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Chapter 3: The Outlanders
"Will you swear, if I expect you'll lie?
– Prince Willam Stark
Two years passed since the Fall of Frostfell. A young Willam Stark fled from his family not long after his return home, disgusted by his own father; having learnt an apparent truth that broke an already brittle mind, stowing away in the hull of a merchant galley heading for the outlands on the edge of his father's kingdom and escaping into an uncertain fate, wandering across the vast grey outlands in search of an outlining village. The Sunset Kingdom's authority didn't spread to all corners of the map, as many settlers and exiles or criminals had forsaken Stark rule and ventured off by themselves to form small colonies deemed savage and of ill-repute by the Kings of Winter.
It was one such colony village that Willam found himself in two years past his first venture into the wastes, fighting against outlaws and creatures out of nightmare; for here the sands were ancient and long soaked in darkness. Steel sang and smoke filled the air as fires burnt brightly against the shadow.
"Wraith!" Aedan cried out, with eyes wide as a sword arched downward, moonlight reflecting off the blade as it fell to end existence.
He closed his eyes and prayed to the gods that might usher him home to the end.
The gods were quiet. The blow never came. Steel, then the sound of gurgling blood.
"A rather queer place for a nap if I don't say so myself, little brother…"
His eyes opened to see a hooded man, smiling wide; with blade in hand.
"No time," Wraith pulled him to his feet. "We've got company…"
Aedan got to his feet as sure enough three; no, four men arrived. Raiders and bandits, the very foe they'd been hunting through the accursed sands for weeks that felt as years. "Let's take them," he spoke now, swinging his sword as to test its weight, all too eager to see an end to the chase.
Wraith decreed "Gladly" as he stepped forward in a heartbeat to fling his dagger at one bandit, landing at the target's chest, causing the unfortunate man to stagger with a grunt of pain – the opening provided. With a dash the wraith cut through a coming spear shaft then a throat for good measure.
Men made such ugly sounds as they choked...
"Behind!" Aedan called out to alert his brother, just in time.
The Wraith turned, blocking the high blow with ease before piercing the fool's stomach.
"Sneaky," he snarled at the bleeding foe. "Almost caught me there…"
"Bastard wanderer," the foe spat blood. "By what right do-"
The man's throat was cut. His empty words died with him.
"Charming," Wraith sighed, turning his eyes in a flash. Aedan was still handling his own as fresh riders arrived to witness the young man finish his quarry with a swift parry and bated breath. "Brother?" He asked, sheathing his blade. "Is that all of them?"
"Aye," Wraith turned to eye the riders. "Almost…"
The riders clad in blacks and greys cheered as one dragged a single bandit to his knees.
"Who's this then? Is that-"
"Mogan Blackhand," one of the riders threw said man to the cold sand.
"Is that so?" Wraith knelt to see him clearly. A living legand, a ghost story Outlanders told their children. Mogan had dark brown eyes, not as black as the stories told. His arm was badly scarred and burnt, that much was true, but it was not iron. Stories bowed before reality all too often. They spoke more of a demon than a man, but Wraith supposed the same could be said of his own stories. He and Blackhand were only men. "It seems tales of your calibre have been grossly exaggerated, Blackhand…"
Mogan spat at the cold desert sand. "And what of yours, Wraith?"
"What of mine?" He smiled, a hollow thing to any that knew him well enough.
"A ghost they call you," Morgan eyed his foe. "Quick as winter winds, untouchable, invincible…"
Just another story. "No one is invincible…"
Morgan scoffed at that nugget of so-called wisdom.
"All I see is a boy," he smirked wide, flashing yellow-black teeth.
Wraith blinked, uncaring for barbs. "And all I see a dead man, Blackhand."
"Aye," the once famous and feared Blackhand laughed as only one without a care could laugh. "That I may be boy. You and I are destined for the fall, I wager; this fate we share. Will they sing of us by the end, I wonder? Will they remember me? Will they remember You?"
This one was as mad as the reports suggested. That much about the tales seemed to ring true.
"I don't know," Wraith admitted, shrugging. "I'll be dead, so I'll not care…"
He raised his bloody steel high and readied a single swing.
