudly, "if-"
"I've not finished yet," Maelor stated, not even bothering to look at Aemon. "No, you see, the last gift is for you, Your Grace," he said, looking up at his brother. He waved forwards the last servant, approached the dais, stopping short of the seven Kingsguard knights and, kneeling again, opened the chamber to reveal a large egg, polished like onyx, rested on a bed of plush, purple silk. "A dragon egg," he said loudly for the court, which began to rumble with hushed murmurs and gasps of surprise. "One I recovered personally from Old Valyria."
"How do we know that is from Old Valyria?" Aemon asked loudly. This time, Maelor did turn to face him.
"Well, My Prince, I would be more than happy to show you where I found it. Of course, you may not be so accustomed to long journeys."
"You are talking to the Prince of Dragonstone, Maelor," Aeric said, trying to hide his smirk, "respect is needed."
"Apologies, Your Grace, I simply meant that my nephew's health is paramount," Maelor insisted, still smirking at his nephew.
"These are great gifts, Maelor. Truly. Befitting of a King. If there is anything I can do to repay such a gift, name it."
"Simply to walk in these halls again would be enough, Your Grace."
Aeric paused, as if he was considering something – it truly irritated Freya. She prided herself on her knowledge – of knowing who had done what to who, when and where and how. She had learnt to be quiet, to blend into the stone, growing up as 'the Last Greyjoy' in King's Landing. She had become quite skilled at it, too – skilled enough that all would talk as if she were not there, act as if no-one else was. What was once a punishment had become a strength.
She knew of Daelaena's past trysts with Lord Morys Velaryon and Ser Garth Blackrivers. She knew of how Prince Jaeghar's face had become as scarred as it was. She knew of the Small Council vexing Aemon near-daily. But the one thing no-one knew – the one thing she did not know, was why Maelor Targaryen left.
Freya had come close to hearing more, once. A feast, six years ago, when Aeric had sunk into his cups and said to Reynard Reyne, 'Maelor would not dare face me again without a sword in hand.' True, Aeric would believe no man would be brave enough to see a self-declared warrior such as he, but there was something about the way Aeric had spoken. As if there was no bravado, just anger.
It perplexed her, but what was even more confusing, was Maelor descending the steps, walking around his Kingsguard, and letting out a chuckle that grew into a raucous laugh. He grabbed Maelor's shoulder and embraced him in a hug.
Freya glanced around as the throne room erupted into thundering applause, and slowly began to join in, staring back to the brothers reuniting and smiling – everyone was smiling everyone but Freya Greyjoy and Aemon Targaryen.
Ardan
The waves crashed with magnificent roars in Shipbreaker Bay, the ebbing waves warring with stone, collapsing upon them with the white spray and a thousand droplets returned to regroup. The large wooden ships that had dared approach from the south had been tussled around by the storms, leaving nought by a mess of masts like a thornbush. The wind roared with enough of a gale to pull small children into the raging waters.
Ardan was not deterred. For, out of the ten-and-six years he'd spent in his father's keep, he'd never seen the wooden hull of such a ship – the torn violet sails that flickered in the wind like banners, the plum-painted hull had breached out of the water, lodged between the great, jagged rocks in the bay.
"What do you think?" Ardan asked, peering down. "Dornish?"
"I've never seen a Dornish ship like that," his half-brother, Arrec, replied.
"How many have you seen?"
"As few as you."
Ardan could imagine himself on the deck of such a ship, wielding his longsword and beating back the Rhoynar. His steel ringing against their curved swords and flamboyant spear-heads. He could see himself disarming the Sword of the Morning, or the Snake-Eater of Dorne, and claiming the ship as his own. He'd sail it down the Blackwater and present it to the King…
"Let's get closer," Ardan said as he began to bound down the rocks, traversing their well-travelled route.
"The waves are rising, Storm!" Arrec called after him.
"The storm's passed, Baratheon!" Ardan replied, feeling his words fly away on the wind. "Come, let's take a look before she sinks!"
Ardan continued his descent, stopping to point out to Arrec which handholds were sturdy, and keeping an arm out in case he slipped. Arrec had stowed his cane in his belt and began to trail after Ardan down the path, holding onto the cliff face for support and stability. Ardan, meanwhile, was bounding forwards, jumping down and laughing when part of the cliff gave way.
