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 37: Demon of Duskendale
"Give your false gods my regards."
– Prince Willam Stark
"Home behind, the world ahead, there many paths to tread." Willam hummed some words in the Old Tongue as a squire tightened the strap on his shoulder, fastening dark steel over chainmail and leather. They called him the Black Wolf and he'd embraced that moniker. "Through shadows, to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight..."
A black painted-steel breastplate with faulds protected his front waist and hips, with matching gauntlets. The pauldrons covered his shoulders, with a Y-shaped slit helmet held beneath his arm. "Mist and shadow, cloud and shade," he continued the old words, a poem from his homeland. "All shall fade…. all shall fade…"
The squire had ceased his duties, starring up at the Prince with a curious look.
"What is-" The squire mumbled, chestnut eyes darting away.
"Speak lad," Willam bid the Staunton lad cease his covering.
Howard Staunton summoned what courage a boy of ten could muster.
"That song," he asked bravely. "What's it about?"
"A journey," Willam answered with a shrug. "Or an adventure, or life perhaps – I cannot say."
The answer seemed to give the boy more questions than anything. He merely hummed, pretending to understand; not wishing to look the fool.
"My shield lad…"
"Um-" Howard blinked, darting over to shield in a rush.
It was near enough amusing, watching the boy lift up the solid sheet shield; with a snarling direwolf's head engraved into the circular steel, the boy lifted with all his might to carry the thing. It was his first squireship – liable to last forever – as despite Willam not being a knight, he'd taken the boy as more hostage than page.
It was a thought though: to make a mockery of the andal knights by knighting his own in the name of the Old Gods instead of the Seven.
How would the Seven react to such an insult, he wondered? Just as silently as his own gods once supposed… gods didn't care for titles…
"Your sword…"
"Hmm?" Willam's mind had wandered, but he smiled at the boy – taking his sword in its weirwood scabbard.
"Come along little lord," he bid the boy follow him out from the tent. "We're a city to seize."
The boy nodded firmly to hide his nerves.
Outside the tent, their camp was alive with the sound of horses and armoured men – with Greycloaks atop their steeds beside Moonton Knight's as Buckwell's few lingered, taking their time and wary of their supposed allies. Those men would be in the vanguard, he'd decided a long time ago…
"Stark!" The voice rushed over to him atop a snow-white stallion; all dressed in mail and leathers – a stark constant to their knights.
"Lóng," Willam greeted his friend.
"You're ready?" Suko looked down from his horse.
"As ever," there wasn't much else to say, honestly, it was what it was. "You?"
Suko laughed, all smiles atop his white horse. "I was born ready, friend – least you forget!"
"This could go poorly," his usually joyful tone faded in a heartbeat, suddenly serious.
Willam merely smirked at that. When hadn't life proven one great risk?
It was a fool who charged in blindly, without question; but Willam hadn't been so blind for years.
"Nothing new then Lóng," he shrugged in reply, uncaring.
"True," Suko chuckled, his tone shifting back to normal. "Too true Stark…"
Another day another mad scheme, one supposed; there was nothing to fear but fate.
"My Prince," Aedan had brought him a black stallion, just another addition to his popular moniker.
Black Wolf the men had taken to calling him – especially the andals – for while Robb was young, Willam was something else entirely.
It had been meant as an insult by Buckwell's men no doubt, the man had scowled deeper than usual once Willam embraced the title. If there was more time and if they weren't at war, then Willam thought how he'd have a fine suit of armour of plated silver crafted with obsidian wolves; just to make Buckwell squirm.
Suko had encouraged just that, despite the war. Silver was a rather Imperial thing…
"Once more into the thick of it," the bronze-skinned prince was grinning once more.
"Enjoying yourself Lóng?"
"A man must make the best of life Stark," came the answer, all smiles now – as if he'd never not smiled.
"War isn't something so joyful Prince Suko," Aedan disagreed, frowning before he mounted his horse.
"Ah!" Suko chuckled in defiance. "That, dear Outlander, is only true for the losers!"
Is that what they were? Winners? Did a few battles and sieges make them victors?
"This war isn't over yet Suko," Willam had his doubts about it all.
"Soon enough my friend," the man wasn't to be deterred. "Soon enough!"
The men were gathered, waiting atop horseback; he'd gathered enough men to mount every horse they could muster – leaving their footmen back at Rook's Rest to hold the castle and by proxy, the other Staunton's too, until Duskendale was seized… or until word came of their defeat…
"Will," Ashlyn rode up beside him with that look in her eyes.
It was a look he'd seen often of late. It spoke "don't try and stop me" and threatened to bite if challenged.
"Ash," Willam nodded to her, fighting away the frown.
He'd tried to convince her to stay behind at the camp…
It had not proven a popular opinion in her eyes. Not popular at all.
"Shall we?" Ashlyn held fast to her reigns.
"Fiery woman," Suko muttered, earning himself a glare.
"Fire is good Prince Lóng," The priest rode up beside them, in clean crimson robes – without a hint of wine on his breath.
"And what have your fires shown you, eh?" Willam asked, eyebrow raised; slightly mocking.
"Victory lad," Thoros seemed confident. "I saw a great black Direwolf standing proud beside a burning Stag."
"And this means victory?" Willam scowled in doubt. "Your god is as helpful as ever, Thoros…"
"The men are ready my Prince," Aedan spoke without a hint of fear in his heart, entirely ignoring the priest's words.
If they fell or won this night would be determined by steel, not gods, fiery or otherwise.
"Prince Suko!" Willam called on his friend, loud enough for the others to hear. "You'll ride down the east wall to join with Lord Fisher…"
"It'll be done Stark," Suko was all smirks, fully aware of his role; but it would do the men well to hear it now.
"Captain," Willam turned to Aedan, as acting captain of his Greycloaks.
"My Prince," the man replied in a heartbeat.
"You're to follow me down the centre, to the north gate…"
"We are your shield, my Prince. Always."
Loyal till the last, this one was. Would that they had a hundred men like him.
"Greycloaks!" Willam raised his voice, drawing Frostbite from its sheath and holding at his side.
"Stark!" and "Prince!" and "Willam!" thundered in reply without hesitation.
"This will be a long night," Willam told them all, gripping his reigns with one hand and Frostbite with the other. "A bloody night perhaps," his horse kicked impatiently at the dirt beneath its hooves. "A proud night too though; my friends, for this is the night of their ruin! The night of our wrath!"
Wraith howled to the full moon in the starry sky, joined by Flash and the other Greycloak wolves.
"Winter is Coming!" Willam shouted atop his lungs and spurred his horse forward, moving to gallop in an instant.
"To the Prince!" Aedan shouted as an eagle swooped through above them; darting past trees and flying over men on horses as they thundered out from a treeline – out from the dark woods and into the pale moonlight – they poured out from the trees.
