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Chapter 2: We Are Winter
"You want my Blood? So be it!"
– King Brandon the Bloody
The all too familiar sound of clashing steel echoed in the air of the courtyard as two men fought, with many servants gathered around to watch. They stepped around an imaginary circle. One, far older and wiser than his opponent, stepped the opposite way; maintaining distance and prepared to defend against any blow.
The second was young and impatient; tired of waiting, lunging with a centuries old war cry.
Their swords locked and sang of steel.
"You're too eager lad," the elder smiled wide.
"And you talk too much!" The youngster growled, using strength beyond his years to push himself free. He swung with all his might and smirked as he seemed to gain the upper hand briefly, pushing his opponent further and further. He swung forward, hoping to end things there and then.
"Fuck!" He cried as his teacher side-stepped, easily dodging the strike, disarming his foe.
"You're also predictable," came the mockery, standing idle as the boy picked up his sword.
"Predict this!" The boy lunged wide, and his teacher quickly moved to parry, only to take a step closer and bring his sword up and wrapping it around his opponents before sliding down the outside of his blade, jerking his own sword inward; causing the youngsters sword to fly out of his hand.
"Thank you," the boy's teacher bowed as the audience clapped. "I'm here all week ladies!"
"You-" the youngster scowled. "You cheated!"
"No, little wolf. I won."
The elder smiled, ruffling his pupil's hair.
"Well done Willam, you're getting better."
The voice snapped the young wolfs attention aside.
"I lost," Willam sighed, disappointed in yet another failure.
"Cedric is older and more experienced than you lad," the man placed a hand on Willam's shoulder. "I taught my son as he now teaches you, young Prince – listen well and songs will be sung of you someday – with enough effort you'll triumph."
He smiled at the compliment, rare as they were. "Thank you, my Lord Frost."
Soldiers filled the courtyard behind the old lord, his hair white as snow with sapphire blue eyes that shun like haunting blue stars in the dark of night. On his hip Frost rested impatiently, the ancient steel of House Frost, rumoured to be forged of pure ice from the Long Night.
Willam knew why they were here. He was old enough to not be ignorant.
"You go to fight my father, my Lord?"
Lord Frost's smile faded. "Who told you that, lad?"
Not all of Frost's household was so committed to their lord's actions.
"Nobody," Willam lied easily. "It's just rumour, my lord…"
Frost didn't seem pleased, eyes darting to his son for answers.
"I will end this business and return boy," the Lord forced a brave look to his face.
"It'll be fine Will," Cedric Frost placed a hand on his shoulder. "You'll see. We Are Winter."
Willam didn't believe them. He knew his father, even at the age of five-and-ten he knew, it was not in Brandon Starks nature to forgive steel drawn against him or his kin. Willam knew this, the people of Frostfell knew this as well; not a man or child hadn't heard the stories. How could Frost not know? How could be look so… unafraid?
"Send me home," Willam mustered his courage, knuckles white against his swords grip as if the steel could help him. A sword had a funny way of giving men courage, even one as young as himself; knowing the future promised blood. "It doesn't have to be this way..."
Lord Frost looked down at him now from his horse, armoured and saddled.
The man's runed scabbard seemed to have an unnatural aura of dread about it…
"Your father won't listen Will," Cedric's smile faltered only briefly, but Willam saw it clearly.
No, he wouldn't listen to Frost… but he might listen to his own blood…
"Take me with you then, my lord! He'll listen to me! I can stop this before-"
"No," Lord Frost's voice broke through the air, cold and brittle like cracking ice. "No, lad…"
There was no arguing with that. None dared argue with Lord Frost, except perhaps Will's father.
Lord Frost rode off to war, leaving his Stark ward behind in the courtyard as a sense of dread washed over him. He fought back the tears that threatened to betray him, hard a feat as it was. He'd always been stubborn, even then. "They're not coming back," a voice in him seemed to suggest. He ran from it, sword falling to the courtyard stone with a clang as he bolted for his chambers, to his bed, to some childish sense of safety away from all things.
Willam Stark laid on his feathered bed lost in his thoughts as he often found himself doing of late. He'd been a ward of House Frost since he could hold a sword, sent by his grandfather to ease tensions with the promise of a marriage pact when he came of age. "Time flew," Will thought to himself. "Grandfather passes, now father starts a war to bring me home – to break a pact over petty grievance simply because he could…"
Brandon the Bloody. Brandon the Brash. Brandon the Brute.
"All these and more," the young wolf Prince muttered aloud.
His father wanted to take him home.
Lord Frost had refused to allow it.
The pact was to be sealed, as it had been agreed.
"Frostfell is my home," Willam hardly wished to leave.
Another voice broke him from his worries, softer and sweet as honey.
"Will?" She came, washing away the wolfs fears like a wave against rocks.