It would be clean cut, more than his foe deserved.
No sense in-
"WAIT BOY!"
Blackhand held the smirk of madness on his lips.
"You owe me my final words, boy! You OWE me it! You do!"
Ah, traditions, ever a nuisance; but who was he to deny them?
"You're supposed to have a blade of thin air, no? That is the tale." Blackhand sneered to mock him, as if picking apart his story would cause some pain or perhaps tug at his pride. "Use your true blade to end it, boy, cut me down with winter! It'll make for a far greater story!"
He didn't like using it. Truth was the blade didn't like him very much, as odd a sensation as that was for a sword…
"As you wish," Wraith muttered regardless, tired, reaching up over his shoulder with a gloved hand to the scabbard across his back. The blade gleamed an eerie blue as it stretched free of its confines, a weirwood scabbard etched with runes of the First Men that spoke runewords of "Guard" and "Watch" and "Blood" in a dark crimson.
"Your time will come." Blackhand was beaming wide, his toothy smile as ugly as sin, the sole listener to some grand farse that only he knew was being told. "Upon the tides it'll come for you Wraith! Ghost! Wanderer! I have seen it! They have shown me! The Lone Wolf Dies! You will die, Pri-"
Mogan Blackhand's life ended with a flick of the Wraith's wrist, a clean cut removing his head at the neck; freeing a strange black vapor from the man's neck that seeped out – vanishing as quickly as it appeared – like morning fog across the bay of home.
"Who told you?" Wraith absently asked the corpse. It didn't answer back.
The voice in his head muttered a single word, hushed and taunting… grinning at him it spoke, "K'Dath."
Wraith clenched his fist, knowing without checking that his glove was brittle with cold; frost lingering and already melting as he sheathed the cold blade back into the confines of its runed scabbard. "It's done," he sighed before returning to his joyful mask. Those gathered stood in silence in the aftermath, uncertainty clinging to the air ever since that darkness had seeped from Mogan's neck like a fog...
"Well done brother!" Aedan smiled confidently, to sunder the lingering tension.
"Wraith!" The riders cheered for him, aloud and proud. "Wraith, Wraith, Wraith!"
They cheered for his moniker, for his actions, for the death of a madman that had terrorized the outlands for too long. They'd no doubt saved so many a life with this monster's death. He felt nothing for the deed. If anything, he'd only been rewarded with a sense of dread.
The hero was supposed to feel pride when they slayed the monster, no? Just another story…
"Come," Aedan snapped him from his wandering thoughts. "Father will be waiting for our return."
Wraith gave a nod, offering fake smiles to the surviving villagers who gave them food and supplies out of gratitude. They were heroes in a manner, aye, but even heroes needed to eat. They'd take only what was fair payment. Time passed as it always did in the Outlands, slowly, but it passed; a little quieter for their efforts.
At the end of things, Wraith supposed moments of quiet were the reason they fought at all.
Still. Their true prey was ever elusive and, perhaps, deadlier than simple mortal men.
The night was dark and full of all manner of terrible things, men least among them, as three scouts sat at the heart of a vast canyon while an even vaster sandstorm battered at said canyon's walls; a siege few could hope to weather. Their campfire burnt as embers, struggling to remain alight. It was not the dark they needed to fear however, nor the wolves or wild beasts that prowled the Outlands – for more cunning things hunted them.
Things that cared nothing for the unrelenting storm that laid siege to these walls of rock and sand.
Legends lurked at the far corners of this world, lingering there for those brave or fool enough to find them.
"At the end of the damn world we are," one of the scouts muttered angrily as he tossed a dry twig onto the fire, watching it spark and fire glow in thanks. "Trapped between rocks and sand, with what pitiful food His Bloody Grace gave us; searching for-"
His companion threw a twig at his head, earning a warning snarl.
"Searching for a fucking ghost!"
"They wouldn't send an army for a ghost Dex…"
"No," the one called Dex replied. "They'd send scouts, like us!"
"The King knows what he is-"
"Know what we are to that man Alex?!"
Alex rolled his eyes. "Why waste your breath complaining, old man?"
