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 39: The Golden Throne
"To seek peace, we make war."
– King Rodrik the Ruthless
Wrightport was alive with music and merriment, the streets packed with citizens celebrating the years end as merchants set up stalls selling festive wares ranging from hot beverages to firewood. Brandon the Shipwrights statue in the centre of town was decorated with candles, the docks were frozen over with a thin layer of ice, the entire city cloaked in snow. Above the city stood Winterhold, the great seat of House Stark, standing defiant atop the white cliffs looming out over the vast city below.
Inside the main keep Prince Artos Stark hosted his brother's lords for the season's celebrations, the grey stone walls draped with banners as singer played the high harp and reciting a ballad while the Artos sat on the raised platform with Rodrik's wife to his right. The children sat below their raised platform eating and talking happily with their sisters and cousins and other kin. The great hall however was only half full, with many lords being absent. The war had called many of them away from their homes.
Queen Moria placed her hand on Artos to remind him of his speech, for gods how he hated giving them. He'd never been one for flowery words…
"My lords and ladies," Artos stepped up from his brother's throne with a cup of warm wine in hand. The room fell silent, the children stopping their antics to look up at the Regent Prince. "As the honor falls to my shoulders, allow me to formally welcome you all to Winterhold. It is always a pleasure to host these gatherings. My brother could not be here – as you all know – the lure of glory has called many of our loved ones away from us this winter. Would that we could be there, to shield them from the cold."
There was a muttering of agreements, with some light cheers; as the lords present raised their cups to the ruling Prince.
"Join me, my lords, in raising a cup to their success and more importantly; to safely returning home to our homes – whole and warm."
The room muttered in agreement as held up their cups. More than few wished they too were out fighting, something Artos could relate to.
"To the Winter Fleet!" Artos held his cup up. "May the gods watch over them and return them victorious!"
The guests cheered in unison, drinking deep from the cups. Artos sat back down, and the feast continued as before.
Soup, grapes, red funnel and crumbled cheese, hot crab pie, spiced squash, and more fish dishes than Artos cared to name; the Islands primarily lived on the fish trade with what little hunting there was to be had. There was hunting however and meats like venison were a delicacy reserved for the nobility in order to avoid over-hunting. Everyone else settled for rabbit, duck, cattle and other more readily available sources. "It's a good turnout," Queen Moria smiled, looking out over the hall.
"Aye," Artos agreed with his brother's wife, shoving a piece of venison into his mouth. "More came than expected…"
"Their own halls must be rather empty…"
She spoke the truth; most lords had jumped at the chance to sail with Rodrik for the chance of glory and land. Years of peace had long begun to wear on the Islands, and it showed well. "Wives, children, old folk." Artos scanned the tables. "Very few fighting men left. They've all left with Rodrik, not that I blame the lucky bastards..."
"My dear Artos," his brother's wife grinned. "Are you implying you don't enjoy your Queen's company?"
Artos rolled his eyes. "Very funny, you know what I mean Moria..."
"Aye," she shook her head. She knew how furious Artos had been when her husband decreed that he would stay behind.
The peace in the hall lasted all of a few minutes before-
"HEY!"
"It suits you."
"MOTHER!"
Jaina Stark sighed at her daughters.
"Don't throw food at your sister..."
"It's an improvement," Solana smiled wide, until her sister tossed some food back. Suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.
"YOU LITTLE BI-!"
"Not so funny now, is it?!" Serana stuck he tongue out.
"Enough!" Artos raised his voice, silencing his bickering nieces. "What would your father say if he was here?"
"Sorry uncle…"
"Sorry…"
They both lowered their heads as the youngest, Cali, giggled at her older sisters.
"You'll finish your food like civilized pups, or you'll go to bed without another bite!"
His threat lingered in the air for a moment, the sisters staring at each other as if to say 'this isn't finished' before returning to eat the food in silence. Artos was in that moment beyond glad he only had the one pup of his own. Brandon was his pride and joy, eating his food in silence with nought but a roll of his eyes.
"Ambassador," Artos straitened himself on his seat as the dark-skinned man stepped up to the raised platform. "I trust your enjoying the festivities?"
"Your family never fails to enjoy themselves," He said, not unkindly. "His imperial highness sends his best, to you and your brother in his conquest to the west. He only wishes the empire could do more to aid in King Rodrik's venture, alas as we often find ourselves, the empire is sadly preoccupied…"
Honied words that his true wishes about as obviously as if bees were buzzing about his damn head. The man wanted something from them.