"Come in," he said too eagerly. "I was just… just thinking…"
The girl that approached was a year older than Willam but stood a foot shorter, with soft and flawless snow-white hair that flowed to her shoulders, sapphire blue eyes and a smile that could melt ice with its warmth. "Thinking?" The girl smirked teasingly. "Careful now Will, you'll hurt yourself..."
He scoffed, smiling. "All I do is think these days, Elly."
He couldn't seem to stop the thinking, that was the damn issue.
"Our fathers will talk," she sat beside him on the bed, smiling still. "It'll be okay, you'll see…"
A fable that one doubted she truly believed. Willam merely looked at her. Gods, she was beautiful – he'd felt happier simply being near the girl – all the worries seeming to melt away like summer snows. "I love her," he thought, looking into her sapphire eyes. "Isn't that enough, father?"
A hundred thoughts assaulted him, as they often did.
"Isn't being happy enough?!"
"You'll never be together!"
"Take her and run away!"
"Leave this place! Now!"
"Will?" She brought him back from his thoughts, as only she could.
"Sorry Ely," he apologized for something. He couldn't rightly say for what…
"Allow me," his betrothed leaned in, pressing her lips to his; not for the first time. They'd been betrothed since they were children, growing up together in her father's hall, closer and closer still although the kissing was frowned upon, her father had seemed glad for it. Whatever the lord's faults he still loved his children dearly.
Willam had come to consider the man more a father than his own blood, in truth.
"I'm scared Will," she admitted as they broke apart reluctantly.
He was too. Since his grandfather had died, everything had collapsed. Pride was a frightful thing…
"What if my father doesn't come back?" She asked, with fear in her eyes that near broke Willam's heart to see. "What if they fall? What if your father doesn't listen to them? What if we can't be together?!" What if? What if? If only she knew how those words had plagued him, haunted him even.
"Marry me." It seemed so simple now, why hadn't Lord Frost seen it?!
"What?" His love blinked, wiping away a treasonous tear from her cheek.
"Damn them all," Willam snarled, his courage building. "Damn them all; to the very depths!"
She smiled and gods be damned, the act spurred him on like nothing else could.
"Elssa Frost," he held her hand and smiled, near pleading. "Will you have me?"
She flung herself at him, crying as she released the words "Yes, Yes, Yes!" and smothered her betrothed, uncaring of the consequences. She'd become Elssa Stark and they'd all have to accept it. What could the King do if the pact was already sealed? They'd say the words among themselves, with no witnesses if need be; besides the gods – and they would be enough. In hindsight, perhaps there was a reason Lord Frost hadn't simply gone ahead with the wedding when she'd first flowered?
Perhaps the old lord had his reasons? Perhaps it was a fool's hope, desperate and doomed?
Willam didn't care. The two kissed and fell together, lost in their love, blind to all else.
He was happy. They were both happy. Wasn't that alone enough?
The dawn came, like any other, but this seemed brighter to Willam with his new wife laying aside him sleeping peacefully. He laid there, smiling, happy; all his worries melted from thought as the morning sun began to creep through the window. "Your father won't accept this meekly."
His mind seemed to taunt him as joy gave way to worry, as it often did. He'd made his choice, however. There was no turning back.
"My Prince," Elssa interrupted him and rolled over onto her back. She looked up at Willam with a warm smile.
"Princess," Willam said the first thing that came to mind, moving to kiss her.
"Princess," she giggled. "I like it..."
"Using me for my title, are we Ely?"
"You have other uses." Pulling him in for another kiss, the prince was clay in her hands.
Willam had lost himself and held no wish to leave, deciding in that moment that no matter the future, they'd face it together.
He smirked, leaning over to plant a kiss on her neck. "What uses are those, Princess?"
"Prince Wi-" A guardsman entered the room, almost immediately diverting his eyes as Elssa dragged the covers up to her chest to cover herself; panic etched on a blushing face. The guard for his credit looked as if he'd rather be anywhere else and cursed his timing.
"What?!" Willam growled furiously, less concerned with being caught than being interrupted…
"Lord Frost summons you," the guard made eye contact with the lady. "You too, m'lady…"
"This had best be fucking important," Willam muttered under his breath.
"It's urgent," the guards eyes lingered on Elssa. "His Lordship is-"
"Wait outside!" Willam commanded with a snarl.
The guard scurried away eagerly, bowing stiffly before departing.
"Father has returned?" Elssa asked, concerned and still holding on tightly to the covers.
"I suppose," Willam sighed as he left the bed to get dressed.
This was good news, surely, wasn't it?
"The last time I was dragged from bed so early..."
"Yes?" Willam asked, half dressed as he watched Elssa get out of bed herself and walk across the room to him.
She gave him a kiss before picking up her own clothes. "It was the rebellion... mother woke me, she'd been crying… I could tell…"
"War." The word echoed in his head. He'd been too young himself when his grandfather took his father and brothers off to war against Lord Frost and his supporters. It was a short and bloody affair, that led to his wardship here, a pact signed to end hostilities and tie Frostfell back to the Crown.
In an odd way, he was grateful – without the rebellion his betrothal to Elssa may never have come about.