"We're nothing!" Old Dex spat, his eyes tired and his wrinkles clear in the light of an ever-weakening fire. "Less than nothing, in fact. Dirt. Waste. Expendable! We've been sent out here to die for nothing but some rumours and an old wolf's curiosity…"
"Scared of a little sandstorm?" Alex smiled, his voice taunting and cocky in its youth.
This one thought himself cleaver. He wasn't.
"Keep your mouth shut you fucking brat!"
"There are old stories through…"
Alex and Dex eyed their third companion.
"In the sand, they say. It's-"
"Bedtime stories?" Alex laughed at the notion, ever arrogant.
"I agree with the pup for once," Dex hated to admit that but there it was.
The canyon walls made the wind whistle and howl as it laid siege, as if it called to them.
"There's no monsters in the dark," Dex began with a roll of his tired eyes, looking to the youngest in their group with a bored expression as if he were speaking to a child in need of an all too obvious lesson. "Men is all we need fear Inar. Or was it Anar? I forget ye name boy!"
"Ivar," the young man replied; eyes downcast. "My name is Ivar…"
"Ivar!" Dex exclaimed loudly.
"Commoner," Alex smirked at the boy's lack of station.
"My father was a Greycloak!" Ivar near yelled with what courage he had, anger on his features.
A moment passed before his two older companions laughed at the boy's expense.
"Ivar the Nameless," Dex decreed merrily, bestowing the title. "That'll be your name boy!"
The winds blew a second time, harder still; howling something dreadful as sand blocked out the moonlight above them.
Dex got to his feet in an instant, his old soldier days sparking life into even older bones. "Fetch more shit for the fire lads!" He shouted commands like a veteran, as even Alex for all his bluster and arrogance obeyed. It was too little too late for all that though.
The trio fell silent as their fire extinguished with a gust and the air grew thick with sand.
"Well fuck," is all Dex spoke before falling to his knees; blood in his mouth – standing behind him was a figure some seven feet tall with long bloody claws and a maw of razor teeth smiling at the pair of scouts. It seemed… amused by them… and hungry…
"Alex!" It was Ivar the Nameless who snapped to his senses first, too little too late to aid.
Alex, a rich captain's son from the islands with more pride than wits, found himself shoved to the ground in an instant as the creature leapt across their firepit and bit into him with ease; ripping and clawing at flesh and muscle like a hundred hot knives into warm butter.
"FUCK YOU!" Ivar screamed simply, drawing his basic castle-forged steel and swinging at the beast.
The words were simple. In hindsight, he'd have preferred to choose less dull final words; as in the moment crudeness sprung to action.
It hissed with bile and blood as steel cut into scales and bloodied the young man's sword with a thick green slime that stank of rust and stale water.
"DIE!" Ivar screamed atop his lungs with the only word that seemed brave enough to flow from his lips in the panic, hacking and hacking, more a butcher than warrior. "Die, Die, Die!" He repeated as if it might help, breath heavy, arm tiring quickly. Spatters of thick green blood flew this way and that way...
The creature snarled and thrashed, clashing at Ivar's chest and sending him falling backwards.
"No!" Ivar cried wide-eyed, crawling his way backwards from the limping snarling creature. It limped towards him as Ivar backed up against a large rock and began to cry, the claw marks across his chest growing numb; his muscles failing him quickly. His breathing started to slow.
"N- No," Ivar tried to breathe. "P- Please…"
The creature exhaled, opening its bloody maw and making some noise.
"I-" Ivar's vision began to darken.
It almost seemed like it was laughing at him.
"I don't want to die," is the last thing Ivar the Nameless thought as his vision darkened to black. Between the flashes, he could swear he saw the creature fall. He'd heard the thud of weight upon rock. Hadn't he? He wasn't dead. His mind was his own, he could still smell and hear – the dead couldn't do that, could they?
"Fine shot," A voice echoed in the dark. "Right through the skull. I give it a seven…"
"A seven?!" Another voice argued, clearly disappointed.
"You did crush its prey in the process, left the shot too long…"
"The wind was a nightmare Aedan!"
"I'm just saying that's negative points mate."
"Enough!" A new voice commanded. "The prey is not dead…"
If Ivar could speak, he'd have thanked the gods and cried to the heavens.