"Another conflict brewing?" Artos raised an eyebrow; the empire rarely saw peace for more than a few years. "I'm afraid we'll be in no position to assist."
"Naturally," the imperial betrayed nothing. "I need not remind you of the ties between our two peoples…"
"You need not," Artos replied without a hint of emotion. "You will regardless, I'm sure…"
"Her highness, the Princess Cai is to become Queen of Winter someday and-"
"Not for many years she won't, Gods willing…"
"Naturally," the ambassador smiled kindly. "I only seek to… raise awareness of the-"
"Any call to arms you have for us," Artos cut the man off brutally. "You may take up with my brother – the King – or need I raise your awareness of who rules here?"
The man's smile faded for but a moment.
"That is not necessary," he bowed. "With your leave, I shall set sail on the morrow…"
"Give his Grace my regards, if you'd be so kind…"
"I shall do as you say Prince," He bowed, turning to take his leave.
"I-" The sky voice of the young Princess Cai Lóng-Stark spoke, grabbing the envoys attention.
"Princess?" The man eyed her warmly, dipping his head in respect.
"There's trouble?" Cai's eyes darted over to Prince Artos as if requesting permission to speak… but she found only a stoic look…
"Nothing to trouble yourself with Princess," the man smiled kindly. "Unrest among the outer forts; nothing a Princess as beautiful as yourself need concern herself with."
"I-" Cai Stark-Lóng shied away from her many questions, barely managing to hide her frown. "I see. Good dawn to you, Ambassador…"
"And to you, fair Princess…"
The imperial left with a few more fanciful bows, turning on his heels and followed by a handful of palace guards.
"Another war in the east," Queen Moria scowled, the women was more a warrior than a lady. She'd almost went with her husband to war, but Rodrik would have none of it for whatever reason. Artos assumed it was out of a desire to know his wife was safe at home – even if his sons were not; young Darion had already done his duty.
He looked at the young Cai girl now – a future Queen of Winter – too timid for his liking; but she was already carrying a future Prince or Princess.
"No concern of ours for now," Artos replied simply after a moment, leaning forward on his seat.
"Trouble in the east is always our concern, Artos…"
Winterhold had a long-storied history of assisting the Empire. Now, more than ever since Cai Lóng had joined the family; they were tired to the Empire by blood.
"Not when almost all of the fleet is off conquering," Artos countered with a stern look. "Not when the winds of winter are so close. Rodrik has already dragged his people into one war, the lords will want nothing but peace when they return home battered and tired from fighting. The east is not our concern, not right now at least..."
The Queen frowned but didn't argue – humming her mild agreement as the imperial envy walked away from them with a respect bow.
The feast continued on without anything of note. Outside the walls of Winterhold the city began to die down as the folk returned home and abandoned the streets in an attempt to stay warm. The snows were coming, earlier and thicker by the day, soon winter would truly be upon them and on the Islands that meant only one thing. Death. Winter on the islands was nothing short of hell and there was a reason most lords had a bastard son, it never hurt to have a backup in case the worst happened.
Brandon Stark found his way outside after the feast, with his wolf Sol to the side; all white fur – as the light snows fell around them.
It was quiet in the Godwood, here among the trees; Brandon had found himself here often of late.
"Cousin," the voice came from behind.
A black blur rushed up in the corner of Brandon's eye.
"Volki," he greeted his cousins wolf, all black as midnight. The wolf pawed at Sol as if to play.
"No welcome for me, eh?" Serana huffed, one hand on her hip in annoyance.
"I didn't see you there," Brandon knelt in the snow in scratch Volki behind his ears.
Princess Serana rolled her grey-ice eyes, taking a step forward through the light layer of snow.
She looked as she always did – more warrior than princess – dressed in her usual leathers with a longsword and dagger at her hip.
"I thought your mother might forbid your training," Brandon mused aloud. "After that show in the hall…"
"That?" Serana scoffed, waving it away. "Sisterly love, that; nothing to cry over…"
"Throwing food at your siblings is sisterly love, eh?"
Serana merely smirked, shrugging the question away as she drew her longsword.
"Enough talk," she decided, moving her foot back – taking the stance she'd been taught.
"So eager cousin," Brandon drew his own steel – ignoring as the pair's wolves ran about in the Godswood around them.
