Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.

Chapter 33: The Iron Tide
"The Drowned God wills it!"
– Lady Asha Greyjoy

Asha Greyjoy wiped the spittle off her cheek with the back of her hand. Hers wasn't a pretty face, with a hawk-like nose too big and sharp for her small face, but some said her smile made up for it. "I'll gut you, Greyjoy," The man screamed at her. "Lord Robb will feed your whore's heart to his wolf, you piece of sheep dung!"

Aeron Damphair's voice cut through the insults like a sword through cheese. "Now you must kill him…"

"I have questions for him first," said Asha as she looked down at their captive.

Her crew, ever devoted to their captain, had all glared hatefully at the Greenlander for his actions.

"Fuck your questions," The man hung bleeding and helpless between two Ironborn. "You'll choke on them before you get any answers from me!"

Uncle Aeron was relentless. "When he spits on you, he spits on all of us. He spits on the Drowned God. He must die."

"My father gave me the command here, Uncle."

"And sent me to counsel you, young Greyjoy…"

And to watch her, she thought – for no matter her merit, she was still a woman. The command was hers, yes, but her father still had his quiet doubts; while her own men were terrified of Aeron Damphair. She couldn't fault them for that, for her uncle was a Drowned Priest and the Drowned God spoke through him… or so it was said…

"You'll lose your head for this, Greyjoy!" The captive tried to spit again, but only managed a little blood. "The Others bugger your wet god!"

This fool had spit away his life, Asha thought. "Rook, silence him," she said with a bored sigh. The man happily obeyed.

Rook tore at the fool's shirt and jammed it between his teeth to stop the shouting. Cromm unlimbered his axe.

"No," Aeron Damphair declared. "He must be given to the god. The old way."

That was the way of things, whatever her thoughts on it. "Take him to the flats, then…"

"The offering should come from you…"

Asha could not argue with that. "As you say, Uncle." She waved her hand, and Rook and Cromm began to drag their captive off toward the shore. Aeron Damphair gave his niece an approving look, then followed. Down to the pebbled beach they would go, to drown this fool in salt water. The old way. The true way, or so it was said.

It was a short walk to the tidal flats north of Deepwood, where many a captive had been drowned – taken before they could report to the Glovers.

"Curse you," the soon-to-be dead man struggled as he was dragged to the shore. "The North Remembers!"

"Tell it to the sea," Asha grabbed his hair and shoved his face down into the tide.

"…Bas-"

The man began to choke as he kicked. The panic took hold.

"…tard-"

The voice turned to gurgling, then watery silence.

His body went limp, and Asha's uncle smiled at the offering.

"The Drowned One sees your offering, Lady Asha," he declared gladly. There was pride in his eyes.

She saw the sight of her ships all along the shoreline, thirty in total, men she'd handpicked for the task – men she could count on – fierce and brave and not fool enough to betray her. She looked to the dead northman now and a frown found her lips. "The time for patience is at an end! The Drowned God wills it!"

Her men cheered at that, axes and swords and maces held high as they chanted "Asha!" and "Greyjoy" and "Pyke!"

She smiled then, wide and proud – as her uncle gave a nod in encouragement. The North would indeed remember her… she'd make sure of it…

Long before the first pale fingers of light pried apart Bran's shutters, his eyes were open, up from a dream of salt and blood…

There were guests in Winterfell, visitors come for the harvest feast. This morning they would be tilting at quintains in the yard. That prospect would have filled him with excitement, but now he played at the Lord, in his father's solar. "Listen, you will learn something of what lordship is all about," Maester Luwin had said.

Bran had never asked to be a Lord. It was knighthood he'd dreamed of; bright armor and streaming banners, lance and sword, a warhorse between his legs. Why must he waste his days listening to old men speak of things he only half understood? "You are your brother's heir and the Stark in Winterfell," Ser Rodrik said in answer.

That had reminded him of how Robb used to sit with their lord father when his bannermen came to see him, back before everything had changed.

Lord Wyman Manderly had arrived from White Harbor two days past, traveling by barge and litter, as he was too fat to sit a horse. With him had come a long tail of retainers: knights, squires, lesser lords and ladies, heralds, musicians, even a juggler, all aglitter with banners and surcoats in what seemed half a hundred colors. Bran had welcomed them to Winterfell from his father's high stone seat with the direwolves carved into the arms, and afterward his mother had said he'd done well.

If that had been the end of it, he would not have minded. But it was only the beginning…

"The feast makes a pleasant pretext," Ser Rodrik explained dutifully when he'd asked him, "but a man does not cross a hundred leagues for a sliver of duck and a sip of wine. Only those who have matters of import to set before us are like to make the journey."

Bran gazed up at the rough stone ceiling above his head. Robb would tell him not to play the boy, he knew. He could almost hear him, and their lord father's voice as well. Winter is coming, and you are almost a man grown, Bran. You have a duty, they would say – and he knew them to be right…

When Hodor came bustling in, smiling and humming tunelessly, his thoughts wandered to tales of Ser Duncan the Tall.

"You could have been a knight, I bet," Bran told him. "If the gods hadn't taken your wits, you would have been a great knight."

"Hodor?" Hodor blinked at him with guileless brown eyes, eyes innocent of understanding.