Finally, they came to where the ship's mast was wedge in the crevices, its rigging torn and dancing in the wind like kite-lines. But there was something else – a bloated, green corpse had been tangled up in the rigging. The putrid stench of the man was carried on the wind, and Ardan's stomach immediately turned. His skin had turned blue and eyes had turned white. It was clear the man had been dead for some time. Ardan came closer, crouching down and wrinkling his nose as he examined the small parts of his cheek that was missing – bitten off, it looked like…
"Oh, Seven Hells…" Arrec cursed, turning away from the corpse and covering his mouth.
"Are you okay?" Ardan asked, standing up and taking a step back to his half-brother. Arrec held up a finger and stifled a retch before turning back to the corpse, wincing.
"Something took a bite out of him…" Arrec muttered as they came closer.
"Just fish, I'd wager," Ardan say, peering over the edge.
"He doesn't look Dornish, does he?" Arrec cocked his head to the side and moved the man's tunic around with the end of his cane, examining the faded colours of his linens before withdrawing it.
"What, then, from Essos?"
"I'd presume so. Most likely tried to climb ashore…"
Ardan stepped over the body and suddenly had the thought that the man may awaken and grab his leg, hurl him over into the sea. He refused to let that scare him – not in front of Arrec.
"Don't get too close…" Arrec hissed, his cerulean eyes fixed to the corpse.
"He's dead, Arrec…" Ardan straightened up and, with a hand on one of the many lines, looking down at the ship. "What do you think?" Ardan asked as he put one hand on the mast and giving it a firm push, checking to see how sturdy it was.
"I think my mother will kill us when she finds out."
"Me, mayhaps…" Ardan responded. He reached out and grabbed one of the lines, pulling it closer and giving it a strong tug.
"You're not going down there?"
Ardan scoffed, "No… of course not." He turned back to look at his half-brother, whose lip had began to curl. "It's not that far down…"
"It isn't. And it could sink at any moment."
"Exactly – we ought to stop debating and get down there…" Ardan half-chuckled as he pulled his riding gloves from his belt and began to slip them on.
"I can't," Arrec said, pale-faced and furrowed-browed. Ardan frowned for a second, but as soon as he caught sight of Arrec's cane he remembered. A horrible weight of silence permeated the air around them, overwhelming even the stench of a rotting body.
Simply walking down here must have been taxing enough for his half-brother. Ardan felt a pit in his stomach as he remembered Lady Cassandra's words 'if the Gods knew any justice, it would be you in that bed, and my son walking.' He tried to push out the thought, but the words rung true. Arrec would never be as he once was, and perhaps if Ardan had not been so eager for glory, it would be otherwise.
"Baratheon, how about you stay up here? Keep an eye on the waves for me?"
"What?" Arrec frowned.
"You could keep watch. In case the waves rise again – or worse, Maester Rickard finds us…" Ardan caught sight of his half-brother's lips break into a slight smile.
"I don't need to be treated like a child, Ardan-"
"I'm not!" He insisted. "Stand watch for me – I'll even pay you out of the hundreds of Valyrian steel swords I find down there," Ardan promised him.
"You remember what happened last time we played in wrecks?" Arrec asked. Ardan's face went blank and Arrec rolled his eyes. "I swam you back to shore."
"We were eight, Arrec," Ardan tried to reassure him.
"I remember."
"Well, you weren't the one that hit your head." With a slap on his half-brother's shoulder, Ardan grabbed hold of the line again and scaling around the creaking mast, which Arrec rested a hand against, still grimacing at the bloated corpse.
"Just… don't be a fool," Arrec said, his face etched with worry.
"Says he that stole Durran's robes when he was bathing?" Ardan waited until Arrec grinned before beginning to descend the mast. The blood rushed to his head and his heart thumped against his chest as he felt the rope grow tense with his weight and with each step he began to imagine the mast snapping in two and himself plummeting to the deck.
His muscles were growing sore, but years of swinging a sword at the pell had left Ardan strong-armed. He rushed down with quick steps until he landed on the sodden deck. Tying off the rigging line to taffrail and taking a few tentative steps. The deck creaked under the new weight, but the waves continued to hammer and batter against the cliffs their stronghold grew out of.