Willam rode at their head, atop his horse as black as sin, with Wraith running at his side.
Shouts of "Winterfell!" and "Stannis!" rang out from the riders.
It was a short ride from the edge of the Darkwood to the outskirts of Duskendale proper; past the small farmsteds that lined the outside of the city walls, thundering hooved towards city walls that seemed to glitter in the moonlight. The north gate was open. Aside from the thunder of horses; steel sounded from inside the city.
"Aedan on me!" Willam shouted as they rode closer.
The gate open, yes, but inside the fighting seemed fierce. This wasn't expected…
"Suko!" Willam yelled, using what power his lungs could muster to be heard above the horses and cheers of men.
"For the Dawn!" Suko yelled out, breaking away from the bulk of their host, steering to the left; eastward as Willam thundered towards the north gate – aiming to run down the unsuspecting Rykker forces before they could overwhelm the Staunton's as the two forces fought at the gatehouse.
The eagle that flew above them had vanished, up into the clouds as Willam passed under the raised portcullis.
Their charge was closing in now. Only a few yards existed between them and battle, all cheers and screams ringing in the air.
The riders smashed into the battle with a force that seemed to shake the very ground as Stark and Karstark and Glover and Buckwell banners rode through.
"Winterhold!" Willam screamed as he lunged Frostbite in an arc from atop his horse, slicing clean through the skull of an unsuspecting Rykker guardsman.
"Encircle the andal bastards!" Aedan yelled in the hopes that his men would hear and obey, aiming to turn the tide quickly.
The air was thick with the sounds of steel and pained cries of dying men from all corners; erupting into chaos – most of Staunton's men had been butchered.
Rykker guardsmen had locked shields together low, resting spears and pointing them straight. A second-row locked shields higher and readied their steel about head height; sloppy an attempt as it was, these men were far more prepared than Willam had expected… far more pretend indeed…
"Hold!" One of the Rykker men shouted atop his lungs, sounding desperate. "We hold! We just wait to-"
It was clear the men were afraid. They had every right to be. If they weren't before, the bolt to their leader's mouth sent shockwaves through their ranks. Greycloaks all carried crossbows – trained as they were – strapped to each of their horses was a basic crossbow with a few bolts to use they needed.
One such bolt had struck home, silencing the Rykker captain swiftly – causing his men to lose faith.
"Fight!" Willam shouted above the chaos of battle, cutting down another Rykker man then a second. "Push them into the streets and-"
"Will!" Aedan's voice grabbed his attention.
It sounded like a lightning strike, thudding into the ground; the Prince turned wide-eyed.
"Shit," he cursed, eyeing the portcullis. It had crashed to the floor, closing off the city behind them and crushing one unsuspecting Glover solider.
"Shields!" Aedan shouted first, as his Greycloaks acted – closing ranks around their Prince – as Buckwell knights were cut down, too slow to follow orders.
"We need the fucking gate!" Harrion Karstark yelled out, smacking his shield against one Rykker's skull and sending the man stumbling backwards.
The Staunton's must have lost their struggling in the gatehouse… and Willam's men had dismounted to hold their position…
Looking around at the battle, he eyed the easterly street. It seemed the thickest in way of Rykker colours, although it was hard to tell the difference thanks to the blood and muck that graced most men present. Still, they'd somewhat planned for this… with the usual mix of courage and foolish luck on their side…
They'd lost near half the men that made it inside the city, trapping half their riders outside the portcullis; forcing them elsewhere.
He didn't know who had rallied them to do so – likely one of the senior Greycloaks – but Willam wagered those forces had gone east…
The Rykkers made little effort against their wall of shields and steel; the Greycloaks refusing to buckle as the rear shot what few bolts they had.
"Will," Aedan looked to his Prince then, his face splattered by another's blood.
A thought assaulted him.
Where was Ashlyn? Was she-
"Will!" Aedan snapped him from it.
"What!?" He snapped right back, with blood in his hair as Wraith paced back and forth behind their shieldwall.
"We can't hold forever…"
The shields were holding, but more Rykker men poured in from the streets and Will's eyes lingered for a moment on the flaming sword of Thoros.
His fires hadn't warned them of this, now had they… bloody useless fire god…
"No," The Prince growled out. "We don't need to hold forever…"
Suko would come. Edwyn wouldn't fail them… neither would fail them…
"We hold!" Willam shouted in the old tongue. "HOLD THESE ADAL BASTARDS!"
He'd brushed past Aedan then, raising his shield and joining the men in formation; stabbing at Rykker fools with frozen steel.
The clash lasted what felt like hours, one five Rykkers fell for every Stark. A cornered wolf was a dangerous thing…
"Enough!" One voice yelled out from the Rykker side, halting their men, stepping back and dragging a few of the wounded away.
The man was atop his horse – where Willam and his men had long since lost theirs – looking proud and noble with his jet-black hair and eyes.
"Willam Stark!" The andal lordling shouted his name.
This one knew him. He knew he was here… an assumption perhaps, or something else entirely?
"Who's asking!?" Willam shouted back defiantly from the shieldwall.
"I am Ser Denys Darkwood!"
A name that meant nothing to Willam, expect for it sharing a name with the forest…
"Never heard of ya," he replied mockingly.
The andal scoffed. "You are surrounded, Stark!"
"Are we?" Willam smirked, taking a moment to catch his breath. They needed time.
"What say you lads!?" Aedan asked his Greycloaks.
Various words in the Old Tongue answered back, none remotely kind.
"Fuck surrender," Glover could be heard growling in defiance. "Bloody southern flowers!"
"There you have it Darkwood!" Willam forced a chuckle, eyes darting to the eastern street in hope.
"You refuse my mercy?" Ser Robin snarled darkly.
"Why shouldn't we!?"
"The traitor Lord Staunton has revealed all," Darkwood beamed proudly. "We know your numbers and your plans, Ser…"
Staunton talked? How had his wargs not reported that… but once a turncloak always a turncloak…
"You've us all surrounded, you say?"
"I will not repeat myself," Darkwood scowled at the notion. "You have failed! Surrender, or be cut down!"
"My Prince," Aedan eyed him, his tone hushed – worry clear on his features.
An eagle passed by the moon above as a silence washed over the streets… before it didn't…
"Captain!" A shout came from behind Darkwood, sounding frantic.
"What is it!" The man barked his displeasure. "I'm busy you foo-"
"The east gate has fallen!"
Darkwood blinked in reply, at a loss for words.
The sound of hooves on cobblestone thundered from eastern streets.
"NOW!" Willam shouted as the shield wall broke away and pushed into the Rykkers, a force thrice their size, yet surprised – by the east and by their reckless charge.