Aedan looked at the boy, bleeding, slashed across his chest with closed eyes and shallow breath.
"The venoms done its trick," he put a hand to the young man's neck and felt a slight pulse. "This one's a fighter, if he wasn't the heart would've given up…"
Ivar wanted to open his eyes. He willed them to obey but found them too stubborn… too heavy…
"You'll be alright," the voice closest to him explained. "If it hasn't killed you already, then you'll live… probably…"
"Throw him on a horse," the commanding one said. "Father will want answers and I'll not have this one knowing our path."
It seemed to Ivar that he'd live to see another sunrise.
"Why does it matter?" Another voice asked.
"Aye, Wraith, won't the lord just use em as bait?"
Wraith eyed their captive's Stark colours and insignia.
Ivar the Nameless felt a cold terror under the man's gaze.
"We ride home!" Wraith spoke aloud, ignoring the question of bait as a sack was put over Ivar's head.
It felt like an eternity before the light burnt his eyes, as the sack was lifted from Ivar's head and the light of dawn near blinded him in the darkness of the vast cave; lit by torches and set like a lord's great hall. Looking around, young Ivar counted men and women in blacks, greys and sandy tanned colors all looking to him.
His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and movement in his muscles returned; though still felt stiff as stone.
"Why did you bring him here?" A new voice flooded the cave from atop a makeshift throne of blackened wood.
Ivar eyed the man – or lord, atop his dead wooden throne – with dark grey hair, older than even Dex had looked before his death, their clothing was of furs and dark leather with a wolf pommel notable on his sword. "We thought it best that-"
"That you bring a spy into our home and show him our very faces?"
The lord seemed displeased. Ivar kept his silence, lowering his eyes but keeping watch.
"Father," Aedan stepped forward. "He was the only survivor. We couldn't just leave him to-"
"Survivors starve in the wastes every day," the Lord stated a simple fact as if he were dismissing the question of a child. "What makes this one special lad? Why not leave him for the wolves or any of the critters that infest our fair outlands?"
"It was a-"
Aedan paused, looking to his brother in doubt; knowing yet fearing the words.
"It was a Shryke, my Lord." Wraith decreed it loudly to the mutters and hushed whispers of all those present.
"A Shryke?!" The Lord spat the word as if it were a curse.
Wraith gave a nod. "It killed two of the scouts before we intervened."
A hooded man walked beside Wraith, handing him a bag that reeked of rust and damp stale waters. He reached into the sack and lifted out a head into torchlight for all to see. It was almost human in its look, but for the many scales, its sharp eyes and sharper teeth.
"So close to home…"
"By the gods," Ivar said aloud, to the attention of all present.
"You're lucky to be alive, scout." Wraith's eyes bore into the young man's very soul and seemed to judge his worth then and there, without ever truly knowing him. "Few men can say to have tasted a Shryke's venom and lived to tell the tale. You're either brave, stupid, or exceedingly lucky…"
Ivar simply stared in awe between the Wraith and the severed head of a fable.
A story. That's all Shryke's were…
"I'm betting on the latter two options…"
Ivar looked at his captor's eyes. Stark eyes.
"Why were you out this far into the wastes, Scout?"
"You're him," Ivar muttered absently. "You're the ghost…"
The crack across Ivar's skull couldn't have come swifter.
"Stupid it is," Wraith muttered with a sigh. "A shame…"
"Take him away!" The Lord commanded. "Everyone out, Now!"
Ivar was dragged half-conscious from the hall, muttering about lost Princes.
"I'm sorry my lord," Wraith knelt and bowed his head before the lord. "I was careless. They're here for me, as you always feared might come to pass. I shouldn't have been so proud; must've been the sword… I shouldn't have used it… I swear that I-"
The lord grasped the Wraiths shoulders, picking him up and embracing him.
"It's father boy," the Lord smiled. "How many times must I remind you?"
"At least once more, always; lord father…"
The Lord of the Wastes laughed, a bitter thing indeed.