"Father will be furious with us," Elssa said, putting on her last piece of clothing.
Willam laughed bitterly, placing a kiss on her forehead. "It's my father I worry about Elly."
Lord Frost was a haunted man at times, distant and cold, yet Elssa always had ways to melt her father's heart.
Without further words Willam opened the door to the chambers, letting her walk through before him with a simple "Princess's first."
It was a short walk to Frost's Court and along the way many of the servants whispered among themselves, no doubt thinking rather poorly of their lady as she passed them by, although they dare not say – the fear in their eyes didn't go unnoticed. Something was wrong. All the nagging doubts in Willam's head whispered of some danger.
"Sister," a voice far too young to be Lord Frost greeted them as they entered the great hall of Frostfell. "You're late, and you bring Stark. How fortunate, I suppose…"
The boy in his father's seat looked broken, tired, his eyes bloodshot.
"Where's father?" Elssa asked, confused, stepping forward towards her twin.
Eric Frost sat uneasy in his father's seat. "Step away from the Stark, dear sister..."
"Willam?" She asked, eyes darting to her side.
"Step away Elssa..."
"They were together m'lord!" The guardsman from before bravely stepped forward. "I found them together m'lord, did me duty as you bid me and brought them to-"
"Together?" Eric scowled, his eyes demanding an explanation.
The guard hesitated. "I found the lady abed with-"
"You dare lie about my own sister!?"
"I swear m'lord, before the gods I do, the Stark was-"
Elssa stepped forward, brave as ever. "He is my husband! I love him, brother!"
"And I her!" Willam stepped beside her, taking her hand in his and holding tight.
A silence washed over the hall and something boiled in young Eric's eyes.
"Stark lies," the young Frost muttered angrily. "All of it damn lies…"
"Eric," Willam forced a smile. "You know I love her; you know me brother. We-"
"No!" Eric Frost near jumped from his throne. "My brother is fucking dead, Stark!"
Dead? That was... "What?"
"Brother?" Elssa asked, eyes pleading.
Something softened in Eric's tired features.
"They're gone Elly," his voice cracked, anger giving way to sorrow. "All of them. Stark butchered them like fucking livestock! Father… Cedric…"
"No," Elssa shook her head in denial. "You're mistaken, brother – these are rumours! Lies!"
Willam said nothing, drowning in his silence. Brandon the Bloody. Brandon the Butcher. Gods damn him…
"A soldier arrived at dawn," Eric explained, slumping back into his father's seat. "He was beaten and bloodied, carrying word of the slaughter – along with father's head in a basket. He had a message. Stark sends his regards… and he's coming here…"
"It's true, my lady." The castellan of Frostfell spoke sadly, his head bowed.
"No," Elssa muttered again and again weeping into Willam's shoulder.
"Your lover's father will arrive shortly to finish what he started…"
"I can end this," Willam offered between the sobs of his love. "Just let me speak to him Eric."
Eric Frost didn't snarl or shout at the offer. He laughed a hollow empty laughter devoid of joy.
"This began with blood, Stark," He began scornfully with some taint of regret. "It'll end in blood. This is how it has always been, how it should be. If your father wants my damn head as he took my kins, then he can come here and fucking take it!"
"Eric," Willam pleaded. "Please brother, listen!"
"You are not my brother, Stark! You hear me!?"
A subtle nod was all it took for the guards to seize him.
"Willam Stark." Eric leaned forward on his seat, snarling madly. "Your family stands accused of murder, deceit, kinslaying and high treason against the people you swore to protect!" The young Lord Frost looked to his weeping sister and scowled.
"I'm not responsible for my father's actions Frost, this is madness!"
"And you stand accused of seducing my sister!"
"No!" Elssa snapped from her stupor. "He didn't-"
"I name you a rapist dog!" Eric decreed as his guards hurled Willam to the floor with a sharp crack against marbled tiles. "Traitor," he continued his varied list of crimes, a boundless fury in the doing. "If your father wants a head, he'll have a Princely one indeed!"
"Stop this!" Elssa screamed, held back by the same guardsman that had found her abed before.
"My lord, you cannot harm the Prince!" The castles castellan pleaded with the young Frost to no effect.
"Come the dawn," Eric Frost smiled a broken smile. "You will pay with your life…"
Willam felt another sharp pain, then darkness as he was dragged from the hall unconscious.
Eric Frost slumped back in his father's chair and sighed, his sister still sobbing and wailing and clawing at her guard. He should've been mad at her, for laying with the wolf; but felt nothing. It all just felt… empty… was this what defeat tasted like? Had his father felt this way?
Was this what loss felt like? It tasted bitter. He didn't like it, not one bit… but no choices remained…
"Take my sister to her room and lock the damn door, she's not to leave without my say, and nobody is to enter!"
A warhorn blew in the distance. Harooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, its voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the coldest winter. It silenced the hall, aside from Elssa's sobs as she was led away screaming obscenities at her brother.