Once sure the deck would not give way to him, Ardan climbed down to the main deck, its mast collapsed and falling into the water, with the canvas torn upon the rocks. Ardan began to wonder what had happened to sailors – if they had drowned, or perhaps thrown themselves overboard and swum up onto Tarth or Cape Wrath.
Ardan took a few steps further and found the stairs down into the main hold. It was pitch black inside, and he found himself remembering the stories he'd heard from his wetnurse, Gwin, of creatures that slept in dark waters, waiting for foolish boys to wander too close. They were descended from Nagga, she told him, the first Sea Dragon, and when he had been slain by the Grey King, he had split apart into a thousand thousand smaller monsters.
Something small and dark drifted forth, staring up at him. Ardan's feet froze on the deck as he saw the small dark eye of something bob up and down in the water. He drew the dagger from its sheath and approached, watch the silver gently prod against the wooden steps.
His foot dipped into the black water and Ardan reached into the water, his heart hammering as he imagined something biting down on his wrist and tearing away his shield-hand, or something lurching up out of the water and wrapping itself around his face.
Something cold was in his palm. He took a few slow steps back and opened his hand to find not a creature's eye, but a small, square coin. He sheathed his dagger and pressed his fingers and thumbs against the four edges of the coin, squinting and brushing a thumb over the iron face to make out a pair of interlocked triangles. It must have been Braavosi – he didn't know the engraving, nor did he recognize the helm and swords on the other side, but only Braavosi used square, iron coins. Tucking the coin safely inside his boot, Ardan drew his dagger again and began to climb down the steps once more.
The water was like ice, splashing up to his armpits and soaking his woollen clothes. He cursed himself for not taking off his jerkin. He never dropped his dagger when something splashed in the water, and lurched back as something began to splash around in the water. Ardan whirled around as the splashing water trailed around in the hull in a panic before dashing towards him. He thrust forwards with the knife, and while the creature continued to thrash, it did not move forward or backwards. Ardan heaved up his dagger to find a foot-long fish upon it. He held it closer to the light that shone in from the stairs and examined the silver back and the pale belly. A rockfish, he figured, not yet fully-grown.
"Hardly a sea dragon…" Ardan murmured as he grabbed the fish and pulled it off his dagger. A moment's thought later, he tossed it up the staircase onto the deck – maybe he could avoid the poorer cuts of pork.
The ship groaned and Ardan found himself looking to aft of the ship, where light seemed to flicker. Arrec was probably getting worried, Ardan would have to hurry back. But this ship would be on the bottom of the bay in two dozen pieces soon enough. Ardan pushed forwards, trying to ignore the creaking and sound of shifting wood beneath his feet as he pushed on, holding onto the beams that held up the deck above.
Ardan finally reached the light – the window of a cabin which had been broken, ushering in the glinting sunlight from the waves below. Inside, the featherbed had been overturned and lodged in the doorway. The desk and its chair were half-out of the window to the aft, and a thick chest was bobbing gently against the open door.
Ardan picked up one of the soaked ledgers that floated nearby and tried to read the smudged words to no avail. There were still clear margins on the pages –a manifest or something of the like. Ardan tossed it back into the water and looked over a torn map of the known world: Westeros, Essos, the Summer Isles and Sothoryos.
Another crate bobbed in the water – opening it up, Ardan picked up a thick sludge of green sand, black pods and water. He took a handful and moved closer to the crack in the hull where sunlight bled through. It seemed to shimmer, and was vibrant green – as if something had been ground down – spices or herbs, perhaps? He dug his hand back into the chest and felt something hard. Taking a tentative step forwards, Ardan scooped out the sludge and found a mess of dirtied, silver coins packed together at the bottom of the chest. A grin crept up on his face – he and Arrec could journey to Durran's Town and drink themselves into a stupor.
The water felt too cold. He remembered what little he could of the last time he'd played in shipwrecks –when they ventured into the cracked hull of a Velaryon ship eight years ago. Ardan didn't remember much of the waves washing them out, as he'd hit his head on the wooden planks.