"We need to train if we're going to flee Bran," she pointed her blade forward. "Or have you forgotten the plan, eh?"
"Still on about that? I was drunk when I said it," Brandon scowled, lowing his blade somewhat.
They'd run from this place – just as Uncle Willam had done – to join King Rodrik in the west. Such was the idle chatter…
"Words spoken in your cups are words of truth," Serana's smirk grew tenfold, quoting her wayward uncle.
Brandon only groaned in annoyance, raising his steel back up and shifting his stance.
"If you can beat me little cousin," He smiled at her now. "I'll consider it…"
"Too easy," She pushed her weight forward, charging at her cousin without hesitation.
Leaving was the easy part. Not getting caught however was a whole other matter entirely.
These islands were stained with the blood of green-skinned demons. Winter had come for them, and nothing survived its wrath. A few hundred captives were lined up along the coastline, their throats slit, bodies fed to the sea and what false god that they once held, earning Rodrik Stark a reputation as his father's son.
"Report," King Rodrik commanded, sitting in his high seat at the far end of a wooden table. "What news of the other islands brother?"
"Little resistance, any captives were show the sword as you commanded," Edrik Stark answered his twin brother. They were practically identical if not for Rodrik's keeping his beard trimmed short while his twin was clean shaven. "Uncle reported he's lost a number of men fighting in the deeper jungles, but he's confident of victory…"
Not the first dealings Lord Odyn Fisher had with the green demons of these islands, but likely to be the last. Rodrik had ordered them all wiped out…
The King showed no emotion as he looked at the map, with small markers showing each section of the fleet that had split up under the command of lords, each with their own island to clear of inhabitants. This was an extermination. Some had been spared in the past – by his own brother no less – but there was no time for such things.
"Good," he spoke and flicked some of the enemy markers off the map. "These islands are ours. Now, we move on to bigger fish…"
"Your Grace," Lord Ryder spoke firmly, not quite showing respect. "Is this the part where you share your intentions, lad?"
"You'd do well to guard your tongue Ryder," Edrik scowled at the old stubborn lord. "My brother is your King…"
"It's nothing," Rodrik away it away, looking to the lord of House Ryder. "His lordship is curious – as is his right – though curiosity has been known to kill…"
Edrik's hand gripped the handle of his blade ever so lightly. Ryder had lost a son to curiosity once before… the words were all too obvious…
Ryder merely scoffed. "As you say Your Grace," the old lord hummed, backing down somewhat as he eyed the room carefully.
The others were present. Wright, Sunstark, Seastark, Umber; but none were so on edge as Lord Greystark – ready and willing to cut Ryder down in an instant.
"I aim to use these islands as more of a way-station than anything, my lords." Rodrik explained, breaking the tension. "It's a way to sail from here to our coming conquest, these islands act as a perfect midway point. The land is plentiful. The locals easily removed. Its future ports can also easily be governed by a single lord…"
That caught the attention of a few lords present, eager for more land and title. Once more it was Ryder to ask. "Who will these lands go to?"
"The position will be too important to rely on anyone but a Stark, gentlemen." Rodrik replied with a stern look that bore no argument from any man present. "As such it is my brother, Prince Artos, that will be given the honor. He is a Stark and I trust him to be worthy of that name."
"His blunder at Nefer speaks to-"
"One failing does not sentence a man to oblivion, my lord." Rodrik eyed Lord Ryder with a glare. "We are human, all of us; are we not?"
"My boy died to your brother's failure…"
"And he was stripped of his title," Rodrik countered easily – his face as stone – he paused only briefly. "He was denied the glory of the conquest to come too; so can any man here deny he has suffered for his shortcomings? Any man? Speak, if you believe my father was too lenient, perhaps I should have him fogged through the streets!?"
"Your father was my friend bo-"
Prince Edrik stared daggers at the man.
"-Your Grace. I would never suggest such a thing…"
"No," Rodrik calmed somewhat, his expression softening. "I do not doubt it, my lord; but I suggest you place the blame for Bjorn's death on his killers..."
"Our brother has made his share of mistakes," Edrik added calmly, eyeing the old lord. "We cannot dwell in the past forever, however…"
"My father was deeply saddened by the loss of your son," Rodrik tried to appear saddened. "As was I, or do you doubt that my lord?"