The Prince roared as he fought, swinging wildly and dodging easily. He lunged for the joints in his foes armour while taking off limbs one by one like a man possessed, with Frostbite cutting through flesh like a hot knife through butter. Those that fell to the ground screaming he would leave, moving onto new challengers.
"DIE!" Aedan screamed as he slashed at a Rykker guardsman, driving steel through his visor, into and out the back of the man's skull.
With a grunt he pushed the man free from his blade before ducking under the swing of a large battleaxe. The axeman's eyes went wide at having missed, instead embedding his axehead inside the stomach of a fellow guardsman that happened to be standing beside Aedan; in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Taking the opportunity, it was Karstark who swung his sword and decapitated the axeman, his head rolling away onto the bloodied cobbled street.
They all fought with the ferocity of wolves. Willam dodged another blow swung at him, dunking under the wide swing and moving instantly to sever the fool's sword-hand at the wrist. Not giving them time to scream about the lost hand, Willam drove Frostbite into his foe's heart and kicked the man free from his blade.
A pain jumped up and bit him then, suddenly from nowhere. The dagger was thin and sharp, punching into flesh and muscle with very little effort.
The attacker withdrew his dagger and made to slash, but against plated steel the thin blade left little but a scratch on the snarling direwolf that graced Willam's breastplate. He slashed violently at the dagger-wielder then, cutting him to ribbons, the man grasping at his wounds as he stumbled in agony to the cobbled floor.
"Fuck," Willam grimaced, doing his best to ignore the sharp pain in his leg. There was blood flowing freely there and he couldn't help but recall some vague lesson about a vein in the leg that, once cut, could not be un-cut no matter the healers skill. He could only hope it wasn't that bad... not that it mattered in the moment…
"Prince!" The voice of a boy greeted him.
It was the Staunton lad, covered from head to toe in blood and mud; looking scared half to death but somehow alive.
He parried the blow on instinct alone, shoving the squire aside to save his life while countering despite the burning in his leg.
"Argghh!" He heard a cry and darted around, laying eyes on the hunched form of Lord Buckwell. A spear had taken his life.
"P- Prince…"
The boy was down in the mud, frozen and afraid.
"Up!" Willam barked at him, cutting down another Rykker. "Stand boy! I'll not save you twice!"
Just then, a wave of Stark and Moonton and Tallhart banners clashed into the enemy; trampling them under-hoof and sending them routing from the fight.
"Darkwood!" Willam roared at the noble man atop his stallion, losing sight of the Staunton boy as he pulled Frostbite free from the chest of some nameless fool.
"W- Wait! You-" Ser Denys panicked in his staddle, eyes darting franticly around the yard as his men were rode down like so many trampled flowers.
Willam stabbed upwards in a flash, straight into Darkwoods swordarm, causing him to drop his blade in agony as he wailed from the pain. Reaching up then, he grabbed the knight's arm and dragged him out from his saddle; driving Frostbite into Ser Deny's neck before tossing his corpse aside.
Swinging around one saw the sight of Stark and Moonton men cutting down Rykker's as they fled from the yard and into the streets.
Just then Willam cursed loudly as a burning pain lashed across his back. A guardsman had taken the opportunity of his turned back to strike, no doubt aiming for his head, yet only succeeding to rake the tip of his sword across his targets back. With the foes body fulling committed to his failed swing, he was unable to counter as Willam stuck him over the head with Frostbite's pommel and processed to cut open his throat with a downwards swing. The battle seemed to be won… though it wasn't clean…
"Run them down!" The voice of Edwyn Fisher commanded them; his sword bloody, eyes darting around as if looking desperately for someone.
"Fisher!" Willam walked over to the man with Frostbite at his side. The blade glinted in the moonlight, a crystalline pale blue.
"Thank the gods," Edwyn hopped out from his saddle and pulled his cousin into a hug.
"Missed you too cousin," Willam chuckled mockingly.
"Oh shut up," Edwyn stifled a laugh. "I thought- well, it doesn't matter…"
"You're late Fisher," came the wide smile.
"I said shut up cousin," Edwyn laughed aloud this time.
"Stark," Suko greeted him from atop his white horse, the beast stained red with blood; with its rider no less bloodied.
"Lóng," Willam's smiled hadn't faded.
"You're welcome for the rescue."
"I didn't say thanks…"
"Don't mention it," Suko smirked before riding over towards Ser Florian and his knights.
The battle had been bloody – most of those who'd passed under the northgate had fallen – but the Rykker's were in full retreat.
"What happened?"
It was Edwyn to ask, oddly enough.
"You don't know?" Willam hummed, sheathing Frostbite after a moment.
"Rave-" Fisher seemed to catch himself, frowning deeply. "Rowana isn't well… we've had no eyes…"
"The eastern gate was closed for a time when we arrived," Ashlyn's voice joined them, walking over the bloodied street without a care. "We-"
"Ash," Willam blinked, he'd forgotten her in the heat of battle; but the worries flooded back now she was here.
Caring about things made you weak, in his experience. If you wanted something it could be taken away…
"You're not hurt?"
"I'm fine," She smiled, trying not to blush as every eye fell on the pair.
Wraith had bounded over – his fur matted with blood – licking Ash's palm in greeting.
"Hey boy," She greeted the wolf back happily. "Missed you too."
"What about me, eh?"
She looked and Willam and shrugged.
"That's not funny Amber," he huffed. "You-"
"Flirt later for Dawn's sake!" Suko's voice shouted over to them.
"I was not-"
"You're wounded," Edwyn glared at his cousin's leg as blood flowed freely from it.
"Tis but a scratch Fisher," he dismissed with a wave; though it burnt like all of the andals seven hells might burn.
"You need a healer Will," Ashlyn argued quickly, the hint of worry on her voice.
"It'll be-"
"It will be once it's bandaged, idiot!"
He merely smirked at her as he replied "Say you missed me, and I'll agree…"
"Get your Prince a damn healer!" She decided to bark at Edwyn instead of acknowledging his terms.
Edwyn muttered "As you command Princess" as he shouted at several Greycloaks to fetch a healer for their Prince.
"The battles won," Aedan's eyes lingered on his prince's wound. "The keep still holds though – with what the Darkwood said…"
"Who's Darkwood?"
"Some corpse," Willam answered his cousin bluntly, teeth gritting through the pain.
"…what he said, about Staunton…"
"It explains why they knew we were coming," Willam scowled, the thoughts assaulting him. "It doesn't explain them attacking his own men though…"
It was a fool who trusted a man's word when the man was a proven liar. What was the value of a liar's word, after all? It was worthless.
"Does that make our word worthless too?"
Willam ignored that thought, pushing it away someplace dark.
He'd not trusted Staunton. That's why Edwyn was to open the Eastern gate, without Staunton's knowledge.
"Maybe the Rykker's didn't take too kindly to Staunton's betrayal?"