"Yes," said Bran with a sad thought. "Hodor…"

The stableboy stood near seven feet tall, following Bran about the keep like a shadow alongside Summer; they descended the winding stair. Outside, the sounds of sword and shield and horse already rang through the yard. It made a sweet music. "I'll just have a look," Bran thought. "A quick look, that's all…"

The White Harbor lordlings would emerge later in the morning, with their knights and men-at-arms. Until then, the yard belonged to their squires, who ranged in age from ten to forty. Bran wished to join them so badly that his stomach hurt with the wanting… as he longed to be a squire again…

Two quintains had been erected in the courtyard, each a stout post supporting a spinning crossbeam with a shield at one end and a padded butt at the other. The shields had been painted red-and-gold, though the Lannister lions were lumpy and misshapen, and already well scarred by the first boys to take a tilt at them.

The Walders were mounting up, he saw. They'd brought fine armor up from the Twins, shining silver plate with enamelled blue chasings. Big Walder's crest was shaped like a castle, while Little Walder favoured streamers of blue and grey silk. Their shields and surcoats also set them apart from each other. Little Walder quartered the twin towers of Frey with the brindled boar of his grandmother's House and the plowman of his mother's: Crakehall and Darry, respectively.

Big Walder's quarterings were the tree-and-ravens of House Blackwood and the twining snakes of the Paeges.

They must be hungry for honor, Bran thought as he watched them take up their lances. A Stark needed only his direwolf.

Their dappled grey coursers were swift, strong, and beautifully trained. Side by side they charged the quintains. Both hit the shields cleanly and were well past before the padded butts came spinning around. Little Walder struck the harder blow, but Bran thought Big Walder sat his horse better.

Little Walder cast his splintered lance aside, spied Bran, and reined up. "It's the halfwit," he said of Hodor.

"Do not mock him," Bran said with a frown.

"Hodor," said Hodor.

Big Walder trotted up to join his cousin. "Well, he is a halfwit, isn't he?"

"Hodor." Beaming genially, Hodor looked from one Frey to the other, oblivious to their taunting. "Hodor hodor?"

Little Walder's mount whickered. "See, the fool can't say nought but its name!"

"You shut up, Frey." Bran could feel his colour rising.

Little Walder spurred his horse closer, giving Hodor a bump that pushed him backward. "What will you do if I don't?"

"He'll set his wolf on you, cousin," warned Big Walder warily.

"Let him. I always wanted a wolfskin cloak..."

"Summer would tear your fat head off," Bran said, as Summer eyed the Freys with no care.

Little Walder banged a mailed fist against his breastplate. "Does your wolf have steel teeth, to bite through plate and mail?"

"Enough!" Maester Luwin's voice cracked through the clangour of the yard as loud as a thunderclap. How much he had overheard, Bran could not say… but it was enough to anger him, clearly. "These threats are unseemly, and I'll hear no more of them. Is this how you behave at the Twins, Walder Frey?"

"If I want to." Atop his courser, Little Walder gave Luwin a sullen glare, as if to say, You are only a maester, who are you to reproach a Frey of the Crossing?

"Well, it is not how Lady Stark's wards ought to behave. What's at the root of this?" The maester looked at each boy in turn. "One of you will tell me, I swear, or- "

"We were having a jape with Hodor," confessed Big Walder. "I am sorry if we offended Lord Bran."

He at least had the grace to look abashed, though Bran doubted they meant the words in the slightest.

Little Walder only looked peevish. "And me," he said. "I was only being amusing too..."

The bald spot atop the maester's head had turned red, Bran could see; if anything, Luwin was angrier than before. "A good lord comforts and protects the weak and helpless," he told the Freys. "I will not have you making Hodor the butt of cruel jests, do you hear me? He's a goodhearted lad, dutiful and obedient, which is more than I can say for either of you." The maester wagged a finger at Little Walder. "And you will stay out of the godswood and away from those wolves, or answer for it." Sleeves flapping, he turned on his heels, stalked off a few paces, and glanced back. "Bran. Come. Lord Wyman awaits…"

"Hodor, come with us," Bran commanded kindly of the giant.

"Hodor," said Hodor. His long strides caught up with the maester's furiously pumping legs on the steps of the Great Keep.

Maester Luwin held the door open for him.

"The Walders-" he began to explain.

"I'll hear no more of that, it's done." Maester Luwin looked worn-out and frayed. "You were right to defend Hodor, but you should never have been there. Ser Rodrik and Lord Wyman have broken their fast already while they waited for you. Must I come myself to fetch you, as if you were a little child?"

"No," Bran said, ashamed. "I'm sorry. I only wanted…"

"I know what you wanted," Maester Luwin said, more gently. "Do you have any questions before we begin this audience?"

"Will we talk of the war?"

"You will talk of naught." The sharpness was back in Luwin's voice. "You are still a child of eight…"

"Almost nine!"

"Eight," the maester repeated firmly. "Speak nothing but courtesies unless Ser Rodrik or Lord Wyman puts you a question."

Bran nodded meekly. "I'll remember."

"I will say nothing to Ser Rodrik of what passed between you and the Frey boys."

"Thank you, Maester…"

Bran stood his seat in his father's oak chair with the grey velvet cushions, behind a long plank-and-trestle table. Ser Rodrik sat on his right hand and Maester Luwin to his left, armed with quills and inkpots and a sheaf of blank parchment to write down all that transpired. Bran begged Lord Wyman's pardons for being late.