"Winter Is Coming," Eric muttered from his weirwood throne with a dark chuckle.
Stark was here. There would be no mercy, he knew, only death. Only the Winter…
"So be it," the young Frost decided. He stood from his father's seat tall and proud.
The blood of Winter itself was said to flow through the veins of the Frost's. Their legends claimed they descended from the offspring of the Night's King and his beautiful yet cold Queen. Eric didn't know how much reality there were to those tales, truth be told, but if true the Night's King was a Stark and that made him half Stark…
Would that make him a kinslayer? Would the gods curse him for his vengeance?
In the moment, the young lord couldn't care less for the will of the old gods.
"We Are Winter!" Lord Frost cried out, unsheathing steel to rally his men.
He didn't know the truth of legends, but he knew one thing…
Winter had come for them. He refused to go quietly.
The direwolf ran proudly across its field of ice-white outside the walls of Frostfell, snarling, taunting the poor fools hauled up atop their battlements. If these royal banners could speak, then these ones demanded "Come Out" to its enemy. "Come Out and fight little lord. Come out here and Die."
The siege had lasted far longer than they'd have liked. They'd been at this too long for comfort.
"The boy won't open his gates father," a younger Stark offered with a weary sigh. "He'd be a fool to…"
"Have faith little brother," another replied, smirking wide. "Frosts have no patience, and this one's only a child."
"That child has our little brother, Rodrik…"
A valid point, but still. "He wouldn't dare harm the lad."
Edrik Stark scoffed at his twin's boundless confidence, his elder by mere minutes; ever sure of himself and never faltered – never doubtful. At least it seemed that way. The perfect Prince, men said of him. And yet, their little brother was being held captive by a child whose father and brother they had just killed…
The perfect Prince ought to have stopped such a thing before it could happen, surely?
"The whims of an angry child lord shouldn't be ignored, dear brother…"
Prince Rodrik only rolled his eyes. "Will's the lads only hope, he'll not hurt our brother if he's wits about him. And even if he's foolish enough to try it, his advisors would counsel reason. No man seeks that sort of grisly end. Father isn't without his mercies."
Now that was the funniest thing he'd heard in weeks. Mercy? The jest of the era…
"I pray you're right then brother," Edrik sighed, looking out at the siege lines before him.
Harooooooooooooooooooooo, the warhorn sounded again, taunting the castles defenders.
Those horns hadn't ceased for days. If the Frost boy didn't surrender soon, then one wondered if he'd go mad from the noise alone.
What being in the hands of a mad child might mean for their littlest brother…
"Well," Edrik was taken from his thoughts. "I'll be dammed…"
"You owe me a gold little brother," Rodrik smirked as Frostfell's gates opened wide.
Frost trumpets rang da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA as they answered, brazen and defiant, seeming somewhat smaller, more anxious. A faint cry of "WE ARE WINTER" rang true as the ice-blue and white banners of Frost rode through their portcullis with all the fury of Winter.
The twin Prince's had to admire the child lord's bravery.
"A fools hope," Edrik shook his head at the desperate action.
"No hope at all," his brother smiled at the certain slaughter to come.
Prince Rodrik raised his hand up high and with one swift motion, made a signal of his own.
As the horns died away, a hissing filled the air; vast flights of arrows arching up from the rear, where Stark archers stood flanking the siege lines. The Riders of Frost broke into a gallop, shouting as they came, but the Stark arrows fell on them like hail, hundreds of arrows, thousands, and shouts turned to screams as men stumbled and went down. By then a second flight was in the air and the archers were fitting a third arrow to their bowstrings.
Rodrik mounted his princely destrier and drew a fine castle-forged blade adorned with diamonds from its sheath.
"Winter is Coming lads!" He began to rally his mounted guard, in their proud grey and whites; eager for battle and to protect their Prince's. "Let us finish what we started and end these traitorous bastards here and now! On me Now! Ride!"
"For your Prince Willam!" Edrik shouted from atop his own steed.
"For Winterhold!" Rodrik reared his horse up, then galloped headlong towards the clashing of steel.
The trumpets blared again, da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA. A crescent of Frost spearmen had formed ahead of them, a double hedgehog bristling with steel, waiting behind tall oaken shields marked with the white weirwood of House Frost. King Brandon was the first on them, leading a wedge of armoured mounts, half of whom shied at the last second, breaking their charge before the row of spears. The others died, sharp steel points ripping through their chests. "To me!" Prince Rodrik commanded, gaining a following of brave horsemen that saw the battered shieldwall as a weak point, the fools broken and preoccupied with King Brandon, who had lost his mount but continued on foot. "To my father!" Rodrik cried out as he rode hard. "To the King!"
The charge was a success as the makeshift Frost line balanced on the brink of chaos.
"About time you showed up!" Brandon spat at his son, cleaving a Frost levy practically in half with his axe.
The King was awash with red crimson and dirt, arcing his great heavy axe with greater arms; swinging with strength few men wielded.