Ash was right, it seemed; they'd wanted the Staunton knights dead just as well as Stark men. Gods know they'd tried to cut down the squire… wherever he was…
"It doesn't matter," Willam dismissed the nagging doubts and questions floating in his head. "Ed, take Suko and Mooton with you to secure the city. You can cut down anyone in Rykker colours – but spare those that lay down their arms; just secure the gates and hold till you hear from me…"
"Consider it done," Edwyn nodded, turning on his heels in an instant and barking for men to follow him.
"Aedan, Ash," He turned to them both. "You're with me. It's time we paid a visit to our hosts."
How had it come to this? She walked through these halls – her home where her children had grown, and her husband once ruled – but she could barely recognize it anymore; despite the ghosts that haunted the halls. Her husband was dead, betrayed by the son of a man they'd once thought of as a friend.
And her only son? Poor sweet Richard, the perfect heir, the perfect knight… seven save him…
"M'lady," one of the guardsmen greeted her in passing, but she had no kindness left to give in return.
Alice wore her finest black dress, as to mourn her late husband – uncaring as she stepped through a puddle of blood.
"M'lady, your-" One of the sevenths was aghast, watching the hem of the dress drag through the crimson.
"Focus on your duties," she scolded, far harsher than any of their servants were used to. She'd always been kind to them… but none could blame her…
She eyed guardsmen and servants as she walked down the winding halls outside the guest chambers, where the limp bodies of a few remaining Staunton Knights were dragged away; leaving smears of red for the servants to wash away. Lord Tristan's scheme – foul as it was – had failed. It had been a close thing, however.
"Words are Wind," she muttered the houses words. She'd never expected…
It was unspeakable, so much so that she'd nearly turned away the man when he'd come calling.
If not for that one Staunton knight with a conscience; it might've been her blood being washed away.
"Lord Tristan Staunton," she spoke his name with an emptiness. Looking up at her from knees, the young Lord of Rook's Rest could find none of the kindness he'd once found in her eyes. Her dress was flowing black, spoiled by blood; her hair unkept – most unladylike… but given the circumstances…
"Lady Alice," Tristan managed a rely, his lip swollen and his eye blackened as he was kept on his knees before the throne of Duskendale.
The woman merely glared at him, devoid of emotion; where one might've expected anger or sadness – he found nothing. Somehow, that seemed worse…
"Why?" Alice Rykker asked after a moment, breaking the silence.
Tristan looked around the hall, glancing at the guardsmen that lined the hall.
"Why my lady?" He feigned ignorance. "I have been dragged from my bed; my men slaughtered in-"
"You dare act innocent!?" The woman growled, breaking her stoic mask.
Tristan stifled his joy at having shaken her so easily.
"Whatever you've heard-"
"You intended to betray my family," the Lady of Duskendale snarled her reply, halting the turncloaks words before he could spew them fully. "You had already, when you walked through my husband's gates… intent of butchery… intent on breaking guest rights!"
Something flashed – however briefly – in Tristan's eyes at that.
"Never," he denied easily. "Whoever told you these lies is-"
"Your own man grew a conscience…"
"Lord Staunton was armed when we entered, m'lady," one of the Rykker Knights confirmed from the side-lines.
"I confess," Tristan kept calm as he spoke. "I confess that I did not trust you – forgive me – but it appears I was right not to…"
The Lady's eyes narrowed, filling with hate.
"Honourless bastard," she declared. "You lie, even now!"
"The word of an ambitious knight is hardly proof enough for assaulting me in the dark!"
"He attacked us when questioned, m'lady…"
The Rykker Knight's continued to damn him.
"Liar," Tristan snarled at the man. "Your men attacked Me!"
Lady Alice was growing less and less patient. She knew the man guilty – he'd attacked her knights when they'd called on him in the night – then Staunton's knights fought too; all conveniently awake, armed and armoured despite the hour… for they'd planned to strike in the night. If not for the one among them who turned…
Tristan was right however; the word of a knight was outweighed by a lord. Therefore, more 'evidence' was required.
Lord Staunton quickly sang like a bird under the threat of castration, once he'd lost a few fingernails…
It was a strange thing – nails could hold a building together, but there was nothing better for taking a man apart.
"I was forced," he'd cried out quickly enough for Rykker torturers.
The old Darklyn Kings had quite the dungeon for men like Staunton.
They had his family hostage, he said…
He had no choice, he said…
Lies. Lies. Lies. Alice knew them all to be lies.
Outside of the Dun Fort, the city had erupted into chaos as Rykker fought Staunton; taking the foe by surprise.
The Stark's would come for the North gate, they'd learnt from Tristan; among his loud begging – informing them constantly about the presence of his young brother among the savages – he'd warmed them of the north's arrival. The gate would need to be secured before their host arrived or all would be lost…
"It'll be fine sister," Alice's brother had promised her before, hugging the woman tightly before taking his leave.
They'd heard nothing from him since. She'd thought of him often, muttering a prayer for the Warrior to grant him strength.
The Seven however were cruel and fickle begins, if they heard her at all; they'd decided not to listen.
"I am Alice Rykker née Darkwood," she now spoke from atop the ramparts of the Dun Fort's gate. "You are trespassing Ser."
Her heart had seemed to skip several beats when the banners that came up from the city were Stark and not Rykker.
"We know that name," Aedan whispered to his prince as the woman above them continued her well-practiced speech.
Darkwood. Darkwood. Where had they heard that name…. oh shit…
"The corpse," Willam cursed under his breath. Hopefully, a distantly related cor-
"My brother was leading the defence of this city," the Lady Rykker née Darkwood shattered hope. "Tell me, does he still live?"
"Ser Denas fought bravely My Lady…"
"Denys," she corrected with a dangerous look. "His name is… was…"
This wasn't going too well. Not well at all…
"There's needn't be more bloodshed," Willam tried to calm the woman, as he knew too well that look in her eyes.
"He was named for the late Lord Darklyn," Lady Alice spoke with a growl in her throat and a hate in her eyes that was born of vengeance. "He was led stray before the end, by a foul witch; but Duskendale remembers our past now and always. House Darklyn lives through us… through… my brother and I…"
"I had no conflict with your brother," Willam pushed, taking a step forward. The pain shot through his left.
"And yet you killed him," Lady Alice practically spat the words, like a viper's venom.
"He was my enemy, and I his; such is the way of war my lady…"
"Such is war," she muttered the words sadly. Wasn't that an ugly truth… but truth nonetheless…
The woman looked broken, where once she had stood tall and proud; she was now on the edge of breaking down.
"Surrender my lady," Willam pleaded with her softly, taking some weight off his leg by leaning on Wrath.
"The Dun Fort is strong," she replied loudly from atop her ramparts with defiance.