"Why, no Lord is ever late," the Lord of White Harbor responded amiably. "Those who arrive before him have come early, that's all." Wyman Manderly had a great booming laugh. It was small wonder he could not sit a saddle; he looked as if he outweighed most horses. As wide as he was vast, he began by asking Winterfell to confirm the new customs officers he had appointed for White Harbor. The old ones had been holding back silver for King's Landing rather than paying it over to North for safe keeping.

In addition to coffers, Lord Manderly also spoke of his new warships. "We have had no strength at sea for hundreds of years, since Brandon the Burner put the torch to his father's ships; but our work with Arthur Wright over these last years has borne great fruit! Great indeed! My fleet stands ready to sail South at a moment's notice!"

"South?" Bran asked curiously. "You would sail to join my brother?"

"And good King Stannis," Manderly replied happily. "Well, not I; too large in my age young Stark! I have fine captains up to task however, I assure you!"

Bran's interest pricked up at talk of warships. He thought Lord Wyman's notion a splendid one. In his mind's eye he could see them already, sailing on King's Landing with King Stannis. Ser Rodrik promised only to send the proposal on to Robb for his consideration, while Maester Luwin scratched at the parchment.

Midday came and went. Maester Luwin sent Poxy Tym down to the kitchens, and they dined in the solar on cheese, capons, and brown oatbread. While tearing apart a bird with fat fingers, Lord Wyman made polite inquiry after Lady Hornwood, who was a cousin of his. "She was born a Manderly, you know. Perhaps, when her grief has run its course, she would like to be a Manderly again, eh?" He took a bite from a wing and smiled broadly. "As it happens, I am a widower these past eight years. Past time I took another wife, don't you agree, my lords? A man does get lonely." Tossing the bones aside, he reached for a leg. "Or if the lady fancies a younger lad, well, my son Wendel is unwed as well. He is off south, but no doubt he will wish to take a bride on his return. A valiant boy, and jolly. just the man to teach her to laugh again, eh?"

Bran could hear the distant clash of arms through the windows. He cared nothing about marriages…

His lordship waited until the table had been cleared before he raised the matter of a letter he'd received from Lord Tywin Lannister, who held his elder son, Ser Wylis, taken captive on the Green Fork. "He offers him back to me without ransom, provided I withdraw my levies from the war and vow to fight no more."

"You will refuse him, of course," said Ser Rodrik.

"Have no fear on that count," the lord assured them. "Winterfell has no more loyal servant than Wyman Manderly. I would be loath to see my son languish at Harrenhal any longer than he must, however. That is an ill place. Cursed, they say. Not that I am the sort to swallow such tales, but still, there it is. Look at what's befallen this Janos Slynt. Raised up to Lord of Harrenhal by the queen and cast down by her brother. Shipped off to the Wall, they say. I pray some equitable exchange of captives can be arranged before too very long. I know Wylis would not want to sit out the rest of the war. Gallant, that son of mine, and fierce as a mastiff!"

Bran's shoulders were stiff from sitting in the same chair by the time the audience drew to a close. And that night, as he sat to supper, a horn sounded to herald the arrival of another guest. Lady Donella Hornwood brought no tail of knights and retainers; only herself, and six tired men-at-arms with a moosehead badge on their dusty orange livery. "We are very sorry for all you have suffered, my lady," Bran said when she came before him to speak her words of greetings. Lord Hornwood had been killed in the battle on the Green Fork, while their only son was cut down in the Battle of Riverrun. "Winterfell will remember…"

"That is good to know." She was a pale husk of a woman, every line of her face etched with grief. "I am very weary, my lord. If I might have leave to rest?"

"To be sure," Ser Rodrik said. "There is time enough for talk on the morrow."

When the morrow came, most of the morning was given over to talk of grains and greens and salting meat. Once the maesters in their Citadel had proclaimed the first of autumn, wise men put away a portion of each harvest… though how large a portion was a matter that seemed to require much talk. Lady Hornwood was storing a fifth of her harvest. At Maester Luwin's suggestion, she vowed to increase that to a quarter. He feared a long winter would follow this long summer…

"Bolton's bastard is massing men at the Dreadfort," she warned them then. "I hope he means to take them south to join his father in the war, but when I sent to ask his intent, he told me that no Bolton would be questioned by a woman. As if he were trueborn and had a right to that name."

"Lord Bolton has never acknowledged the boy, so far as I know," Ser Rodrik said. "I confess, I do not know him."

"Few do," she replied. "He lived with his mother until two years past, when young Domeric died and left Bolton without an heir. That was when he brought his bastard to the Dreadfort. The boy is a sly creature by all accounts, and he has a servant who is almost as cruel as he is. Reek, they call the man. It's said he never bathes. They hunt together, the Bastard and this Reek, and not for deer. I've heard tales, things I can scarce believe, even of a Bolton. And now that my lord husband and my sweet son have gone to the gods, the Bastard looks at my lands hungrily… even before the war there were troubles with bandits…"

Bran wanted to give the lady a hundred men to defend her rights, but Ser Rodrik only said, "He may look, but should he do more I promise you there will be dire retribution. You will be safe enough, my lady… though perhaps in time, when your grief is passed, you may find it prudent to wed again."

"I am past my childbearing years, what beauty I had long fled," she replied with a tired half smile, "yet men come sniffing after me as they never did when I was a maid."