"Blackhand," Wraith added after a moment. "There was something off about him…"
In hindsight, the man was supposed to be a demon with a blade; yet his riders had subdued him so very easily. Wraith had put it down to his own skill out of pride but perhaps it was something else? "He wanted to be caught," the Wraith decided aloud. "To speak with me. To gloat…"
"Why?" The lord asked, confused. "To what end lad? He was mad."
"There was a strange black vapor when I opened his throat, father..."
Silence at that. The lord sat back in his chair, as if a great weight had been placed on his shoulders.
"He'd been touched by them, I know it – nothing else makes any damn sense…"
"K'Dath has been silent for years," the Lord of the Grey argued, shaking his head at the notion. "Since long before you came to us lad. You know this. We all know this. That evil died long ago, eons ago, even the city is lost to the sand… there is no manner of magic left in this world to revive it…"
"We of all people should know that legends have some truth to them father," Wraith's eyes flashed to the stinking sack that contained a severed monster's head, the stuff of fables meant to frighten children. "And the Shryke's avoid the south, especially now…"
"Mindless beasts," the Lord dismissed. The doubt lingered in his tone, however. He knew better.
"You forget father," Wraith smiled genuinely now, rare as such things were with him. "It was you who taught me how the greatest monsters are sometimes the quiet ones. Sightings of the scaly bastards have been increasing for months now…"
It went without saying the cause, though none had spoken it aloud.
"They've been fleeing from something, my Lord."
The nights were growing darker by the day of late.
A familiar warhorn blew in the distance. Harooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, as long and low and chilling as the cold winds of winter. Ivar awoke to the sound with a jolt and a cough on his lungs; throat dry and sore. The sound gave him hope. The winds of winter had come to save him…
"I know that look," the familiar voice greeted his waking eyes.
The Wraith stood on the opposite side of his cell, behind crude iron bars.
"Don't flatter yourself scout," he continued as the horns blew again and again.
Ivar eyed the Wraith with cautious understanding. "Prince Willam? It's you isn't it…"
"The last time I heard those horns blow," the Wraith turned Prince began, ignoring the use of old titles. "I was in a cell not unlike yours. I was younger, hopeful and naïve; thinking even despite my doubts that somehow things would be alright… that the world would right itself…"
Ivar's throat fought him when he tried to speak, feeling as if a beast had scarred at his insides; claws to his neck.
"Here," the Wraith threw him a skin of water. "Drink. The venom is potent, you'll not fully recover for a time I'm afraid."
"T- Thank you, my Prince…"
Wraith scowled at the old title.
"Frostfell was the last I heard the horns, now they hunt me again…"
"H- Hunt?" Ivar managed through course breaths.
Wraith looked down at the man. "Who am I?"
Ivar ceased sipping at his water, confused at that.
"We're short on time Scout. Answer my question…"
"P- Prince Willam," Ivar explained hoarsely. "The fourth born son of-"
"Fifth son," Willam corrected sharply.
Who did he…
"Prince Snow?"
"Aye," the confirmation came with a sigh. "Continue…"
Cregan may be a bastard but that still made him the fifth son, as far as the Wraith was concerned.
"Fifth son of his grace King Brandon." Ivar fought against the burn in his throat as he spoke, the words harsh and strained. Whatever that creature's venom did, it left him feeling like death, or too close to it for comfort. "You vanished after the events at Frostfell and his Grace decreed you missing. It was whispered you'd been kidnapped by some distant relation of House Frost or perhaps one of their friends at court or-"
"House Frost is dead. I wasn't kidnapped, I left of my own accord. You have been lied to…"
"Why?" Ivar managed, with what courage he had; that was a surprising amount for a mere scout.
Willam looked at the captive man, alone in a dark cell with the stench of optimism clinging to his clothing; reminding the young wolf of himself in a way. At least, a younger version that he couldn't help but pity. "I'll tell you," he decided. "Ivar the Scout. Listen well for I'll not repeat myself..."
Ivar gave a nod in response, unsure what else to do in all honesty; the situation hardly gave many choices but to listen.
"After the fall of Frost," those words hung heavy in the air like morning fog. "We returned to Winterhold. His Grace had all the Frost household bodies tossed into a ditch and set alight; including my betrothed. I was unconscious at the time."