"My host is stronger," Willam countered easily. "Stronger still, once King Stannis arrives to bolster our numbers here."
"Ser Jaime will-"
"Is fleeing south, last we heard – back to King's Landing."
It wouldn't do to explain how exactly they knew that, but it was the truth. She'd find no falsehood in his eyes.
"Liar," she growled despite the fact. "You and the Staunton boy – liars all!"
"Where is Lord Staunton, my Lady?"
Her face turned wicked at that, as if the mere mention of his name burnt at her very soul.
"He is alive," came the answer. "His plot undone – to seize me and my children in the night… the dishonour of it…"
Clearly that plan hadn't gone well at all…
"Whatever the case," Willam didn't truly care for the lord's life. "This is over, My Lady."
"My husband and brother are dead…"
"I understand that-"
"You will never understand, boy!"
"I do," Willam snarled right back; uncaring for the archers on her ramparts. "If you trust nothing else, then trust that I understand loss. I know it's sting all too well my lady, so I beg of you to listen – to stand down and open your gates so that no more lives need be lost…"
"We are not afraid of-"
"Do you care nothing for your son?"
"My-" Alice's eyes turned softer. "My Richard…"
"Aye," Willam pushed onward. "He lives, wounded but alive – his life in your hands."
"You dare!"
"Aye," he barked, as Wraith growled. "I dare. If you force my hand, then I vow; no Rykker's will survive to see Winter!"
There was mutterings from the ramparts and Lady Alice's features were stone cold.
"I-" She paused, the anger in her eyes burning like an inferno. "I must think…"
"You have until sunrise," Willam informed loudly, scowling up at the woman and her guardsmen. "If these gates do not open by then, once King Stannis arrives with his forces; this keep will be stormed and sacked – down to the last babe in the crib! This much I swear, if you force me to bite, I shall rip open your throats!"
The Lady of Duskendale turned her back on his party then, down from the ramparts and back to the safety of her keep… for as long as it was safe…
"Rip open their throats?" Aedan pried, raised brow in question.
"Too far?" Willam asked the Greystark with an innocent look.
"Somewhat," he hummed in thought. "What if they fight? It'll be costly, storming this place… even if Stannis's men…"
"I've a reputation with these andals Grey, likely they think I'll grow wings and eat them in the night."
"They're not that stupid," Ashlyn muttered.
"No," Willam supposed not. "Maybe. Probably not…"
"You're not really going to kill them all though… are you?"
Willam blinked, looking at her questioningly. "What do you think, Ash?"
"You won't," Ashlyn decided with a glance. "You're kinder than you pretend."
Kinder? Pretend!? Nonsense, that was utter madness. The woman was clearly crazy…
"Madness," Willam denied readily with a huff of disagreement.
"Idiot," Ashlyn countered with a shake of her head.
"She's got you there, brother…"
"You too Grey!?" Willam feigned shock as they walked back down to the city.
The night was growing older by the minute, soon enough; the sun would raise over the horizon.
"Wait," Willam paused in his tracks. "Were you agreeing with the pretending, or the idiot part!?"
Aedan just kept walking, acting as if he hadn't heard the question.
"Greystark!"
Ashlyn walked with him.
"Don't ignore me you traitors!"
Somewhere, the gods were laughing at him; he bloody knew it.
Blackwater Bay was rough and choppy, whitecaps everywhere. Black Betha rode the tide, her sail cracking and snapping at each shift of wind. The Wraith and Lady Marya sailed beside her, no more than twenty yards between their hulls. His sons could keep a line. Davos took pride in that… it would serve them well…
Across the sea warhorns boomed, deep throaty moans like the calls of monstrous serpents, repeated ship to ship. "Bring down the sail," Davos commanded. "Lower mast. Oarsmen to your oars!" His son Matthos relayed the commands. The deck of Black Betha churned as crewmen ran to their tasks, pushing through the soldiers who always seemed to be in the way no matter where they stood. Ser Imry had decreed that they would approach on oars alone, so as not to expose their sails to scorpions…
Davos had expressed his doubts that Duskendale would be in any fit shape to mount such defences, but the lordling had merely scoffed at his suggestion.
The Fury was not here, and Davos found himself feeling the absence of her shimmering golden sails, the crowned stag of Baratheon blazoned on the canvas. From those decks Stannis Baratheon had once commanded the assault on Dragonstone sixteen years before, but the man had chosen now to ride with his army instead, trusting Fury and the command of his fleet to his wife's brother Ser Imry who'd come over to his cause at Storm's End with Lord Alester and all the others in House Florent.
Davos had known Fury as well as he knew his own ships. Above her three hundred oars was a deck given over wholly to scorpions, and topside she mounted catapults fore and aft, large enough to fling barrels of burning pitch. A most formidable ship, and very swift as well, yet it was dwarfed by these Stark ships…
The Wanderer was a sight to behold in of itself, but it was smaller and nimbler than The Trident. House Manderly's new flagship dwarfed them all.
It boasted three decks – no quarterdeck, poop deck or forecastle; holding some seven hundred men – sailors and knights both…
The warhorns sounded again with a "Ahoooooooooooooo" as commands drifted back and forth across from ship to ship across the black waves.
Davos felt a tingle in his missing fingertips. "Out oars," he shouted. "Form line! Bring us in!" A hundred blades dipped down into the water as the oarmaster's drum began to boom. The sound was like the beating of a great slow heart, and the oars moved at every stroke, a hundred men pulling as one.
The three galleys kept pace, their blades churning the water. "Slow cruise," Davos called. Lord Velaryon's silver-hulled Pride of Driftmark had moved into her position and Bold Laughter was coming up fast, but The Harridan was only now getting her oars into the water while Seahorse was struggling to bring down her mast.
The Wanderer and Trident had no oars. They reminded Davos of what few Swan Ships he'd seen out from the Summer Islands, only far greater in scale.
He could hear soldiers shouting encouragement to each other across the water. They'd been little more than ballast since Storm's End and were eager to get at any foe be it Rykker or Lannister, all confident of victory. In that, they were of one mind with their admiral, Lord High Captain Ser Imry Florent.
Three days past, he had summoned all his captains to a war council aboard the Fury while the fleet lay anchored at the mouth of the Wendwater, in order to acquaint them with his dispositions. Davos and his sons were to be assigned a place in the second line, well out on the dangerous starboard wing. "A place of honor," Allard had declared, well satisfied with the chance to prove his valour. "A place of peril," his father had pointed out. His sons had given him pitying looks, even young Maric.
The Onion Knight has become an old woman, he could hear them thinking, still a smuggler at heart…
Well, the last was true enough. Seaworth had a lordly ring to it, but down deep he was still Davos of Flea Bottom.