"You do not look favourably on these suitors?" asked Luwin politely.

"I shall wed again if Lord Stark commands it," Lady Hornwood replied, "but Mors Crowfood is a drunken brute, and older than my father. As for my noble cousin of Manderly, my lord's bed is not large enough to hold one of his majesty, and I am surely too small and frail to lie beneath him."

Bran knew that men slept on top of women when they shared a bed. Sleeping under Lord Manderly would be like sleeping under a fallen horse, he imagined. Ser Rodrik gave the widow a sympathetic nod. "You will have other suitors, my lady. We shall try and find you a prospect more to your taste."

"Perhaps you need not look very far, ser."

After she had taken her leave, Maester Luwin smiled. "Ser Rodrik, I do believe my lady fancies you."

Ser Rodrik cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable.

"She was very sad," said Bran.

Ser Rodrik nodded. "Sad and gentle, and not at all uncomely for a woman of her years, for all her modesty. Yet a danger to the peace nonetheless."

"Her?" Bran said, astonished.

Maester Luwin answered. "With no direct heir, there are sure to be many claimants contending for the Hornwood lands. The Tallharts, Flints, and Karstarks all have ties to House Hornwood through the female line, and the Glovers are fostering Lord Harys's bastard at Deepwood Motte. The Dreadfort has no claim that I know, but the lands adjoin, and Roose Bolton is not one to overlook such a chance... ambitious as they are…"

Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers. "In such cases, her liege lord must find her a suitable match."

"Why can't you marry her?" Bran asked. "You said she was comely, and Beth would have a mother."

The old knight put a hand on Bran's arm. "A kindly thought, lad, but I am only a knight, and besides too old. I might hold her lands for a few years, but as soon as I died Lady Hornwood would find herself back in the same mire, and Beth's prospects might be perilous as well."

"Then let Lord Hornwood's bastard be the heir," Bran said, thinking kindly of his own half-brother Jon.

Ser Rodrik said, "That would please the Glovers, and perhaps Lord Hornwood's shade as well, but I do not think Lady Hornwood would love us."

"Still," said Maester Luwin, "it must be considered. Lady Donella is past her fertile years, as she said herself. If not the bastard, who?"

"May I be excused?" Bran could hear the squires at their swordplay in the yard below, the ring of steel on steel. He longed to join them.

"As you will, young lord," said Ser Rodrik. "You did well." Bran flushed with pleasure. Being a lord was not so tedious as he had feared, and since Lady Hornwood had been so much briefer than Lord Manderly, he even had a few hours of daylight left to visit with Summer. He liked to spend time with his wolf every day, when Ser Rodrik and the maester allowed it. No sooner had Hodor entered the godswood than Summer emerged from under an oak, almost as if he had known they were coming.

Bran glimpsed a lean black shape watching from the undergrowth as well. "Shaggy," he called. "Here, Shaggydog. To me."

Rickon's wolf vanished as swiftly as he'd appeared, ever wary of people; even those he knew well.

Bran walked to the edge of the pool beneath the great spread of the heart tree, where Lord Eddard used to kneel to pray. Ripples were running across the surface of the water when they arrived, making the reflection of the weirwood shimmer and dance. There was no wind, though. For an instant Bran was baffled.

And then Meera exploded up out of the pool with a great splash, so sudden that even Summer leapt back, snarling.

"How can you swim in there?" he asked the girl. "Isn't it cold?"

Meera swam to the rocks and hid there. Summer crept close and sniffed at her though, her face flushed red.

"She wanted to touch the bottom," the voice of Jojen startled Bran. "We used to swim as children, back home…"

"I never knew there was a bottom…"

"Might be there isn't," Jojen replied unhelpfully.

"Do you two mind!?" Meera barked at them from the water.

"Huh?" Bran blinked at her, confused.

"Look away Bran," Jojen was smiling now, as if he knew some grand secret.

Bran wasn't sure why he'd need to do that, but he trusted the Reeds…

"There was talk in the kitchen today about the Freys," Meera spoke and when Bran looked back over, she was pulling up her lambskin breeches.

What was the fuss about? Bran had seen women before; bathing with his sisters…

"What did they say?" He opted to ask instead.

She frowned. "That it's a fool who mocks a giant..."

"Hodor never knew they were mocking him," Bran said. "Anyhow he never fights." He remembered once when he was little, going to the market square with his mother and Septa Mordane. They brought Hodor to carry for them, but he had wandered away, and when they found him, some boys had him backed into an alley, poking him with sticks. "Hodor!" he kept shouting, cringing and covering himself, but he had never raised a hand against his tormentors. "Septon Chayle says he has a gentle spirit…"

"Aye," she said, "All the same, he better watch his back around that Walder. Him and you both…"

"Big outside, little inside, rotten down to the bones," Jojen muttered.

"He'd never dare hurt me. He's scared of Summer, no matter what he says."

"As he should be," Meera hummed, eyeing Summer with a smile. "You've had more wolf dreams?"

"No," He did not like to talk about the dreams… even with the Reeds…

People looked at him strangely when he'd mentioned the dreams, even his own mother; and Luwin and Ser Rodrik too…

That night he dreamed of the weirwood. It was looking at him with its deep red eyes, calling to him with its twisted wooden mouth, and from its pale branches the three-eyed crow came flapping, pecking at his face and crying his name in a voice as sharp as swords – as if it were angry at him for some slight.