"Y- Your betrothed?" Ivar asked. The stories didn't mention any betrothal.
Willam's smile was a hollow thing. "Not common knowledge, at least not to anyone fool enough to remember it."
His father had all but forbidden those nobles aware of the pact from speaking of it, after all; what did he stand to gain from things lost?
"I awoke later in my bed at Winterhold, with only my mother at my bedside to watch over me." He smiled fondly at that at least, one of the few old memory's worth remembering. "I thought it all a nightmare at first, until I discovered the waking world was far worse."
"I- I thought…"
"Yes, little Scout?"
"You were made Lord of Frostfell, no?"
A scoff at that. "My father's decree, shipping me off to the very place that haunted my dreams so no others could claim the seat – calling it justice, for the crimes Lord Frost committed against me, his son was to be rewarded with a cadet branch of his own…"
"So," Ivar hesitated. "You ran from becoming a Lord?"
Willam stared at the scout, some anger flashing behind grey eyes.
No doubt many would question the sanity of such a thing; to flee from what most could only dream of achieving.
"Don't," Willam snarled at the notion, cutting of Ivar's reply before it could even form on his lips. He could sense the words that would have formed if he'd allowed it. "Never say you're sorry for things beyond your control, Scout. You've done nothing to warrant apology. Justice should fall on the deserving, never on empty gestures."
Words were wind, as they say. He'd learnt that much was true enough.
"Wraith?" A hooded man walked up behind them; head bowed. "It's time..."
Willam took a set of keys from his cloak, opening up the scout's cell door.
"My Prince?" Ivar asked, confusion and dread on his face.
Was this how he died? His fate? Was it to end in this place?
"Come," the answer came and turned away. "We're going home."
A trio walked out of the cave entrance to be greeted by a harsh sun, vast canyon walls laid ahead of them with a large encampment flying Stark banners proudly in the shade. Prince Willam paused but a moment, glancing to his side at seemingly nothing before stepping forward, one foot at a time, steady towards the camp as his ragged cloak blew gently in the breeze. "You can turn back Aedan," he offered absently as they walked. "It's not too late..."
Aedan Greystark shook his head in refusal and defiance in a heartbeat. "Never," is all he answered.
His loyalty was commendable, as always; though Willam would never admit how grateful he was for it.
"Halt!" The sentries posted outside the Stark camp commanded of new arrivals, lowering fine spears and pointing in warning at the trio. "Who goes there? State your damn business Outlanders!" Ivar stepped forward. "His Grace, Prince Willam Stark, requests an-"
"Take me to the King," Willam growled his command; anger masking doubts.
"I-" the guard muttered, unsure of himself as he eyed the outlanders with suspicion.
"Do you know what your king did the last time someone kept me from his grasp?"
The guards looked to each other as fear began to brew behind quiet uncertain eyes.
"They were nobles," Willam stepped closer to the men that blocked his path. "Are you nobility? No? What will Brandon the Bloody do to two lowborn guardsmen that kept his wayward son from him, I wonder? It's an interesting thought…"
"W- We're under orders not to allow anyone-"
"Shall he drown you in a barrel, perhaps? As he did the others?"
He'd drowned a lord, who were these men to the king? Nobody. Nobody at all.
"Take me to him. Now."
"Aye!"
"Follow us!"
That was all too easy.
In truth, everyone knew that story. He could've been anyone…
Willam sighed as the guards scurried into the camp, leading the way to the centre most command tent, largest of all the tents. "Size matters," he scoffed at the thought as they neared the giant royal tent, three times the height of all others, towering in its authority.
Lords were gathered inside, arguing; as they tended to do – all voices dying as he entered.
"Your Grace," the two guards knelt. "Your son, Prince Willam, is here to-"
"Out!" The King decreed, cold as winter. "All of you, leave me with my son…"
Aedan and Ivar made to leave too as the lords all eyed him with a mix of doubt and curiosity. "These two remain," Willam said aloud, eyeing Aden and Ivar in a glance. "That or I leave, and you'll not find me a second time on that I promise, Your Grace."
The King of Winter scoffed at the threat, some thought held back from his lips as he looked to his youngest and fought a smile; unknown to his boy.