"No," Lord Ragnar Ryder shook his head. "Still, to reward him with a position…"
"Prince Artos is loyal," Lord Arlan Sunstark was quick to defend his son-in-law. "And he knows the sting of loss well, Ragnar; as well as anyone here…"
It had been Sunstark's daughter who wed Prince Artos, after all, dying in childbirth to bring Prince Brandon into the world.
"As you say," Lord Ragnar Ryder hummed, nodding slightly to his king.
T was a foul thing, for a father to lose a son; then to have to his killers be ghosts… shadows… to have no justice…
"Will there be a keep to raise?" Edrik asked, breaking the silence that had begun to loom over the room.
"In time," Rodrik confirmed quickly. "He'll need a seat to rule from, some standing force to ensure that trade flows smoothly."
"My congratulations to the young Prince," Lord Brandel Seastark rolled his eyes. "You've dodged our original question however my boy..."
"Patience," Rodrik answered his father-in-law, bringing up a somewhat freshly drawn map that showed an island larger than anything in the Hundred Islands and slamming it down on the table. "We'll leave some hundred men behind to finish up the locals here, while the rest of the fleet regroups and sails further west to this island. Ibben."
"Never heard of it," Ryder raised an eyebrow, looking curiously at the new land on the map before him.
Rodrik shook his head. "You wouldn't have my lord; the scouts have mapped it out in great detail of late however…"
"We've not been idle my lords," Edrik confirmed, backing up his twin as always; such was his duty in life. It was a truth he lived gladly with.
"The largest island is called Ib, forested and mountainous containing two cities. South of Ib are scattered islands of little significance. Southeast however is a moderately-sized mountainous island called Far Ib, containing the city known locally as Ib Sar." Rodrik showed it all on the map, his wargs had indeed been very busy.
"These people sure like the word Ib, huh?" Ryder's eldest son mocked.
"What kind of resistance can we expect?" Sunstark asked, curious now more than ever.
"They are a merchant people," Rodrik explained as he allowed the gathered lords to look at the map among themselves. "Highly isolated. This means they'll be ill-prepared and without allies to call upon. Their fleet is laughable at best, although it will not be nearly as swift a fight as the last, we can still be confident of victory."
Ryder looked over the map before handing it to the lord to his left. "What of the locals? Once we've taken their lands, I doubt they'll be content."
"They will die," Rodrik said bluntly, betraying no emotion; uncaring for their fates one way or another.
The lords looked to each other, some whispering and others seemingly unaffected by the notion.
"All of them, my King?" Lord Sunstark asked, very hesitantly.
"All of them," Rodrik replied coldly. "They are from all reports incapable of reproducing with other peoples, such pairings leading to malformed and sterile offspring; or outright stillborns. As such the only course of action is extermination. I have spoken with the emperor, and he is willing to aid in the re-population of the region."
"In return for what, brother?" Lord Wright asked then, knowing that nothing came free from the empire.
"A single port to call his own," Rodrik shrugged. "He stands to gain much from the increased trade, knows a good investment when he sees one. He'll send a few thousand of his people over the years that follow our conquest. Once the locals are removed – their stain cleaned – the region will become our largest trading hub."
"And who would govern such a thing?" Lord Sunstark asked, a smile appearing on his kings face in reply; while Lord Greystark look on in silence.
"Prince Edrik," the King smiled warmly. "Or did you think I had forgotten my dear twin? I would trust no other with this honor; high as it is…"
It was only Ryder to grumble at that – if one fail to note Lord Towers glare; that Rodrik did not… but he ignored all the same…
"And the rest of us?" Thorim Fisher spoke, present while his father led the southern operations.
"The region is vast," Rodrik put all the lords at ease. "There will be ample opportunity for you all, have no fear of that my friends."
Winter was coming for the peoples of Ib and like the green-skinned demons before them, there would be no mercy. It was not long before the Winter Fleet gathered with King Rodrik at the northern most island; where he shared his plans with all and finally set sail further west than the fleet had ever sailed before. In the back of his mind Rodrik thought of his youngest brother. Willam was alive – he'd learnt that from Cregan – gods be damned, he'd find the wayward wolf. He'd bring him home.
Far Ib was a mountainous island southeast of Ib settled by the Ibbenese. The second largest of the isles of Ibben and a bleaker and poorer place, directly in the path of the Winter Fleet. The town located on the island – known locally as Ib Sar – was the only Ibbenese town on the entire island. It was filled with the lowest of the lowest that the Ibbenese had to offer, leading to most fleeing upon the sight of the Stark sails that appeared on their horizon; as they stood no chance of victory.