The blast of horns woke him. Bran pushed himself onto his side, grateful for the reprieve. He heard horses and boisterous shouting. More guests have come, and half-drunk by the noise of them. He pulled himself from the bed and over to the window. On their banner was a giant in shattered chains that told him that these were Umber men.

The next day two of them came together to audience; the Greatjon's uncles, blustery men in the winter of their days with beards as white as the bearskin cloaks they wore. A crow had once taken Mors for dead and pecked out his eye, so he wore a chunk of dragonglass in its stead. As Old Nan told the tale, he'd grabbed the crow in his fist and bitten its head off, so they named him Crowfood. She would never tell Bran why his gaunt brother Hother was called Whoresbane.

No sooner had they been seated than Mors asked for leave to wed Lady Hornwood. "The Greatjon's the Young Wolf's strong right hand, all know that to be true. Who better to protect the widow's lands than an Umber, and what Umber better than me?"

"Lady Donella is still grieving," Maester Luwin said.

"I have a cure for grief under my furs." Mors laughed. Ser Rodrik thanked him courteously and promised to bring the matter before the lady and their liege.

Hother wanted ships. "There's wildlings stealing down from the north, more than I've ever seen before. They cross the Bay of Seals in little boats and wash up on our shores. The crows in Eastwatch are too few to stop them, and they go to ground quick as weasels. It's longships we need, aye, and strong men to sail them. The Greatjon took too many. Half our harvest is gone to seed for want of arms to swing the scythes."

Ser Rodrik pulled at his whiskers. "You have forests of tall pine and old oak. Lord Manderly has shipwrights and sailors in plenty. Together you ought to be able to float enough longships to guard both your coasts, no? Lord Manderly has been hard at work on new vessels for some time now…"

"Manderly?" Mors Umber snorted. "That great waddling sack of suet? His own people mock him as Lord Lamprey, I've heard. The man can scarce walk. If you stuck a sword in his belly, ten thousand eels would wriggle out! The man cannot even sit his own damn horse!"

"He is fat," Ser Rodrik admitted, "but he is not stupid. You will work with him."

And to Bran's astonishment, the truculent Umbers agreed to do as he commanded, though not without grumbling.

While they were sitting at audience, the Glover men arrived from Deepwood Motte, and a large party of Tallharts from Torrhen's Square. Galbart and Robett Glover had left Deepwood in the hands of Robett's wife, but it was their steward who came to Winterfell. "My lady begs that you excuse her absence. Her babes are still too young for such a journey, and she was loath to leave them." Bran soon realized that it was the steward, not Lady Glover, who truly ruled at Deepwood Motte. The man allowed that he was at present setting aside only a tenth of his harvest. A hedge wizard had told him there would be a bountiful spirit summer before the cold set in, he claimed. Maester Luwin had a number of choice things to say about hedge wizards. Ser Rodrik commanded the man to set aside a fifth, and questioned the steward closely about Lord Hornwood's bastard, the boy Larence Snow. In the north, all highborn bastards took the surname Snow. This lad was near twelve, and the steward praised his wits and courage.

"Your notion about the bastard may have merit, Bran," Maester Luwin said after. "One day you will be a good lord for Winterfell, I think."

"No I won't." Bran knew he would never be Lord of Winterfell, nor did he want it. He'd much rather be a knight, fighting battles and winning glory. "Robb's to marry some Frey girl, you told me so yourself, and the Walders say the same. He'll have sons, and they'll be the lords of Winterfell after him, not me."

"It may be so, Bran," Ser Rodrik said, "but I was wed three times and my wives gave me daughters. Now only Beth remains to me. My brother Martyn fathered four strong sons, yet only Jory lived to be a man. When he was slain, Martyn's line died with him. When we speak of the morrow nothing is ever certain..."

Leobald Tallhart had his turn the following day. He spoke of weather portents and the slack wits of smallfolk, and told how his nephew itched for battle. "Benfred has raised his own company of lances. Boys, none older than nineteen years, but everyone thinks he's another young wolf. When I told them they were only young rabbits, they laughed at me. Now they call themselves the Wild Hares and gallop about the country with rabbitskins tied to the ends of their lances, singing songs of chivalry."

Bran thought that sounded grand. He remembered Benfred Tallhart, a big bluff loud boy who had often visited Winterfell with his father, Ser Helman, and had been friendly with Robb and with Theon Greyjoy. Ser Rodrik was clearly displeased by what he heard. "If the war were in need of more men, he would send for them," he said. "Instruct your nephew that he is to remain at Torrhen's Square, as his lord father commanded."

"What about-"

Bran hesitated only a moment.

"Lord Stark?" Tallhart looked to him with interest.

"Lord Manderly said he was sending men south, did he not?"

"Is he now?" Tallhart seemed to think on that. "Perhaps my nephew might be of some use?"

Ser Rodrik seemed wary. "Perhaps, we will discuss the matter with his lordship…"

"Very well, ser," said Leobald, and only then raised the matter of Lady Hornwood. Poor thing, with no husband to defend her lands nor son to inherit. His own lady wife was a Hornwood, sister to the late Lord Halys, doubtless they recalled. "An empty hall is a sad one. I had a thought to send my younger son to Lady Donella to foster as her own. Beren is near ten, a likely lad, and her own nephew. He would cheer her, I am certain, and perhaps he would even take the name Hornwood…"

"If he were named heir?" suggested Maester Luwin.