Arrec had struggled and brought him back to shore – stayed with him in his chambers all night until Lady Baratheon had hurried him away to his own bed, or so Arrec had told him. Maesters applied leeches and a poultice and, with a prayer to the Mother.
All Ardan remembered after going beneath the water was his dream. He'd dreamed of his mother – a gorgeous woman, eyes red from crying for him. She had been beautiful, high-born, with soft hands that held his as she shushed his cries. Whispers of words he couldn't decipher filled his head, and Ardan felt, for the first time, as if nothing bad could ever happen to him. And the next morning, when he awoke, he found himself alone in his empty bedchambers, with no mother there to comfort him.
The ship groaned and Ardan began back away from the carriage. The water began to rise up to his naval, soaking him through. He waded through the water, sending it splashing up high as he hurried forward, content with his prize. His heart began to hammer hard as he made his way to the stairs up to the main deck, feeling the soaked steps sag under his weight.
He grabbed the deck and hauled himself up, only for his boot to land on the wet, bloodied scales of the fish. He foot swung up over his head and he landed on his back hard, his head ringing and all the air knocked out of his chest. He rolled onto his side, gasping for air as a wave crashed onto the deck, washing him down the deck and closer to the mast. Ardan's lungs began to ache and his throat tightened until the water swept from the ship and left him on his hands and knees, sucking down mouthfuls of air and spitting out saltwater.
Ardan looked up to see Arrec atop the mast, shouting down to him and pointing out to the waves, but his words had been stolen by the wind. The deep rumble of thunder was coming closer from behind, where Arrec was pointing. Ardan turned around to see another storm – lightning cracking into the waves, thick black clouds roving forwards and a torrential downpour arriving – it wasn't just a storm, it was a ship-killer.
Groaning, Ardan looked across the deck for the chest of coins. He kicked aside the dead fish and searched again – why didn't he just stow the stupid coins in his clothes? His sapphire eyes found the chest – half-open, with coins spilling out into the cracked hull below. Ardan began running, trying to ignore the storm on the horizon. He grabbed a handful of coins and tried to pick up the chest, but the wood had soaked through: upon attempting to pick it up, the chest slipped out of his grip and face-down into the water below, with all the coins spreading out into the water below – like the thousand thousand sea monsters.
"Seven Hells," Ardan hissed. He didn't bother to count the coins he had in one hand – he shoved them into his boot and ran back towards the mast. As he grabbed the line and began his climb, he looked to see Arrec up there, his cane stowed inside his belt, and both gloved hands grabbing the line Ardan climbed up, hauling him up.
The lightning cracked closer. Arrec was shouting something down to him, but all Ardan could hear was the whistling on the wind. He rose higher as the gusts did, and was blown off to the side, clutching onto the line for dear life. His foot was wrapped around in the line, but his other leg flailed out desperately. Arrec continued to pull and Ardan let out a yell as the line began to tighten around his foot. He tried to shout up to Arrec, but it was no use – he continued pulling on the rope, and it became tauter around Ardan's foot. He took the knife from his belt and began to saw at the rope by his waist. Lightning cracked again, and Ardan resorted to stabbing through the rope, picking apart the twine. Finally, his blade pierced through, and Ardan pulled with all his strength. The twine was lashed open, then it snapped, and the rope that had once been around Ardan's foot unravelled and fell to the waves below.
Ardan continued to climb, knife in hand, trying to not let the deep rumbles of the mast, the cracking of the wood, and the thundering roar of the storm frighten him. Rain began to spit on his cheeks. He looked up to see Arrec a few feet away, still hauling him up. Finally, He reached out a hand, which Ardan took, and pulled him back onto solid ground, wrapping an arm around his chest.
"You blasted idiot, Ardan," Arrec said breathlessly. "You're a madcap fool!"
"I might be…" Ardan agreed, glancing back down to the ship below that began to gently sink until a massive wave crashed upon the hull, tearing it asunder and dragging the remnants of it into Shipbreaker Bay, where the waters seemingly feasted on the planks of wood, tearing them apart even more. Ardan felt tired – he wanted to lie there and fall asleep, but Arrec picked him up.
"Come on, let's to home."