Ib Sar was burnt days past, every man cut down from the armed defenders to the babes at the breast, no mercy was shown and now all that remained of Ib Sar was ash and ruin. In response to the unprovoked slaughter the forces of Ibben rallied, moving through the mountain passes, believing themselves safe on similar ground.
"We keep moving," Prince Varin raised his voice to be heard over the howling wind. "The valley is up ahead… I think…"
"You think?" Serana could've laughed if it wasn't so bloody cold. "My dear cousin, are we lost?"
Gods grant him strength; he wished his father had sent her straight back to Winterhold…
"No, we're not lost…"
"Are you sure?"
His wolf Freki was sniffing the air uncertainly, the winds blowing their back fur around. Serana's wolf was faring no better…
"Nope," Varin cursed at the wind as it blew back his hood to reveal his raven black hair, ignoring it and soldiering onward up the mountainside with his beloved and annoyingly sarcastic cousin. "Father gave us a task, by the gods we'll see it through!"
If she didn't want to be here, she could've just bloody well stayed home…
"Heads up!" Serana cried out, aiming a light crossbow up ahead of them.
Varin ducked just in time, the bolt hitting an Ibbenese man in thick furs and sending them reeling off the mountain.
There were tribes of them living in these mountainous regions, covered in fur and strange giant white feathers from no bird they knew.
"You. Fucking. Idiot."
"What?" She raised an eyebrow in question.
"Could've shot me," Varin frowned, brushing snow off his furs.
"I saved your arse," Serana huffed at him. "Just admit it…"
"I could've taken it," came the reply, pointing his longsword to make a point, the blade dark as midnight; forged from the strange oily greataxe his uncle Cregan once found in the depths of some gods forsaken temple – or so the story went – he'd gifted it to Rodrik and the axe was forged into two swords. One for him, one for Darion.
"So bloody dramatic," Serana rolled her eyes, moving a strand of hair away from her eyes as the winds blew.
"And you're careless. Let's just get to the peak and-"
"Wait," She held up her hand. "You hear that?"
Varin listened, hearing nothing beside the wind.
"Nope," he popped the P for effect. "I don't see shi-"
"There!"
A faint voice on the wind…
"I still don't hear shit Se-"
"Come on!" She ran up the path, as her royal cousin sighed heavily.
"Go scout the valley, they said," Varin muttered as he tracked through the snow. "Up the damn mountain, they said…"
"Heelllp!" The voice was louder now, seeming suddenly all too real; but in no language they knew.
"Seems she's not crazy," Varin thought with a frozen smirk. "Could've fooled me…"
"H- Help!" The voice cried out to them, still muffled by the winds and biting snow in some strange foreign tongue.
"Hello there," Serana addressed the voice first. It was a woman – she thought – hanging from a small branch on the mountainside.
The stranger looked at them, wide-eyes, desperate and clearly afraid. It was a child of barely ten, at a glance.
"Princess," Duran Greystark spoke with caution, following closely behind them. "There's no time to-"
"H- H- Help!"
"They need help," Serana frowned at the Greystark man.
Durry? Durin? She didn't care to remember his name, but she didn't like him.
"Greetings," Varin leaned over the edge for a closer look, eyeing the stranger warily.
The stranger was a young girl – a local to these parts – they'd seen plenty at the town of Ib Sar… before they'd burnt it…
"Some of us came prepared," Serana proclaimed happily, detaching some rope from her belt and tossing it over the cliff face, sticking her tongue out at her royal cousin as she did so. "Grab hold," She spoke to the young girl, though she couldn't possibly understand them. "We're friends!"
Varin kept an eye on his cousin, watching between her and the little Ibbenese girl; ugly as she was – with its broad-shoulders and broader chest – even for a child, the girl held many of their people's unflattering characteristics. Sloping brow, heavy ridges, small sunken pale-yellow eyes with square teeth and large jaws.
"Got you," one of the men grabbed Serana at the last second, before she could stumble over the mountain's edge after the child.
"T- Thanks Uncle," Serana smiled at him, brushing the snow and rock residue off her rather tattered furs.
Cregan Snow looked at her scoldingly before brushing some snow from her hair, muttering "be careful" as he moved on.
"T- T- Thanks," The girl stumbled in her native tongue as its yellow eyes tracked Cregan, leaving them.
"What's she saying, you think?"
"I've no clue," Serana answered her cousin honestly.