"…so the House might continue," finished Leobald.

Bran knew what to say. "Thank you for the notion, my lord," he blurted out. "We will bring the matter to my brother Robb. Oh, and Lady Hornwood."

Leobald seemed surprised. "I'm grateful, my Lord," he said, all smiles.

"Beren Tallhart may well be our best answer," he told them when Leobald had gone. "By blood he is half Hornwood. If he takes his uncle's name…"

"…he will still be a boy," said Ser Rodrik, "and hard-pressed to hold his lands against the likes of Mors Umber or this bastard of Roose Bolton's. We must think on this carefully. Robb should have our best counsel before he makes his decision here..."

"It may come down to practicalities," said Maester Luwin. "Which lord he most needs to court. The riverlands are part of his realm, he may wish to cement the alliance by wedding Lady Hornwood to one of the lords of the Trident. A Blackwood, perhaps, or a Frey- "

"Lady Hornwood can have one of our Freys," said Bran. "She can have both of them if she likes."

"That is not kind, lad," Ser Rodrik chided gently.

Scowling, Bran stared down at the table and said nothing.

In the days that followed, ravens arrived from other lordly houses, bearing regrets. The bastard of the Dreadfort would not be joining them, the Mormonts and Karstarks had all gone south with Robb, Lord Locke was too old to dare the journey, Lady Flint was heavy with child, there was sickness at Widow's Watch. Finally, all of the principal vassals of House Stark had been heard from save for Howland Reed, who had not set foot outside his swamp since Robb marched south, and the Cerwyns whose castle lay a half day's ride from Winterfell. Lord Cerwyn was a captive of the Lannisters last they'd heard, but his son, a lad of fourteen, arrived one bright blustery morning at the head of two dozen lances. Bran was riding around the yard when they came through the gate. He trotted over to greet them.

Cley Cerwyn had always been a friend to Bran and his brothers, so he was glad to see a friendly face.

"Good morrow, Bran," Cley called out cheerfully. "Or must I call you Lord Bran now?"

"Only if you want," he replied happily.

Cley laughed. "It'll just be Bran then, between us!"

He hopped off his horse and moved to lead the Cerwyn's inside.

Inside the great hall he found his sisters, with Rickon happily beside their mother. Bran forgot the war for a moment, if only for a moment.

"Bran!" Arya called out to him, only to be scolded by their mother.

"Your manners Arya," She scowled at the girl. "Ser Cerwyn, welcome to Winterfell."

"Lady Stark," Cley bowed politely. "Thank you for your hospitality as always."

"House Cerwyn has always been welcomed in my husband's hall," Catelyn answered with practiced grace.

"The whole North prays for his swift return my lady," came what Bran thought was a genuine reply as Cley took a seat at their table.

The servants moved to serve him a cut of the roast before Rickon spoke, putting down his knife.

"Father is In the crypt," he told the guest with a blank look. "I could show you where-"

"Rickon," Catelyn scolded her boy with a sad frown on her features.

"No harm my lady," Cley dismissed it with a smile. "The lad missed his father, tis quite alri-"

"No," Rickon banged his small fists on the table. "I saw him! I did! I saw!"

Nobody paid his outburst much mind, except for Jojen Reed; sitting beside his sister in quiet vigil.

"That's enough," Bran's mother scolded sharply. "Go to bed, Rickon; no more supper for you."

Rickon Stark scowled at his mother, storming away from the hall in a huff. To the Godswood, Bran wagered quietly.

"My apologies Ser," their mother turned to their guest. "My boy is spirited, and the war has been hard on him…"

Cley shrugged it away without a care, all smiles, friendly as he'd always been during his visits in the past.

Bran had a mouthful of mutton when Maester Luwin came into the hall and handed their mother a scroll marked with the Direwolf of House Stark sealed in hard grey wax. "News from Robb," she declared as she began to read. This got the attention of all present, Cley included, as they awaited to hear the news.

Catelyn Tully's face turned from a smile to a conflicted frown all too quickly, her grip on the parchment tightening; creasing the edges.

"Is something wrong?" Bran asked quick, noting the look. He'd been getting a little better at reading people…

"Is it Jon!?" Arya blurted out, worried all of a sudden.

"No," came the hesitant reply. "Yes, actually… in a manner…"

"Is he…" Sansa's features shifted to dread all of a sudden, fearing the worst.

"No, no," Catelyn dismissed. "Robb was wounded however, but he is recovering well…"

"Good," Sansa smiled. "That's good, isn't it mother?"

"Yes," Catelyn smiled kindly at her daughter. "Yes my sweet, it is good…"

There was something she wasn't saying, Bran could tell plainly.

"What about Jon?" Arya pried eagerly. "Is he okay!?"

"Yes," her mother confirmed with a reluctant nod. "It appears Snow has been… knighted…"

"Jon's a Knight!?" Arya practically jumped in her seat. "Can I be his squire!? Can I mother!?"

Bran grinned wide at that news, glad for his half-brother. Jon had always wanted to make a name for himself.

"No," Catelyn denied her daughter that swiftly. "Seven forbid, it's bad enough your father allowed you that Bravvosi swordsman!"

"He's my dancing master…"

"That man is no dancer," her mother frowned deeply.