Ardan nodded and, after being helped up, began walking back to the keep with his half-brother. "Let's – before a storm sweeps us both in."
"Which one?" Arrec asked, a hand on Ardan's shoulder. Ardan nodded and, a second later, chuckled.
"Very droll."
They journeyed back up the way they came, with Ardan helping pull Arrec up some of the steeper climbs, and as they approached, their leathers and wools soaked and dripping. Up ahead, Ardan made out the tall and imposing figure that could only be Durran Baratheon - the one person he avoided almost as much as Lady Cassandra.
"Fuck."
Corwyn
A cold and tonic breeze swept through the open window of Corwyn's chamber. A thick wolf pelt was spilled across the stone slabs of the floor, and the warm air of the hot springs beneath the keep bled through the walls, but it had always been too hot for him: years spent in Barrow Hill had braced him against the cold. Steeled him, forged his skin into a hide of iron. For six years, he'd lived in Winterfell, and for six years, he'd craved the wintry air of Barrowton.
Her heard heavy panting and turned around to see the hound on his bed, Joramun, had awoken. The large creature looked from the empty bed and creased sheets over to the window, where Corwyn stood, his skin bare and cooled by the breeze as he looked out across the North. Northmen were different from the southrons – colder, sterner, older. Corwyn Stark's veins were filled with as much ice as blood, but that blood was that of Brandon the Builder, Brandon the Breaker, the Laughing Wolf, the Hungry Wolf, Edrick Snowbeard – the deeds of his ancestors were as much a part of Corwyn as his own name: named for his grandsire, Corrin Stark, a bastard boy with the name 'Snow' that rose to become Warden of the North. His name was etched with greatness, with the legacy of his house, ancient and proud.
There was a soft padding and Corwyn looked down to see Joramun standing beside him, looking up and gently wagging his tail from side to side. The hound was old now, having been at Corwyn's side for six years, but still never lost the pup in him. It had been Corwyn who named him, after the famed King Beyond-the-Wall his own ancestor had fought alongside.
The moonlight fell upon his face – the severe features of a Stark. His thin lips were still settled into a frown beneath his brown beard. His grey eyes moved over the falling snow – summer snows had almost ceased entirely. Only a thin dusting blanketed the dirt inside the walls of Winterfell. On occasion, a thick sheet would fall from one of the rooftops and land on a passer-by. He remembered when he had arrived in Winterfell – his younger brother, Cayden had been chasing down their sister, Torrha, pelting her with snowballs while she shrieked in horror, covering her hair. It was one of the few memories Corwyn treasured – remembering it was a luxury, almost.
Corwyn supposed that it was the burden of the Lords of Winterfell; he'd remembered his aunt Mara telling him how Father had smiled in his youth, before the southron armies had marched up the neck. Baratheon's and Tully's united, intent on avenging her betrothed's supposed death. Though Corwyn had never met his uncles or grandsire, he knew they were just as honourable as his own father. They'd never had killed a guest in their halls. They were northmen. The ways of the First Men lived on through them. Whatever fate Erich Baratheon had met had not been within the walls of Winterfell.
In the war that had followed, his grandsire fell in the Battle on the Causeway, impaled on Durran 'Wolf-Bane' Baratheon's sword. He'd taken the southron with him though, his own blade plunged into him. The two had fallen into the marshes, where their bodies remained to this day, lost, claimed by the land. Or perhaps they had been devoured by the lizard-lions. It mattered not – the war did had not ended there. Durran's younger brother, Arlan 'Strong-Arm' had led the forces north to Moat Cailin, where Corwyn's own father had been stationed with the full force of the North, rallied to defend their home. 'The Bloodiest Battle Never Fought' it had been known as, thanks to Maelor Targaryen and his dragon, Valarys.
Now, there was another Durran Baratheon to the south, waging another war. Corwyn's grandfather was his namesake, just as Durran was his uncle's. There was luck to a name – it was known in the North – and Corwyn knew he was to share his grandsire's fate of defending his homeland from Southron threats. It was not a destiny he shied away from – all Starks had safeguarded the North and its people – no matter what. His sister's namesake had sacrificed his own crown to that end.