Rodrik had planned a witty response but found himself engaged. "Shields!" He cried as a flight of arrows descended on them; no doubt from the Frostfell battlements, but they fell on Frost and Stark alike, rattling off armour or finding flesh as Rodrik was thrown from his horse when the beast was struck with a number of the arrows. The hedge of spikes crumbled, the Frostmen reeling back under the impact of assault, flights of arrows and not least, the handful of men that had passed their wall during the first clash. "I fucking hate archers," Rodrik muttered a curse as he got to his feet and went to pull an arrow from his thigh, slamming said arrowhead into the exposed neck of a Frostman before lopping the head of a spear that came for him, raking his blade across a third foe on his backslash.
"For my Father!" A voice rang out. "For Cedric and Frostfell!"
Rodrik spun to see the sight of a well armoured Frost man thundering towards his father, swinging the spiked ball of a morning star around his head like a child wielding a toy. King Brandon swung his battle-axe in an arc at the approaching rider, slicing off the forelegs of the stallion with surprising ease to send the beast screaming into the mud and its rider even further away, landing on the ground with a heavy thud. The rider struggled in the mud as he tried to recover from his fall.
"Brave boy," King Brandon commented, unfazed; bloodied axe resting casually on his shoulder.
"Do you yield?!" Edrik loomed over the Frostman.
A brave man, Rodrik thought mockingly as he dismounted to limp up to his chivalrous little brother and uncaring father.
"The battle is lost. Yield and live!" Looking around the battlefield Rodrik could see that his brother was right. Frost's charge, while an awe-inspiring show of courage and stubbornness, had been crushed utterly. And he thought the last battle had been a slaughter…
"A battlefield is a queer place for a nap," Rodrik couldn't help but mock the young rider.
"Fuck you, Stark!"
That earned laugh. This one had a bravery bordering on madness.
"You've balls lad," his father seemed to agree. "This is over. I'm not here to slaughter beat dogs."
The sound of hooves coming up behind him made Rodrik whirl, though any fears faded at seeing the grey colours of his guardsmen – clearly upset at his reckless charge into danger, wide-eyed as they glanced. "Prince Rodrik, you're wounded!"
He shrugged. "Naught but a scratch, Greystark; you worry too much."
The man in question held s strained smile.
"It's my duty to worry, Roddy."
"Gods man, don't call me that…"
The laughter however was short lived.
"Die!" The rider, up from the mud, swung at Brandon Stark with a fine dagger.
"Your Grace!" Grey steel blocked the man, disarming him and severing several of his fingers with great ease, sending the dagger and fingers to the mud as the young man screamed bloody murder and held his hand in screaming horror.
"Little shit tried to kill me," King Brandon frowned, hand up to his cut cheek,
If not for the Greystarks…
"Who are you, little shit?"
Removing the helm revealed snow-white hair. "I am justice, Stark! JUSTICE!"
He was a boy. A child. An enemy, his blue eyes brimming with a primal kind of hate.
"No," Brandon replied simply. "You're a Frost, though the name escapes me…"
"Elrin I think, father?" Edrik offered, unsure in all honestly and uncaring.
"Eric!" The wounded boy screamed his name. "Eric Frost, you bastards!"
King Brandon eyed the boy. Young, about his son's age, and clearly at his wits end; if the suicidal charge weren't proof enough of that much – what the boy hoped to achieve with it he couldn't say. A fool's courage or a boy's courage, all the same thing truly. "I'd ask you surrender your castle," Brandon eyed the wide-open gates of Frostfell with contempt. "It appears however to already be mine. So instead, hand over my son and your judgement will be swift Eric Frost."
Something dark flashed in the boy's haunting eyes, Rodrik saw; eyeing him carefully in case the boy made another attempt to slay the king.
"Look to my hall, Brandon Stark!" Eric Frost snarled, smirking through his pain as blood leaked from his severed fingers to the muddy ground. "You wanted your wolf cub on my father's throne so badly Your Grace? So be it, you have your fucking wish!"
Rodrik's eyes narrowed. "What the hell does that mean, boy?"
King Brandon stared blankly at the smiling face of the Last Frost.
"Father?" Rodrik asked eagerly, anger building in his wolfblood.
The King said nothing, an emotionless storm in his grey-silver eyes.
Rodrik scoffed at the futility of questions. "I'll bring Will back myself then!"
The Crown Prince grabbed the nearest horse despite his wounded leg and rode hard for the great hall of Frostfell with his brother close behind, down and under the portcullis into the courtyard of House Frost. It was long since theirs, littered with fallen Frost banners, dead men and cheering Stark guards.
"Will's fine," Edrik assured his brother as they dismounted in the courtyard.
Was he? Truly?
"If he isn't then-"
There would be no mercy.
"He is," Edrik once again assured.