Had he been admiral, he might have done things differently. For a start, he would have sent a few of his swiftest ships to probe upriver and see what awaited them, instead of smashing in headlong. When he had suggested as much to Ser Imry, the Lord High Captain had thanked him courteously, but his eyes were not as polite.
Who is this lowborn craven? his eyes asked. Is he the one who bought his knighthood with an onion?
Ser Imry had taken further offence when Davos argued against abandoning the Stark's in Duskendale.
"Savages," the Lord High Captain had dismissed the notion. "They are supposed to be matching on King's Landing, not Duskendale!"
Ser Imry saw no need for caution or deceptive tactics just as he saw no need for what he called the "Folly at Duskendale" with a scoff and dismissive wave.
He was set to organize the fleet into ten lines of battle, each of twenty ships. The first two lines would sweep up the river to engage and destroy Joffrey's little fleet, or "the boy's toys" as Ser Imry dubbed them, to the mirth of his lordly captains. Those that followed would land companies of archers and spearmen beneath the city walls where they'd expect the "Stark's Savages" to be awaiting their oh so glorious arrival on the beaches, only then to join the fight on the river…
To be fair, there was reason for Ser Imry's haste. The winds had not treated them kindly on the voyage up from Storm's End. They had lost two cogs to the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay on the very day they set sail, a poor way to begin. One of the Myrish galleys had foundered in the Straits of Tarth, and a storm had overtaken them as they were entering the Gullet, scattering the fleet across half the narrow sea. All but twelve ships had finally regrouped behind the sheltering spine of Massey's Hook.
That said, Davos found he could not hold his tongue on this matter. Stannis would agree, he thought…
"The Stark's are our allies," he'd spoken calmly, as polite as he could muster. "If we can seize Duskendale, then we-"
"You'd know all about seizing eh Smuggler?"
He ignored that jest from one of the lords.
"We could land troops there, safely; then march with Stark's numbers…"
"Nonsense," Ser Imry scoffed once more. "Stark has orders to-"
"Ser Davos is correct," came the saving voice of Lord Monford Velaryon
Davos blinked in his surprise that one so highborn would deem to agree with him… although, he'd called him Ser and forgone the Lord…
"I-" Ser Imry had stuttered at the sheer nerve of Velaryon's words.
"Duskendale provides safer landing," the Lord of Driftmark hummed with agreement.
Did it hurt him so to agree with one as lowborn as he? It seemed so…
"My Lord, I am the High Capt-"
"We should send a portion of our forces to the city, while the bulk of the fleet moves to ferry His Grace across the river…"
None quite had the courage to argue with the Lord of the Tides. They'd joined with the Northern Fleet not long after, that was a surprise to them all.
Stannis would reach the Blackwater Rush soon if he hadn't already reached it. The kingsroad ran from Storm's End straight to King's Landing, a much shorter route than by sea, and his host was largely mounted; near twenty thousand knights, light horse, and freeriders, Renly's unwilling legacy to his brother. They would have made good time, but armoured destriers and twelve-foot lances would avail them little against the deep waters of the Blackwater Rush and the high stone walls of the city. Stannis would need to camp with his lords on the south bank of the river, doubtless seething with impatience and wondering what Ser Imry had done with his fleet.
They would need to make good time indeed if they were to reach Duskendale then march south in time for the siege on King's Landing…
Shading his eyes against the rising sun, Davos peered out at the city now. Some smoke drifted from areas – there had clearly been a struggle – but if not for the Stark banners that flew in place of Rykker; one wouldn't suspect anything was amiss. How had they taken the city so quickly?
When they docked it was to the greetings of a northman with a silver shark clasping the fine blue cloak on his shoulders.
"Welcome to Duskendale," he'd shook their hands, smiling politely; though Davos found some falseness there.
The banners of House Rykker no longer flew above the Dun Fort, taken down one by one and replaced with the direwolf of Stark.
"Manderly!" The northman had walked with purpose over to the approaching host of Manderly Knights.
"Fisher!" A large lord bellowed in reply, grasping the other man's hand and shaking it gladly. "We're not too late!?"
"Missing all the fun I'm afraid," the one called Fisher jested. "Duskendale is ours, though not as smoothly as we'd have liked…"
Davos watched quietly as the Manderly Knights marched across the pier dressed in their silver-scaled armour and green seaweed cloaks.
The Knights of the Green Hand marched into Duskendale as if they owned the place – and now one supposed they did – flanked by northmen off The Wanderer dressed in steel and grey cloaks; with some among their number boated breastplates of silver. Gifts from the Manderlys, no doubt about it.
Some wolves seemed to follow them. "Strange folk," Davos thought in silence as he walked behind Fisher and Manderly.
"How's the Prince?" Wylis Manderly asked as they moved through the city streets. "It feels like a lifetime since Harrenhal…"
"Aye that it does…"
Davos noted the mans tired tone.
"My cousin is well," Fisher answered. "Isn't too happy, but he's well enough…"
So, the Stark Prince wasn't happy? "Odd," Davos mumbled. "He's won a great victory…"
"A costly one however," Fisher seemed to hear him.
"I'm sor-"
"No harm done," Fisher dismissed him uncaringly.
"How are your losses?" Lord Velaryon asked, speaking for the first time in awhile.
The Fisher seemed to judge the Valyrian lord for a moment before deeming to answer.
"We lost a hundred at Rook's Rest," Fisher began, running the numbers through his head as they walked. "Those were reinforced by Staunton's men to give us some three thousand – but given events – those men are near enough lost to us; things weren't pretty. Hundreds were lost here at the least…"
"For taking a city," Lord Velaryon hummed, seeming almost impressed. "That is more than acceptable, do you not think?"
"I-" Fisher scowled, darting his eyes away from them. "I suppose so…"
It didn't seem that the northmen agreed with that sentiment in the slightest.
Still, that meant the Stark's had at least two thousand fighting men here. The bulk of their forces must've remained else-
"And your other forces?" It seemed Velaryon shared his thoughts.
"Harrenhal," Fisher remarked. "Or they're in the West, with Lord Robb…"
They'd reached the Dun Fort soon enough, up the narrow walkways to find the gates open – with Mooton Knight's on guard – while Stark men in grey cloaks and watchful eyes greeted them in some strange tongue by the keeps door. "Thanks," was all that Davos could think to offer them in return, assuming their words had been polite…
"Liar!" A woman's voice rang through the hallways of the Dun Fort before they ever reached the great hall.
The door creaked open to announce their presence, turning all heads onto their arrival.
"Prince Willam," Fisher stepped forward first, bowing his head in respect for his royal cousin.
"Ed," Willam Stark shot him a glance, far from formality.
"We've guests," Fisher motioned to them lazily with a wave of his hand.
"Lord Stark," Velaryon was the first to speak then, taking a step forward in his blue-and-silver attire that screamed Valyrian.