Corwyn heard a loud panting, and turned around to see Joramun now awake, looking around the chamber. He jumped off the bed and padded over to Corwyn, gently pushing against his leg with his head. Corwyn looked down at the hound – into the folds of his wrinkled face, his dark, wide-set eyes that looked up at him, silent and soulful. Corwyn leant down to scratch the hound behind his small, dark ear, shushing him.
"Can't sleep either?" Corwyn asked quietly. He stole a last glance out of the window, looking out into the not-so-distant Wolfswood. It had been there where Joramun had earned his scars. Years ago, though it did not quite feel that way.
Joramun stood up on his hind legs, resting his paws on Corwyn's bare leg, still staring up at him. "Food?" The hound's ears perked up and Corwyn nodded. "Food…" He crossed his chamber, dressing in his smallclothes and breeches and grabbing his wolf furs, draping them over his shoulders.
Corwyn stepped into the stone corridor, lit by lines of braziers on the walls as he crossed down into the spiral staircase, with Joramun racing ahead of him and waiting at the bottom, circling. The hound seemed years younger whenever food was mentioned. He finally reached the bottom of the steps and waved a hand for Joramun to follow, which he did, his gait steady and purposeful. They entered the kitchens together, now empty of all except one of the young scullery maid, who was sweeping the stone floor of crumbs of bread and meat. Joramun let out a loud bark and lunged forwards, and the girl jumped back, dropping her broom with a clatter.
"Joramun!" Corwyn snapped and the hound fell back, backing away from the crumbs at the maid's feet, his eyes pleading to Corwyn, waiting for his permission. "Apologies."
"No apologies needed, milord," she said in her shaking voice, her small brown eyes set on the dog that was almost half her size. She was a small thing – more of a girl than a woman, with strands of her blonde hair slipping out from beneath her white coif. She smoothed down her apron, clearly in an attempt to look more presentable before the heir to Winterfell.
"I thought I'd see if there's any meat leftover from the feast. My hound's hungry," Corwyn asked, glancing around the tables.
"The feast hasn't ended, milord," the scullion maid frowned.
Corwyn's brow creased. "'Tis the hour of the nightingale," he stated.
"Aye, milord, but still they drink."
Corwyn nodded, looking through the servant's door in thought. He was sure all had retired to their chambers…
"What's your name?"
"Poppy, if it please milord."
"Go, Poppy. Clearly there are others who do not wish to retire. They can sweep."
She dipped down into a curtsy. "Thank you, milord."
Corwyn waited until she left before waving to Joramun, who set about picking up the scraps of food from the floor. Meanwhile, Corwyn dawdled across the kitchen, coming to the door and pressing his ear to the wood. He heard chanting – singing, even, and the thumping of tankards against a wooden table. He'd have the guards whipped if they were out of their skulls and in their cups. Corwyn pressed open the door and marched down the corridor, hearing the panting of Joramun close behind him. He turned a corner and the distant din of merriment came closer – bawdy songs and laughter that became even clearer as he pushed one of the twin oak doors that led to the great hall.
The warm, crackling hearth at the hall's far end cast a golden glow, filling the air with the comforting scent of burning oak. Shadows danced upon the ancient stone walls, where the sigils of House Stark and their bannermen watched over the scene. The clank of tankards and the hearty laughter of guards filled the hall, their voices blending with the melodic strumming of a lute in the corner. The chatter was punctuated by the occasional clash of dice and the satisfying thud of a fist against the table.
Amidst it all, the aroma of spiced ale mingled with the tantalizing scent of roasted meats and fresh-baked bread from the kitchens. The clatter of wooden trenchers and the scrape of knives against platters created a symphony of feasting. The guards, wrapped in furs and leathers, revelled in the camaraderie, their breath forming misty clouds in the chill of the North. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with well-deserved respite, a bastion of warmth and merriment in the cold, unforgiving land beyond its walls.
Sat there, in his father's seat, was a strapping young man. With dark hair and grey eyes. He was broad-shouldered and his jaw shorn of hair. Still wrapped in a mantle of brown fur, slamming his tankard against the wooden table and singing along, his voice booming and merry.
"…tell you I'm rotten, before you've forgotten
I've been fed by the Skagosi maid!