"You don't know that!" Rodrik snapped, halting in his stride. "If they've hurt him, I'll-"
Screaming grabbed their attention, a woman's wail, short and sharp from the keeps main tower overlooking the courtyard. "Gods," one of the Greycloaks muttered at the sight of a woman falling from a high window. She made a sickening crunch as she landed, flat down upon the cobbled stone of the castle's courtyard.
The girl – for she seemed young – hadn't survived the fall.
"Fuck me," Rodrik snarled, refusing to divert his eyes as others did.
"The hair," Edrik pointed out, noting among the mess of blood, the strands of otherwise snow-white.
"One less Frost in the world," Rodrik grumbled out, storming into the keep.
Edrik wavered at the sight of the girl. Why had she done this? To die in such a manner…
Her skin was bare, her dress torn before the fall. It was perhaps no accident that the girl fell from her window.
Two faces glared down at them in horror from the girl's tower. Stark men, in Stark attire, though nameless. "My Prince?" One of the Greycloaks asked of him, clear concern etched on their face. Enemy or not, if the girl was pushed; such a thing was a crime that the men in that tower would answer for in time.
"Nobody leaves the tower," he covered the broken girl with his cloak and a heavy heart. "Seize those you find within…"
Greycloaks needed little or no prodding to follow orders. The highest ranked among them gave a mere nod before his toops turned and stormed for the great keep of House Frost; up to the now empty window – once chambers belonging to whoever this girl had been… a Frost but the hair… that was an ill-notion…
His little brother had been set to wed such a girl, hadn't he? Ice and Frost reunited at last…
A promise made as easily as it had been broken. The cracks in a frozen lake that they'd shattered.
A cry snapped him from those thought, eyes drawn up and away from the bloody white cloak with its silvery trim. It was louder than the Frost girl's scream had been, though no less daunting; as his brother's roar was enough to wake the dead ten times over – he'd moved before even considering the cause.
"BROTHER!" Rodrik Stark had bellowed, calling him to some great danger; or so Edrik thought…
He and the Greycloaks stormed into the Great Hall like the crash of waves against rocks to a sight that caught the breath of every man. "No," he muttered at the sight of it, wide-eyed, his sword falling to the side. "No, gods they wouldn't have… this is…"
"BASTARDS!"
Prince Rodrik raged at whatever he could find.
"Brother…"
"I'LL KILL THEM ALL!"
"By the gods," Edrik fell to his knees at the sight.
Sat atop the weirwood throne of House Frost's lords was Prince Willam Stark, dressed in House Stark finery, exactly where Eric Frost claimed they'd find him – only minus a head on his shoulders. "We kill them all!" Rodrik grabbed his twin and held him with a storm in his eyes. "All of them Eddy, every last fucking bastard in this castle dies today, do you hear me brother? All of them! Every last single one of the fuckers will die!"
Edrik had ever been the counter to his brother's rage, ever the calming hand, but in this?
There was a time and place for honor and chivalry. This? This place was not it.
"All of them Roddy," he growled low as a wolf stalking prey. "We'll kill them all…"
The doors swung wide as King Brandon stormed into the hall, halting dead at the sight before him. His eldest sons stood in an embrace, his heir in tears, while the younger held him and Willam Stark sat in Frost's chair. Headless. Dead. Lost too soon. Forever. Gone.
"Happy now Stark?!" The captive Eric taunted, dragged along to answer for his crimes.
Rodrik eyed Frost across his brother's shoulder and he growled more akin to wolf than man.
"He died slow; I'm told..."
Eric Frost smiled wide and feral.
"How does it feel Stark? His blood is on YOUR hands!"
The King said nothing at first, eyes empty; staring down into the Frost boy's frozen soul.
"You wanted blood?" Brandon Stark asked with cold emptiness. "So be it! I'll drown you in it, Lord Frost, for my son; I'll see that you DROWN IN IT!"
"I don't fear death," Eric chuckled. "You've taken everything from me! I have nothing left for you to steal!"
"Butcher them all!" King Brandon decreed with a raw fury. "From the soldiers to the babes in the cribs and the bloody hounds in the kennels! Slaughter them all!" The King's mind flared and he sneered. "And drain their blood into a barrel big enough to fit a grown man!"
The average man-at-arms hesitated, but the Greycloaks obeyed without question.
"The tyrant shows his hand!" Eric spat at his king. "Nothing but a bloody monster, are you!"
The carnage was swift, the captives brought together in the courtyard and one by one the Greycloaks were stained crimson with innocent blood; from servant to guardsman. None were to be spared. Until one voice spoke above the chaos. "Your Grace!" This one begged louder than the others, dressed in finery; he seemed important enough to hear – though his face was beaten and bloody. It hadn't shut the man up at all.
Brandon didn't speak a word to the man, merely a glare; but he hadn't ordered silence.
"Please, stop this madness!" The man begged. "These are innocents!"
"Innocents!?" Prince Rodrik snarled at the notion. "I see only treason!"
"You murdered our little brother," Edrik glared at the man. "You'll find no mercy here..."