"Prince," Edwyn Fisher corrected him, though it earned little but an uncaring glance.
The men in grey cloaks all eyed him suspiciously, hands on the pommel of their swords…
"You are?" Willam was leaning forward on the blackened weirwood throne of Duskendale as if it were made for him alone, with a sword across his lap. He looked every inch how Davos might expect a King in the North to look, with his raven locks and ice-grey eyes – he seemed colder and less cheery than their last meeting; brief as it was.
"I am Ser Monford Velaryon," the proud lord spoke, puffing out his chest as if to seem taller than he was; with his silver hair and amethyst eyes. "Master of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides, descendant of Valyrian the Old, the True and the Brave…"
The Stark Prince merely blinked in response, turning his gaze onto another.
"You," he eyed Davos like a wolf stalking prey. "We've met – with less lofty titles, yes?"
"Aye," Davos nodded firmly. "Davos of House Seaworth. We met, on Dragonstone…"
"I remember," Willam ignored the glare on Velaryon's face.
There were others in the room, Davos could see, glancing at them now.
To the Prince's left stood a woman with amber hair, then to the right was a northman in a grey cloak; holding back a woman all in black.
"Ser Wylis," the Prince smiled at the fat lord now.
"Prince," the Manderly bowed as best as his weight would allow.
There was another, knelt before the throne; looking bruised and bloody.
"You've arrived at an excellent time, my friends – old true and brave all – we were just finishing our trial…"
"A sham," the man on his knees growled, spitting blood on Rykker's black marbled floors.
"Lord Tristan Staunton," Willam seemed to ignore than man's words and muttered curses. "You have been found guilty this day of the highest crimes, against gods and men, to seek the death of your host; having eaten of their bread and salt – having drank their wine and-"
"Lies!" Tristan howled his denial. "I never! I swear, Prince; please!"
"-and plotted to slay them in the night, against my orders…"
"No!" Tristan denied once more, struggling with the chains around his hands.
"Your men attest to as much," Willam countered. "Lady Rykker is convinced they speak the truth…"
"The bitch lies!" Tristan spat at her floor yet again.
Lady Rykker stood in silence, staring death at the man.
Davos and his party did nothing but watch the supposed trial play out.
"There is a greater crime," Prince Willam got up from his weirwood throne, taking the blade from his lap as he stepped downward.
"W- What do you-"
"You swore yourself to King Stannis – with ample witnesses – did you not?"
"I-" Tristan nodded. "I did, yes! I am his loyal servant, I swear it!"
"Oh?" Willam's head tilted slightly. "Why is it then, that you told Lady Alice how you planned to betray us?"
"Lies!" Tristan pleaded. "I told her what she wanted to hear, my Prince; that's all!"
Davos watched as the Prince circled the kneeling man, like a wolf might prey; with his pale blue sword.
"And yet it is thanks to you that my forces were halted from entering the city…"
"That is not-"
"I can only thank the gods then," Willam lifting the man's chin up with his icy blade. "That I did not trust you with my full plans…"
"I- I swear," Tristan pleaded desperately. "I swear on the mother, on the father and the smith and the-"
"My father is dead because of you!" Benfred Tallhart shouted out with knuckles white around the handle of his sword.
Helman had been the boy's father, but he was cut down in the fighting; along with other unfortunate souls.
"On the maiden!" Tristan swore on the seven time and time again.
"So many lies," Willam hummed in thought. "Do we believe them, my lords!?"
Shouts of "No!" and "Liar!" and "Turncloak!" rang out from the northern and riverlords.
"I- I swear on the seven, damn it!"
The Stark Prince didn't seem moved.
"Swear on your head instead," he stood in front of the man. "It's that you'll lose."
Davos could not see the man's eyes as they filled with terror. He'd fine no hope for any plea of innocence here, no matter his true intentions…
"The Black!" Lord Staunton shouted loudly, unable to contain his smile as the lords gathered grumbled.
He was a lord and even mere lowborn had the right to choose the Night's Watch over the axe…
"I'll take the black!" Tristan shouted gleefully, eager to avoid the chopping block no matter the cost.
The lords booed and shouted curses at the man, but none looked so furious as Lady Rykker.
"You have that right," Willam supposed, lowing Frostbite ever so slightly.
It wasn't over. Davos watched as a smile crept its way onto the stoic Prince's face.
"However!" He raised Staunton's chin back up at sword point. "You are guilty in the eyes of gods, not men; as such… the punishment is not so easily escaped…"
"I- I don't-" Tristan looked around franticly. "The Night's Watch is my right!"
"I am Willam of the House Stark," The Prince announced loudly as his crystalline sword broke skin ever so slightly, sending a little trickle of blood down the lordlings neck. "Prince of Winterhold! Son of his grace, King Brandon; and where I come from – to strike against a Prince is death; even if breaking Guest Rights was not..."
"I didn't-"
"I was wounded in the battle," Willam's smile grew somewhat devious.
"Not by me!" Tristan yelled, looking around; hoping for anyone to support him.
"By your actions however," the Prince supposed. "By your lies. By your treason, against us and the gods…"
"No!" Tristan gulped, eyes darting around the hall. "S- Someone stop him! He can't-"
"By the laws of my father I sentence you, Tristan Turncloak of the House Staunton, to death."
The hall fell into silence at that as the boos and mutters ceased. Davos felt as if the room grew colder somehow.
It wasn't legal, in a sense… but technically speaking this foreign Prince wasn't beholden to the laws of the Iron Throne…
Not to mention, no man in Westeros would argue against death for breaking Guest Rights.
Lord Tristan the Turncloak muttered his prayers.
"Mother, father, warrior, smith, maiden…"
"Give your false gods my regards," Prince Willam swung his pale blade through the air with a flick of his wrist.
Nothing happened at first, but after a moment Lord Staunton's body flopped to the black marble floor like a puppet cut from its strings.
After a moments silence – as blood pooled on the marble around Staunton's corpse – the northmen and riverlords cheered for the Prince and justice.
Willam laid upon a great feathered bed in one of the Dun Fort's many guest quarters; the room of some Darklyn Prince, or so Lady Rykker claimed. It was smaller than the rooms at Winterhold, but it was cosy, with the southern sun shining through the widow they needn't ever light the fireplace to keep warm.
It wasn't so warm as his years in the Empire but still, it was a far cry from the cold winds of home.
He'd never thought to miss it – home – having spent the years of his youth running, despite everything he'd found himself longing to see the look on his brothers faces when they saw him again, to tell them of everything he'd seen and done, to see mother again… and even his father. Gods, he hated how soft these thoughts felt…
"You're thinking too much," Ashlyn's voice snapped him back to reality.
If he ever stopped thinking 'too much' then he feared that death wouldn't be far behind.
"I can tell," she claimed with a serious look. "You've this look on your face, like the weight of the world is on your shoulders."