I rode like a dragon, and drank from my flagon
And arose as hard and high as the Wall,
Snow in my eyes, my mare 'tween my thighs,
She's as pretty as a Skagosi maid!
Axes and swords and shields, I've them all,
For taxes and lords, battlefields in the snow
O, Snow in my eyes, her teeth in my thighs
I'm being fed to the Skagosi maid!"
The room suddenly fell into silence until the seated figure stood up, raising his tankard high. "But it's not the first time she's had me in her mouth!" He declared. The men all cheered and began to drink.
Corwyn stepped forwards, watching as some of the household guards took notice of him and fell silent. He stood there, feeling the air kiss his bare chest, the tickling of wolf furs on his skin as he stared at the younger man in the chair. He was unsure – it had been many years, and the man in front of him was not portly or stout. Their eyes met and the man stood up, still washing down the tune with a mouthful of ale.
"Corwyn!" he laughed, placing one hand on the table and vaulting over it, knocking over forgotten plates of bread and chicken onto the floor. "Have you missed me, terribly?" He walked forwards, a wide grin on his face as he wrapped his arms around his brother. Meanwhile Joramun began barking loudly.
"Cay?" Corwyn frowned. Cayden was shorter than Corwyn – shorter than their cousin, Myra, too. But he was stronger than every Stark in Winterfell combined. A mess of brown curls were pulled back from his face, showing his rugged skin, aged by his years of travel. As Corwyn drew closer, he began to make out more of Corwyn – he'd shorn his jaw of any hair, but there was still something on his neck…
His brother took a step back and looked at Corwyn's puzzled expression. "Urgh, still the dour twat as before, I see…" Cayden rolled his eyes before turning to the hound. "Gods, you're still alive?" He chuckled, leaning down to scratch Joramun's head. Joramun barked and reared up on his hind legs, trying to smell Cayden.
"When did you arrive?"
"Chin up, brother – it's a feast. Sit down, drink some ale – I'll regale you with songs and stories!"
Corwyn hadn't been sure of where his brother was – no-one knew for certain. They'd received a total of three ravens from him during his travels – one every year. Corwyn grabbed his brother's chin and turned his head to the side, examining his neck. On one side, he found a black tattoo – a pair of tridents crossed beneath the direwolf's head. On the other side, the healed marks of teeth marks – human teethmarks.
"What happened to you?" Corwyn asked, his voice solemn, not betraying any of his thoughts.
"Well, there's a practice of using stick and ink to-"
"Cayden."
Joramun interrupted with a loud bark and he began to paw at Cayden's legs, rising up to place a paw on each shoulder. Cayden had to take a step back, patting the beast's stomach and scratching him behind the ears.
"At least one of you is glad to see me…" Cayden turned to walk back to the lord's table. "Did you not hear? A Skagosi maid took a shine to me."
"Quite the jape."
Corwyn climbed over the table and fell into the lord's seat, tearing off a bone of chicken and throwing it on the floor. Joramun swept across the hall, ducking beneath the table and began his own feasting.
"Oh, it's no jape, brother: even the Conqueror wouldn't have been able to saddle that one." His grey eyes flickered up from the hound and up to Corwyn. "I see not much has changed: you're still brooding."
"And you're still a fool," Corwyn replied.
"Aye – but fools are invited to feasts," Cayden retorted, his lip curling. In only a few moments, Corwyn had begun to feel just as he had three years ago, constantly listening to his braggart of a brother boasting about the women he'd bedded. He was Corwyn's little brother, and here he was, acting as if he were a man full-grown. Still drinking ale into the morning. He'd never cared to act as a Lord, and it seemed he was still the same.
Yet, in spite of it all, it was good to see him.
"So… Skagos?"
"Aye! I saw the Wall – climbed to the very top and stared out across the edge of the world. You should have seen it – snow and ice as far as you can see, not a town or keep in sight. After a week of ale and sparring with the Bastard of the Dreadfort, I travelled to Last Hearth for a time. Then, Roderick Umber, joined me as we went southward to visit our Manderly cousins. We parted ways when I headed north for the Skagosi isles. I lived among the stoneborn, learnt their tongue, fucked their women and returned back here…" He finished his tale by finishing his tankard of ale.
"Seems you've had quite the adventure, Cayden."