"No!" The man hastily shouted, then realized his error as Rodrik punched him across the jaw.
"My Prince, please, I serve House Stark and-"
Another punch and another for good measure.
"Rodrik, that's enough – let the fool speak..."
"P- Prin- Prince-" the man managed through his injuries. "W- Will-"
"You dare speak his name!" Rodrik punched the man yet again, knocking out some of his teeth.
"Willam?" King Brandon asked, eyes darting, daring some small shred of hope.
"He lives! I swear!" The man managed, spitting blood out and groaning in pain.
The courtyard halted their executions and awaited King Brandon's decree.
"I was castellan," the beaten man managed between spittle's of blood. "I defied Lord Eric…"
"What? You lie, to save your own skin!" Eric shouted at the man, unbelieving, though hoping against hope.
The castellan found his voice after a moment, swallowing a mouthful of blood and wisely remaining on his knees. "Lord Eric demanded Prince Willam killed, Your Grace, it is true; but I knew it folly! Many knew it! I hid him in the dungeons and told no-one! I swear!"
"The body in the hall?" Brandon asked, daring to hope for but a moment.
"A stable boy Your Grace, dressed in Prince Willam's clothes. I swear it by the gods!"
"SEARCH THE FUCKING CELLS!" King Brandon bellowed atop his voice, louder than even his sons.
Rodrik was off in a heartbeat with his men to search the cells, leaving his father and brother in the courtyard with the smell of blood and shit, terrified wailing smallfolk and an unconscious Eric Frost flat out on the stone. "Do we have enough, cousin?" King Brandon looked to one of his lords, dressed in a fine but bloodied surcoat that boasted a black anchor on white. "For the barrel? It should be enough…"
The lord nodded grimly. "Far more than enough, Your Grace." His eyes scanned the sight of the courtyard, painted in a splatter of crimson and littering bodies. "Lot of blood in a man, less in a woman; even less in a boy. You're certain about this action Bran?"
The King had always been ruthless, but this…
"It's no less than the bastard deserves, cousin…"
"If Willam is alive, father?" Edrik asked hesitantly, hopeful even now.
"It doesn't matter," the King dismissed. "The rat aimed to murder my son!"
Winter had never been a forgiving thing. It wasn't about it change nature now.
The crack to the skull had hurt something dreadful, even now, the pain taunted him like a sharp knife between bone.
It was dark when he'd awoken, though comfy for a cell; it seemed someone didn't want him too bitter about imprisonment. "They cracked me over the head and threw me in a fucking dungeon," Willam spoke aloud to himself spitefully. "Hard not to be bitter, no? How long has it been? A week? Longer? I'm talking to myself already…"
What was Eric thinking? Had it been some ploy to scare him, with the threat of taking his head? He'd grown up with the youngest Frost and had never seen him like that before… he was wild, scared, angry, like he'd never seen before… it would surely pass in time, and they'd laugh about it someday…
"Well," the voice in his head offered sagely. "Your father did cut his father and brother up into tiny pieces…"
"I doubt it was tiny pieces," Willam replied to himself aloud with a groan. It hurt to think of such things, or at all.
He didn't know how everything had gone to shit so quickly but blamed himself for it all. He should've stopped Lord Frost, or convinced Cedric, or his father, or snuck out of the castle with Elly, or done anything at all. How long had he been down here? It was only a week or two, he thought; surely not longer?
He was hungry if a growling stomach was any indication.
The food had stopped some time ago. Was that bad?
"Elly is going to be upset. I'm so sorry my love…"
He missed her – more than he'd ever thought imaginable.
"-every fucking cell!" A voice echo through the halls, dismissed as madness.
"Excellent," Will frowned. "Another voice in my head. I've finally gone insane…"
"In here!" Another figment yelled, standing in front of the cell with a hopeful expression.
The voices hadn't given themselves form before. This was new…
"A Greycloak?" Will asked aloud, unbelieving. Was it a dream then?
"My Prince," the dream smiled. "Please, hold still; we'll have you out in moments!"
Huh. If the Greycloaks were indeed here, then so was father… not a dream but a nightmare…
"Will!" A bigger man shoved the Greycloak aside and slammed open the cell doors without a care.
"Roddy?" Willam managed a course reply as the man hugged him tightly and refused to let go.
"By the gods you're alive!" Rodrik held his brother in a vice.
He was real…
That could only mean-
"Father is here… where…"
"Have they hurt you lad?!" His brother demanded quickly. Ignoring the question.
"No," Willam lied easily enough, honor be damned. "Just a wounded pride is all, brother…"
"We'll kill them all little Will," Rodrik swore with a weary breath, much to his surprise. "I promise!"
Yes, because more bloodletting was the answer to everything. Hadn't there been enough?
Were there tears stained on his brother's cheeks?
Surely not. The dark was playing tricks on his eyes.
"Eric is just angry brother; he lost his father and he-"
"Eric?!" Rodrik spat the name. "That little shit tried to knife father!"