"As you wish lad, sit; you've a story to tell no doubt? How-"
"I've not come to share stories with you, old man…"
King Brandon frowned at his son, saying nothing as he held his cup of wine.
"You'll not harm those that sheltered me. They've done no wrong, I'll not have it."
"Won't I?" Brandon asked simply. Uncaring. "Why not? These outlaws kept a Prince of the Realm from me, knowing full well who you were." The whole realm knew the price of such defiance, even if the outlanders weren't technically sworn to Winterhold. "Men have been hung by the neck for lesser crimes..."
"They saved me," Willam explained angrily. "I'd be long dead if not for them! Rope is a poor reward for saving a life, Your Grace."
"Prince Willam came to us starving and weak, Your Grace," Aedan stepped forward to his friend and brother, head bowed in mild respect for the King of Winter that stood before him. "We took him in, and my father wasn't aware of his identity until he trusted us enough with the truth."
"And you didn't return him, boy; whatever you name is…"
"Aedan Greystark," he bowed slightly. "Shield to Willam Stark."
King Brandon stared at the man. "A heavy burden you claim to hold, Aedan Greystark; if that is your true name – it would make you a sand wolf, would it not? There are tales of your branch, ancient as they are… I thought you and yours long dead…"
Aedan smiled bravely. "All speak well of us, I hope?"
"They say you're dead," Brandon smirked mockingly.
"It's just Me and my father left now Your Grace…"
"And you, quiet one?" Brandon eyed the scout with a raise brow.
Trust a king to not know his own men.
"I- Ivar, Your Grace, it is an honor!"
"Ivar is a scout," Willam added. "One of the poor fools you sent as bait into the wastes."
The King barely gave a nod to that, eyeing his wayward son with a blank judging expression.
"You're coming home lad," he declared blankly, walking up to the young prince. There was something foreign to Willam behind those eyes, threatening to break the surface as the old king paused. It faded as quickly as it came. "And I'll naught have your little desert friends hung and quartered – if you swear, on your dead girl's ghost that-
Willam stared at his father, snarling like a wolf. "You dare!"
"-you'll never run from your duty ever again. Is that understood?"
"You fucking-" Willam tasted iron, bloody; as the kings fist found his stomach and sent him to his knees with a grunt. King Brandon was a giant of a man, half Umber, at seven feet tall – it was like getting kicked by a very angry horse.
He all but roared the words.
"Is. That. Understood. Boy!?"
"Y- Yes," Willam groaned on his knees, eyes downcast. "Father…"
Aedan's hand fell quickly off his swords pommel and down in a heartbeat to lift the prince back to his feet. Willam, releasing a harsh cough, walked idly to the centre table where a pitcher of wine sat practically unused.
"Will?" Aedan asked, concern thick in his voice.
Willam poured himself a cup of wine and drank deeply from it as his father left the three men alone in his royal tent. "I've never been one for drinking you know Aedan," he looked down at the red liquid that reminded him too closely of blood. The very same red sea that Erik drowned in all those years ago. "I'm just... so tired of it all..."
The Prince seemed different as he spoke, and Aedan could see it; something strange in his silver-grey eyes.
"I ask myself, sometimes, why not?" Willam still glared into the dark wine cup with a blank stare. "I have loved and lost; seen men drowned in barrels of blood…"
In his mind's eye, the wine was that blood. He drank.
"The woman I loved was splattered upon cobblestone…"
"Will," Aedan interrupted with a warm smile. "Let's put down the wine brother; come and-"
"My father lied to me," Willam snarled as he refilled his cup beyond filling, spilling wine over the wooden table. "He allowed the men who raped her to go free, brother – I told you once; did I not?" Guards had broken into her chambers as the castles garrison sallied out that day.
Her dress was ripped, she'd fought, and then the fall. The rumours were the talk of the city.
Willam's eyes lacked all emotion as he began to drink deeply from his cup.