"Prince," Duran spoke to him now – not the Princess – his eyes impatient.
"We should keep up with Prince Snow," one of the wargs argued, eyes darting up the snowy narrow path ahead.
"I know, I know," Varin waved the man on, sending him up the path ahead with the others. Their bastard uncle had soldiered onward.
Eagles circled in the air around them, great golden creatures with vast wings; fighting against the mountain winds with little effort.
Freki and Volki had bounded off ahead too, chasing each other; uncaring and unafraid despite the blizzard.
Those wolves were as fearless as they came.
"We can't just leave her here Varry…"
Varin frowned at his cousin. That was exactly what they should do…
"We've killed hundreds of her people Sera," he decided after a moment of thought, the winds assaulting them furiously. "She doesn't understand a word we're saying – not to mention she's half frozen already. There's nothing we can do for her now. Stopping has already delayed us enough…"
"When did you become so cold, cousin?"
Prince Varin frowned, recalling the slaughter at Ib Sar. His father had been right, war was an ugly thing…
"When we got so high up in this damn mountain," he replied instead with a huff. "You could've stayed in Winterhold… you should have…"
She'd slipped onto an ambassador's vessel and wandered her way to the Hundred Islands, where Lord Fisher found her hiding. Like uncle like niece, it seemed…
Varin had laughed so very hard when his father saw Serana brought before him at the war council as Fisher's new cupbearer; all smiles and innocence as if she'd done nothing wrong. And how Uncle Edrik had fumed at his daughter, his own petite version of Prince Willam; is what the other lords said about her now.
Brandon had been dragged before them too, his head lowered in embarrassment when the King had told him how he'd expected better of Starks.
"Nope," Serana put her fur cloak over the girl, its wide pale-yellow eyes still very much afraid.
It was cold, but she had the blood of winter in her veins… or so she told herself to shrug off the biting winds…
"That's it, just Nope?" Varin's frown would freeze at this rate.
"Aye," Serana lifted the little girl up and held her, wrapped in her furs.
She'd be slower with the child. It was a damn foolish sentimental thing…
"Fuck sake," Varin's frown turned, sighing. "Just… don't fall behind, you hear?"
"Never," she replied easily, confident, determined, beaming with pride.
She would be the death of him, Varin thought as they pressed on.
"Toth," the small child spoke in her guttural, grunting tongue.
"What's that? Your name?"
The child buried its head into her cloak, hiding from the snows.
"Toth, it is," Serana smiled her best smile as the child clutched to her for warmth.
"Great," Varin sighed from up ahead. "You've named it… now we'll have to feed it; your father's going to love this…"
Serana chuckled nervously at the thought as the winds showed no sign of cutting them any kind of break, though they set up the narrow paths without further incident, for a while at least. "We're almost there," Cregan spoke, leading the way as he generally found himself doing of late. He'd put his hood back up in a poor attempt to fight the cold. His black padded boots kept his feet from freezing, along with the thick bear-fur to his cloak for the propose of this little trip.
"Great," Varin nudged his cousin with a smirk. "Now we can all freeze together at the top!"
Cregan held his hand up and stopped in his tracks, removing his hood and slowly drawing steel from his scabbard.
"Hold," came the call; passed back through the line of men. A figure was in front of them, barley viable through the snowstorm.
"More of them," Cregan muttered, moving his blade to his shield it's shield; a large, round and plain looking thing but for the wolf's head engraved in the centre.
He held the sword out front, sword to the side… waiting…
*Hiss*
One arrow struck Cregan's shield, pinging away and off the mountain – down into the void below them.
*Thud*
A bolt came from behind, striking the figure's leg with force.
Cregan drove his blade into the crippled man and kicked him off the cliff. A third and fourth fell as he pushed forward, the path becoming wider as they reached the opening at the top. "Boy!" Cregan yelled, holding another Ibbenese against the cliff face with his shield and driving his sword into its skull to finish the job.
"Aye!" Prince Varin dodged past his cousin, lunging forward with quick succession, impaling one man through the throat before cutting across his chest.
Cregan dashed forward, finishing off the dying man with a swift stroke that severed head from shoulder.
They soon came into an opening, grateful to finally be off the narrow path. "There!" Serana shouted from behind, the storm still raging. In the clearing they entered was ruins of an old temple, a lost relic from ancient times; back when the Ibbenese God-Kings ruled far into Essos… before the Dothraki came…
A great bird circled above – they could hear as it dived through the storm and the sky; swooshing through the air.