"More than just one." Cayden breathed a happy sigh. "Now, come, share a tankard of ale and some news."
"I do not want ale, Cayden."
Cayden shrugged as he picked up another tankard of ale and glanced down to the hound, that still lay at his side, chewing on bones. "One of you is drinking it."
Corwyn did not, in truth, need much convincing. He walked around the table and sat down. It was uneasy, seeing Cayden sitting in the lord's chair. 'It does not matter', Corwyn thought to himself, 'it's just a chair'. But, then again, so was the Iron Throne.
"Come on, big brother, tell me of what I have missed."
"Well, Torrha is to be married," Corwyn informed him. Cayden chuckled.
"And?"
"She asked what Victor Tyrell looks like."
Cayden let out a loud laugh, his chest heaving and ale spilling from his tankard. "Victor Tyrell?" He cackled. "The Tourney Rose? Fucking southrons… Well, at least he won't lay a hand on her – too scared of bruising himself…"
"Mother arranged it."
"Of course she did… although, I wouldn't mind a Reach-lass for a wife," Cayden mused aloud, "I've heard they have men fuck them in the arse," he paused, scratching his chin, "or was that the men…?" Corwyn shook his head, the faintest bit of a smile on his lips. "Oh, crack a smile, Corwyn, the Wall won't melt if you do…"
Corwyn took the smallest sip of ale. "Myra is also leaving."
"Snow?" Cayden frowned. "Bored of you, is she?"
"Lord Colyn wants her to come to Bear Island."
Cayden's face darkened as he slumped back into the chair. "Bear Island…" he murmured, "home to bears a-many and rapers a-few… How does she feel about that?"
"About as you'd expect."
Cayden nodded. "I asked about him when I was there," he informed Corwyn. "Thought we might cut his throat."
"He took the black, all crimes and transgressions-"
"He deserted," Cayden cut off his brother. "Apparently killed a brother – fled Castle Black a year ago."
Corwyn scratched the back of his head. It was true, justice was owed – Kolfinn had to die. More to the point, they may find the truth of it – of what actually happened with their Aunt Mara. Kolfinn had grown up a ward in Winterfell – he had been trusted by the family. Why did he betray them the way he did?
"Myra should be told," Corwyn said quietly.
Cayden scoffed and shook his head. "Winterfell is dreary enough already – another brooding Stark won't help that…"
"She's not a Stark."
Cayden chuckled as Joramun stood on his hind legs again, grabbing a whole chicken and pulling it off the table. "Oh, piss on that, Corwyn – she's as good as." Corwyn opened his mouth to explain, but Cayden continued, "Her mother was a Stark. She was raised by Mother, by Father – she's more a sister than a cousin."
"You'd tell her that, would you?"
"Seven Hells, no!" Cayden scoffed. "I've not the patience for her sulking… I'd likely leave for another three years…"
"Perhaps you should tell her, then…"
Cayden turned to look at his brother, grinning widely and cocking his head to the side. "When did you learn how to joke, Corwyn?" He leant out and wrapped a hand around his brother's shoulder, staring at him fondly. "I've missed you, brother."
"Aye… I suppose I may have… once or twice."
Cayden grinned. Corwyn and he had never been overly fond of each other – Cayden was loud and brash where Corwyn was quiet and patient. But, in the years they had been apart, Corwyn had found himself wanting to share stories with him. He'd imagined his return from time to time – the escort and fanfare that would accompany him, yet, he'd returned in the depth of the quiet of the night, and sat in the hall, drinking ale – as if he'd never left.
"Come, another song," Cayden drank from his tankard and hopped up to stand upon the lords chair, singing loudly.
"Stow your southron wine,
And keep your southron girls,
Hand me a horn of harbour ale,
And call me a northern churl!"
You have no idea how long it took me, and how many variations of songs I ended up writing. Like… I pride myself on my song-writing abilities (your boy may have had a song on the radio once upon a time), but man, writing something that didn't make me cringe and still felt accurate was hard.
Okay, well, that's this chapter over. I dunno when I'll update – probably when I've got more reviews on the previous couple of chapters – that way people aren't scrambling to update bunches of chapters, so… yeah, enjoy!