"My Prince, I-"
"Brother…"
"Brothers!" Willam laughed, a hollow bitter thing; devoid of all joy. "Where were my brothers then? Who were they to question a King?! Who was I? He kept it from me as if ignorance were mercy!" Another gulp from the cup, before throwing it aside; staining the wooden table a crimson red. "Why not?" He began to ramble, leaning absently against the table. "You saw him, after all this time he cared nothing for me! The bastard punched me for god's sake! Should I be sad? Angry? Hungry perhaps?"
It was Aedan who answered, his eyes pleading. "How do you feel, brother?"
How did he feel? Drunker, at present; he'd never tasted wine before and yet…
"Tired, brother." Willam knew, it seemed the correct answer if not an oh so simple one with a seemingly simple solution. "So very, indescribably tired, my friend; exhausted truly. I'm rambling, aren't I? My apologies. It seems I have strayed too far into madness…"
"I don't see madness brother," Aedan stepped forward. "Only anger. How can I help you Will?"
Help? It would be Greystark that offered that, wouldn't it? Loyalty was carved into his very soul…
A wise man would sooner take one Aedan than a hundred others at his back.
"Loyalty," the voice rang in Willam's head then, seeming far louder for the wine.
"I once felt honor was the truest virtue," Willam sighed, looking to Aedan and Ivar with a serious glance. "I've seen too much cruelty and deceit for that to ring true now. Loyalty, ever fleeting, is all that remains it seems… anything else is twisted…"
"You have mine brother," Aedan knelt, as one might to a king. "Now and always."
As if there were any doubt. This one was the brother he'd found. The Scout however…
"And you, Ivar?" Willam eyed the man. "Where is your loyalty?"
"With the House of Star-"
"No!" Willam snapped. "Loyalty to whom, not what – never what!"
Ivar looked confused, his eyes glancing to a kneeling Aedan; who offered him nothing.
"Is- Is this a test my Prince?"
"In a matter," Will answered. "Will you swear?"
"I will, my prince…"
Words were wind, as they say…
"Will you?" Willam doubted it in truth, stepping forward and offering Aedan his arm; lifting the man to his feet and placing a grasping hand on his shoulder. "I have heard those words a thousand times Ivar and thought them true a thousand more, only to suffer for fooling hope…"
Prince Willam sized the scout up. He was young, perhaps a year or two younger than even his own few years; eager to please and serve – his words rang true and yet… others had rung even truer before as well. Forgiveness was a hard thing but trust, well, that often proved impossible.
"We've been here before," the voice in his head sang like tower bells against his skull. "We'll be here again..."
"What will you do now, Ivar the Nameless?" Willam took a step forward, a hand on his swords pommel. "What will you do when the darkness comes? When your words are tested, will you crumble I wonder, as others have? Will you fall as easily as them? Will you fail me in time?"
He withdrew Frost from its runed scabbard and held it to the young scout's throat in a flash, the edge against his neck.
"Will you make excuses to help you sleep at night?" The blade shun an eerie blue, an aura of cold radiating against Ivar's neck; putting the fear of winter in him. "Will you lie to me? To yourself? To the gods? Will you surrender your virtues because it is easy; or will you refuse? I ask, knowing that when you swear, it may ring false…"
Willam lowered Frost and gazed at the fear in Ivar's wide brown eyes.
"Will you swear," he asked with a mad glint in his eyes. "If I expect you'll lie?"
Ivar the Nameless dropped to his knees and looked up at his prince.
"I am yours my Prince, from this day until my last day…"
"We shall see." Willam sheathed Frost. "Oh, and Ivar?"
He clasped Ivar on his shoulder, smiled, and threatened his life; all in a heartbeat – as if it were the simplest of things imaginable. Willam Stark's smile beamed like the sun as he made his promise. "Speak a word of what I've said here today, Ivar, and I'll cut your throat; friend or not. Is that understood?"
"I- I wouldn't," Ivar stumbled over his words. "I'd never betray-"
"Excellent!" The mad smile beamed brighter as whatever foul cloud once hung overhead seemed to vanish; as if the conversation had never taken place. Aedan followed his brother-prince like a dutiful shadow, exiting the tent as Willam called out "come Ivar the Loyal, we're going home!"
The young scout scurried to follow his new wayward and slightly unhinged prince.
Ivar's life – however short – would from now on and for better or worse, never be dull again.