Bran resisted the urge to laugh then. Their mother had NOT been happy about Syrio Forel.

"The war goes well then my lady," Ser Cerwyn moved to lighten the mood. "This is grand news!"

"Yes," she agreed with a weary sigh, pushing aside thoughts of Jon Snow for the moment. A few years ago, she might have fought ill of the boy for his knighthood, but the years had not been kind to her family. Snow had aided in the rescues of his half-siblings in King's Landing and now fought at Robb's side… to his credit…

It was a mystery however, in her humble opinion, why Brynden hadn't knighted Robb instead of the bastard. She would have to write home to ask…

That aside, first news of Harrenhal had come, now the fall of the Crag. It seemed things were-

"My lady!" Ser Rodrik barged into the great hall. "My apologies for the intrusion, but-"

"Speak," Catelyn looked worried now, all other thoughts drifting away. "What is it, Ser?"

"A rider from the Wolfswood my lady," Ser Rodrik seemed pale, looking to Bran for only a moment.

"What is it?" Bran asked him, as the eldest – it was his duty to know, was it not?

Rodrik's eyes darted to his mother for but a second, as if to ask for permission.

"Deepwood Motte is under siege," he declared finally. "The Greyjoys have attacked us…"

The war it seemed had come to them; on sails of black and gold. Bran thought of Theon and wondered what this meant for him.

That night he prayed for a dreamless sleep. If the gods heard, they mocked him, for the dreams they sent was worse than any wolf dream. They were far worse.

He dreamed of black waves crashing against mighty pines, tall and strong as iron, then the water came flowing over wooden walls to drown the men inside; rusting an iron gauntlet and stirring something in the dark – as snow fell over a ruined hall – hiding death under blankets of white. The snow moved then… he saw it move…

Asha Greyjoy was seated in Galbart Glover's longhall drinking Galbart Glover's wine when Galbart Glover's maester brought the letter to her.

"My lady?" The maester's voice was anxious, as it always was when he spoke to her. "A bird from Moat Cailin…" He thrust the parchment at her as if he could not wait to be rid of it. It was tightly rolled and sealed with a button of hard black wax. No sigil though, such was a thing of Greenlander fancy.

"Moat Cailin has fallen to my uncle," Asha said with a wide smile before crumbling the letter up in her hands and tossing it aside.

Galbart Glover's maester hovered expectantly at her elbow. "There will be no answer," she informed him. "No need for one…."

"May I share these tidings with Lady Sybelle?"

"If it please you," What joy she'd find in the fall of Moat Cailin, Asha could not say. Lady Glover all but lived in her gods-wood, praying for her children and her husband's safe return. "Another prayer like to go unanswered," Asha thought in silence. "Her heart tree is as deaf and blind as our Drowned God."

Robett Glover and his brother Galbart had ridden south with the Young Wolf, so they were not like to ride north again any time soon – or at all since the Moat had fallen. Her children were alive, at least, thanks to Asha's mercy. Lady Sybelle's infant daughter was still on the breast, while the others were locked away.

Asha shoved the letter into the maester's hands. "Here, perhaps she'll cease her pointless chatter to that tree. You have my leave to go."

The maester inclined his head and departed. After he was gone, Tris Botley turned to Asha. "Moat Cailin has fallen, now the Starks will turn back North…"

"Not for a while yet," she insisted with a shrug. "And besides, we have the Moat – ain't no passing that."

"We should go to south and continue the fight," urged Quenton Greyjoy, a distant cousin and captain of the Salty Wench.

"Aye," said Dagon Greyjoy, a cousin still more distant. "Why should the Cleftjaw have all the glory?"

Two of Galbart Glover's serving men brought forth the roast. "My men hunger for victory," she realized glumly. "Not roasts…"

The sun was sinking behind the tall pines of the wolfswood as Asha climbed the wooden steps to the bedchamber that had once been Galbart Glover's. She had drunk too much wine and her head was pounding. Asha Greyjoy loved her men, captains and crew alike, but half of them were fools.

Brave fools, but fools, nonetheless. Go to the Cleftjaw, yes, as if we could... so far were they along the Stoney Shore…

Between the Deepwood and Dagmer's raiders lay long leagues, rugged hills, thick woods, wild rivers, and more northmen than she cared to contemplate. Asha had her thirty longships and not quite a thousand men. Qarl had followed her up to Galbart Glover's bedchamber. "Get out," she told him. "I want to be alone."

"What you want is me," He tried to kiss her.

Asha pushed him away. "Touch me again and I'll- "

"What?" He drew his dagger. "Undress yourself, girl."

"Fuck yourself, you beardless boy."

"I'd sooner fuck you," One quick slash unlaced her jerkin. Asha reached for her axe, but Qarl dropped his knife and caught her wrist, twisting back her arm until the weapon fell from her fingers. He pushed her back onto Glover's bed, kissed her hard, and tore off her tunic to let her breasts spill out. When she tried to knee him in the groin, he twisted away and forced her legs apart with his knees. "I'll have you now..."

"Do it," she spat, "and I'll kill you in your sleep!"

He scowled at her something fierce but relented; muttering curses as he left her alone.

The jerkin would need fresh laces, but her tunic was ruined. "I never liked it anyway," she scoffed, tossing it on the flames.