"I'm a very important person if you didn't know…"
"Shut it," she slapped his chest lightly.
"Ouch," Willam feigned hurt.
"Crybaby," she smirked at him, ignoring his pout as she rested her head on his shoulder.
"Am not," he huffed, absently stroking her amber locks.
"We're alone," she countered. "You needn't be so guarded Princeling."
Her hair was so soft… gods when did he become so damn soppy?!
"I'm a demon, haven't you heard?"
"They can call you whatever they like," Ashlyn rolled her eyes, refusing to move her head from where she'd considered comfortable. "I know you, Stark."
"Oh?" He stifled a smile.
"Afraid so," she hummed gently. "It's a curse."
It was something alright. It was definitely something…
"I'm not…"
She moved then; eyes locked with his own - grey on amber - it made him feel oddly happy.
"Go on," she insisted. "What we're you going to say?"
"I-" Willam scowled. "It was nothing, just thinking is all…"
"How dangerous…"
"Shut up Amber," he smirked despite himself. "It was nothing."
"It was something," she pried, looking at him those eyes…
"I'm not kind," Willam huffed quietly in defiance.
She giggled. He wasn't expecting that response, of all the responses he'd envisioned.
"It's not funny…"
"Oh, but it is," Amber smiled at him.
"Is not," Willam growled half heartily.
"Why must you pretend with me?"
He wasn't pretending. Was he? No…
"I'm not," Willam denied with a stoic look. "I've done plenty bad, Ash…"
"Very well," she humoured him. "Tell me about it all, everything on your mind; just talk…"
As if it were that simple…
"We'd be here all day," Willam argued with a frown. "We'd miss the damn siege, at that rate Ash."
She hit his chest again, light a tap as it was. "Stop making excuses!"
"It was a damn good excuse though…"
"Just talk to me," she pouted for effect.
"I'd rather kiss yo-"
"Nope," she rolled her eyes.
Damn woman was too smart for her own good…
"Out with it, or no kissing - or anything else - for a year!"
"Now that's playing dirty My Lady…"
"A sword isn't my only weapon," she smirked triumphantly. "My Lord…"
The gods were laughing at him again, he could feel it.
"You're insufferable sometimes…"
"Hello crow," she was still smiling all cutely and innocent. "Meet my friend raven…"
Willam huffed, knowing she wasn't going to back down or fall for any of his tricks…
"You're lucky you're cute," he told her with a huff of acceptance.
"I'm aware," Amber accepted. "Now talk Prince, or else…"
"I burnt Antlers," he began, finding it harder to vent his thoughts than he'd like to admit. Trusting her though felt easier than he'd expected. That should comfort most men, he thought, but it only served to worry him. "There were women and children in there, but – you were right, it wasn't necessary…"
"It was…"
She paused, picking her words carefully.
"War," she decided. "You prevented many losses on our side. You did it for your people, we all understand that Will…"
It didn't make it any less dishonourable. Willam knew she was right – he'd always known that – but knowing and doing were two different things entirely.
"And what about Lord Tristan?" He asked her, sighing at the thought.
There was the Rykker heir too, but that boy still lived… as did Rowana, if you could call it living…
"What about him?" Ashlyn asked, fairly confused.
"I never trusted him – how could I? I sentenced him to die though, without a thought…"
"He betrayed us," Ashlyn countered easily.
"To save his own skin or to turn on us, or perhaps he was planning it all along… or he was loyal; merely breaking under torture…"
"It doesn't matter," the voice in his head would tell him. "He could never be trusted. Once a liar, always a liar…"
"He was going to break guest rights," Ashlyn added with a frown. "You didn't order that, killing him was the right thing Will."
He hadn't ordered it, no, but he also hadn't strictly forbidden it either. He'd just left the man to "secure the city" and he'd done that… at least in part…
"You're right," Willam sighed. It shouldn't blame himself for the actions of that man… but sometimes his thoughts drifted too far…
"I know," Ashlyn smirked again, trying to cheer him up; one assumed. "You worry too much…"
"There's a lot to worry about Ash."
"Evil doesn't worry about not being good, Will."
"When did you get so poetic?" Willam smiled at her then.
"You're clearly rubbing off on me Prince…"
"Oh?" His smirked turned devious. "Sounds like fu-"
She kissed him, swinging her leg over and straddling his lap.
"We'll be late for the siege…"
"You can be quick," the she-devil replied with a whisper. "I'll make sure of it…"
"I don't know about that," his nagging doubts seemed to melt away as he held her close.
"Shut up Stark," she kissed him again, quickly undoing her shirt.
The knock at the door came far too early for either of their likings.
"Stark!" It was Suko, banging on the door. "Get your pants on, we've a war to win!"
"I hate that man," Willam growled from the bed.
"Me too," Ashlyn hummed in frustration.
"Come on Stark," Suko banged on the door again. "Before winter comes!"
"I really hate that man…"
The timing couldn't have been worse.
He'd get Suko back for this, one way or another…
My Note(s): Duskendale has fallen to Willam, although not without great losses thanks to Staunton's betrayal – think what you will of his excuses – the value of a liar's words is worthless, so who knows what the truth is exactly? All that's certain is, thanks to him countless lives were lost and if Willam hadn't been paranoid with sending Edwyn to open the eastern gate then things would've been much worse. His death might've surprised some, or not, Will hates liars… even if it's kinda hypocritical…
So though, who liked the "Edge of Night" from Lotr at the start? I'd hope it would set the stage and low-key scare a few of you – because I'm evil like that :D
Guest 1: That's down to your own interpretation. Ned could've been thinking about one of two people during that joust. Rhaegar or Lyanna, who Jon takes after; as he inherited nothing from Rhaegar (and Lyanna rode in the Tourney at Harrenhal) thus Ned thought of Lyanna and Harrenhal; not necessarily of just Rhaegar…
That's one arguably less confusing explanation. If you'd like to read the 'deeper' explanation then Ned saying "for the first time in years, he found himself remembering Rhaegar" even in the book is contradicted by several PoV chapters before that where he does in fact have multiple thoughts/conversations about Rhaegar. You could call this an oversight from GRRM but I believe it's intentionally showing that Ned isn't used to dwelling on the past. He's buried it for years, actively avoiding the Lyanna subject with his children and wife – but when he comes South the memories flood over him and suddenly his thoughts are often consumed by Rhaegar and the past.
The past is traumatic, having lost most of his family; he's avoided it for years. To quote Willam: "Take a rest and the world catches up with you."
Guest 2: You mean the Rykker heir? I'd say I felt bad writing his tale, but I have no heart :D tho really, spoilers; you'll have to wait and see!
Fannic: Tense is good! I don't like being too predictable if I can help it. Happy you're enjoying things n best of luck with your own fic :)