"What?" Willam found that surprising – Eric was never the fighter his brother was…
"No matter," Rodrik lifted his little brother to his feet. "Come! Father and Ed are waiting!"
The courtyard was a bloody affair when Willam laid his eyes on it, more blood than he'd ever witnessed; akin more to a butcher's shop than a castle courtyard – stained red and smelling of death. He gagged on the stench with reflex alone, bending over to empty his stomach only to find it void of anything but an acid that burnt his throat.
There was a barrel in the centre of the courtyard, with a pair of legs sticking out of it.
"First time's always the worst little brother," Rodrik offered sagely with a comforting smile.
Eyes scanned the courtyard as Willam adjusted to the sight, bodies everywhere; barely any spared his father's wrath. "Father?" He called out loud, his voice strained as the tall near seven-foot man stormed over to pick him up like a child's doll; embracing and swinging him about with abandon – surprising the starved prince to no end.
This was... so unlike the man he knew as his own father...
"My boy!" Brandon cheered, echoed by a cheer from the Stark men present.
"Hello Father," Willam managed a muffled response. Was he drunk? This was all very-
"Your Prince lives!" King Brandon shouted for all to hear, earning another wave of cheers.
All this blood and death for him? He felt sick to his core thinking on it… why would-
"Where's Elly?" It came to mind then, alongside the shame of not having asked before.
None of it seemed real, truth be told; he still half expected to wake up.
"Who?" His father asked, only half listening with a goofy smile on his face.
"Elssa," Willam managed to find his courage. "My betrothed. Where is she?"
"Ah, the girl…"
Willam narrowed his eyes.
"Ed," He opted to seek his most reliable brother.
Edrik Stark looked to his little brother with a sorrow.
"Eddy," Willam asked again, pleading now. "Where is-"
"The girl is dead, lad…"
It was his father's voice.
What? No. No, that was… no…
"Impossible," Willan shook his head. "She was safe – Eric would never have hurt her!"
"He didn't hurt her," His father answered. "The foolish girl flung herself from the window."
"No," Willam refused to hear it. "You're lying! You never wanted us together!"
King Brandon scowled. "I'd planned to see you wed, on the contrary boy..."
"It's true," Rodrik added. "You were to marry her and be Lord of Frostfell."
"I'm sorry Will," came Edrik, the only voice that seemed genuine to him.
"No!" Willam shouted, backing away from his kin. "She's alive, you're all lying!"
The youngest Stark found himself backed up against the tower wall. His breath caught in his chest, as if a horse were sat on it, suffocating him under its weight. A thousand thoughts rang loud as thunder against his skull. "I'm sorry little pup," Edrik said, as only Edrik could. "I saw her fall. There was nothing to be done Will…"
He'd wake from the dream soon, safe in a feathered bed with her at his side.
This wasn't happening. It was lies, of course, a nightmare plaguing him was all.
"Greif does strange things to the weak," his father added, wholly uncaring it seemed.
That was more in character than before. The dream was learning, it seemed; gone was the hugging father from a moment before.
"The dutiful one wouldn't lie," the voice in Will's head counselled, turning to his brother now.
The thought was right. Edrik never lied…
"Where is she Ed!? Please! Tell me where she is!"
His brother hesitated, his eyes darting to the Stark cloak that covered a body in the courtyard; all soaked a deep crimson red and courted by flies. It called out to Willam now with an aura of dread. "She's dead," the voice came again, louder this time; almost smug in its victory.
"No," Willam muttered as he walked over without realizing it.
No, No, No, NO, NONONONON! Wake up. Just wa-
"I told you so," the voice mocked him with a mere shrug.
He flung the red-stained banner aside and fell to his knees.
"Dead," the voice seemed to beam at being proven right all along. She was bloody, her clothes torn, her body broken; but it was his love. It was her. It had, once, been her. The voice's smile grew wide at the sight as tears built in Willam's eyes. "Dead, Dead, Dead."
The world grew dark as Willam Stark cradled his betrothed, with her hair between his fingers.
"Will?" Another voice echoed in the dark, his brother, or perhaps his father?
It seemed unimportant. The voices were muffled and dull.
"She's gone," the voice offered sagely. "You're alone Will."
Willam screamed with all his heart, as if to roar at cruel gods.
"Hang in there pup," Edrik had since knelt by his brother. "It'll be okay..."
"It's just you and me now," the voice offered; glad and grinning.
The last voice Willam heard all too clearly. It only served to anger.
"We're going home," King Brandon the Bloody declared plainly, devoid of care.
It seemed that hindsight was indeed cruel, for all the things he'd have done differently none would haunt Willam like the sight of Elssa's broken body. She'd thrown herself through that high window out of grief – it was claimed – the loss of her father, brother, home and it seemed she thought; her love – for she'd seen Willam dead.
In some ways she wasn't wrong, as the boy Elssa Frost loved indeed died with her in that courtyard.
What remained was little more than a ghost. Life rarely worked out as you might expect.