The room was cold. Asha padded across the bedchamber to throw the shutters open. The moon was almost full, the night so clear that she could see the mountains, their peaks crowned with snow. Cold and bleak and inhospitable, but beautiful in the moonlight. Their summits glimmered pale and jagged as a row of sharpened teeth. The foothills and the smaller peaks were lost in shadow. The sea was closer, only five leagues north, but Asha could not see it…

Too many hills stood in the way. And trees, so many trees. The wolfswood, the northmen named the forest. Most nights you could hear the wolves too, calling to each other through the dark. An ocean of leaves and wood. Would it be an ocean of water, then she'd feel that much safer for it…

Deepwood might be closer to the sea than Winterfell, but it was still too far for her taste. The air smelled of pines instead of salt.

Deepwood's mossy walls enclosed a wide, rounded hill with a flattened top, crowned by a cavernous longhall with a watchtower at one end, rising fifty feet above the hill. Beneath the hill was the bailey, with its stables, paddock, smithy, well, and sheepfold, defended by a deep ditch, a sloping earthen dike, and a palisade of logs. The outer defenses made an oval, following the contours of the land. There were two gates, each protected by a pair of square wooden towers, and wallwalks around the perimeter. On the south side of the castle, moss grew thick upon the palisade and crept halfway up the towers. To east and west were empty fields. Oats and barley had been growing there when Asha took the castle, only to be crushed underfoot during her attack, for ironborn did not sow and had no use of such things.

It was an old castle, but not a strong one. She had taken it from the Glovers after a short siege and did not doubt that the Stark's would take it back, sooner or later. Her lord father had given her thirty longships to capture Deepwood with little over a thousand men… with little under that now… the Glovers had fought hard…

"Too quiet," she muttered, looking out over the land. The silence of the woods unnerved her. Asha had spent her life on islands and on ships. The sea was never silent. The sound of the waves washing against a rocky shore was in her blood, but there were no waves at Deepwood Motte... only the trees, the endless trees, soldier pines and sentinels, beech and ash and ancient oaks, chestnut trees and ironwoods and firs. The sound they made was softer than the sea, and she heard it only when the wind was blowing; then the sighing seemed to come from all around her, as if the trees were whispering to one another in some language that she could not understand.

Tonight, the whispering seemed louder than before. She turned away from the window, away from the woods. "I need a deck beneath my feet again. Or failing that, some food in my belly…" She'd had too much wine tonight, but too little bread and none of that great bloody roast.

The moonlight was bright enough to find new clothes. She donned a quilted tunic, and a new leather jerkin covered with overlapping plates of steel.

She left her chambers then, down the keep's stair, creaking under her feet. One of the men walking sentry on the walls spied her making her descent and lifted his spear to her. As she crossed the inner yard to the kitchens, Galbart Glover's dogs began to bark. "Good," she thought. "That'll drown out the sound of the trees…"

My Note(s): Tidings from the North, briefly seeing how Bran and things in general are doing at Winterfell. The Ironborn have attacked as we learnt in the past chapters; while Manderly's fleet is planning to sail South and send more troops to fight in the war; plus no mention of Torrhen's Square falling yet – not to say it won't, but without Theon there the Ironborn haven't quite gained the foothold they do in the books… and even when they did it was a pretty stupid invasion that's basically doomed…

Balon really is extremely stupid, if you think about it – attacking the North is such a ridiculous waste of time – but Balon is Balon, can't change that sadly.

Shadow Tricked: You've got to love reviews critiquing my story that admit they've skipped 32 Chapters of story & character development but still say they 'dislike' it based on biased (often false) assumptions without bothering to actually read the thing they review. But hey, can't please everyone, nor do I care to :) I'll not bore people by repeating myself on the subject of how I do not write wish-fulfilment (I've made that extremely clear) but to say this: In the real world, things aren't always simple.

GRRM'S characters (and my own) are Human, with all the messy faults that come with such a title. Jon Snow is 14 at the start of the books. He's no King. Not yet.

Force Smuggler: I hopefully did Catelyn's reaction some justice though I know some will complain – since a lot of people seem to turn Catelyn Tully into some demon of pure evil – when the truth is far from that. She was never the kindest to Jon, true enough, but a lot of fics seem to demonize her beyond reason. She loves her children fiercely and her southern upbringing (and jealously) make her treat Jon poorly (by our modern standards) however; in This story she can't deny Jon's actions in KL.

Asharzal: It was always not-so-subtly hinted in the books that Sybell Westerling was plotting from the get-go to undermine Robb and it's a theory that I find plausible given their situation, the Westerlings came out of the whole war gaining a great deal; all things considered. All it cost them was a daughter. A small price for most in Westeros.

Jon Icefrye: The answers to your questions are largely answered already throughout the chapters but I'll answer briefly. 1: Jon is a Targaryen, he has the name lawfully; so wouldn't have any need of a cadet name (it would be a lie) or the name Stark though time will tell. 2: Jon has already prevented Robb from bedding the Westerling girl. 3: Jon has no reason to leave his brother's side and the Red Wedding is a matter of debate, I won't spoil it. Robb wouldn't reveal Jon's heritage while supporting Stannis.

KyleVindicate13: I rather did that with Bolton on purpose :P call me evil but I wanted to worry my old readers a little heh heh…

Unixfan: I wouldn't really call Jon political, but he's certainly less ignorant of the world and growing more confident over the last few years.