"What in the gods-"
*THUD*
"Arggh…"
The warg coughed up blood, hands wrapping around what looks like a large quill that protruded from his chest.
"What in the fuck," Varin muttered as the wind battered his hood back down.
The wolves had started to growl low, baring their fangs and ready to pounce on what they felt was a threat.
It landed with a crunch of snow and ice, the figure obscured by blizzard, it lingered – watching them with malice in silver eyes.
The screech was deafening, causing more than one man to shield his ears.
Then, out from the blizzard, the bird charged from the blizzard.
"For gods sake," Cregan cursed as it charged, on foot, twice the size of a man; with the rear legs of a cat and the front talons of an eagle.
The creature lunged with its beak, crushing one warg and thrashing the man around; throwing him away like a child might throw a doll.
"Griffin," the child Toth mumbled in her native tongue, hiding her face when she heard the screams.
"Kill it!" Cregan yelled, as several wargs threw spears at the creature. "Crossbows!"
The bolts sprang forth into the creature's thick snow-white hide as it reared up on its hind legs, flapping giant silvery eagle's wings at the intruders.
As its wings flapped, quills more akin to silver shortswords than feathers flew out; impaling one man, a second, then a third…
Volki dodged one of the quills, smaller and nimbler than his brother Freki as he lunged at the creatures hindlegs to sink his fangs deep.
Several great golden eagles were diving down at the monster too; clutching their talons at the beast to minimal effort as it shoved them aside easily.
"Make for the ruins!" Prince Varin gave the order, dodging a number of quill-like projectiles as the griffin flapped its wings and took back to the safety of the skies and the blizzard. Time slowed down for a moment as Varin's eyes laid on a fallen warg, impaled by one of the long silver quills. Dead. A grievous death at that too…
They slammed shut the great doors to the ruined hall. This had been a castle once, it seemed; or a fort? A temple? Time had stripped away its history.
There was *THUD* on the roof of the ruin, or at least what was left standing of the ancient and ruined hall.
"What the fuck is that thing supposed to be!?"
It was the young Princess to ask the question on all their thoughts.
She'd never seen any bird like it – part cat part eagle – what were gods thinking, creating such a thing?
"Fuck knows," Cregan replied with a huff, eyes on the roof as the creature could be heard.
It screeched again, as if in pain; or in warning… it was hard to tell exactly…
"It'll be alright Toth," Serana assured the girl who couldn't understand a word she was saying.
Toth, such as she was, didn't seem any more scared than she'd seemed before… oddly enough…
"It's coming back," Cregan directed their attention to a large hole in the ruins roof as the creature poked its head through to eye them. Its eyes were shards of silver, its feathers white as snow; as if it were winter itself. It clawed at the roof, ripping away chucks to enlarge the hole for itself to enter…
"We got a plan, Uncle?" Varin asked nervously, sword at the ready; alongside the other wargs all crammed inside the ruined hall.
"Run or fight," Cregan grabbed a spear from one of the wounded wargs. "Fucker's hurt though…"
The creature was bleeding. If it could bleed it could die, or so they'd all been taught one time or another.
"I ain't one for running," the young Prince muttered his brave reply.
"Not a fan either lad," Cregan steeled himself for the fight to come with his spear at the ready.
"We've a plan then," Varin supposed, mustering his best impression of Uncle Willam's brave false smile.
The beast was met with an array of bolts as his full head stuck through the roofs hole.
"The roof is-"
*CRASH*
It fell, crushing a warg beneath its talons, though its wings were now constricted by walls.
Cregan charged headlong, using his shield as a wall between himself and the talons while taunting the bird.
The others circled around and unloaded rounds at the beats wings while Prince Snow keep its attention on him.
It's first blows were easily deflected by his shield. Or at least, he shrugged off the pain well with a grunt and gritted teeth.
"Strike when she comes for me!" Cregan commanded, side-stepping to the left and narrowly dodging a lunge from the beast; taking an opening to slash at its face – stabbing the tip of his steel steal straight into one of its silver-snow eyes – blinding it in part as it screeched in agony and slashed out violently.
Varin took the opening to make his own strike at the beast as it howled in a mixture of pain and anger.
"Hey, ugly!" He got its attention with a few slashed to the now badly damaged wings. "Tell your mother her eggs were delicious!"
The bird seemed to understand – if that was even possible – as it turned to face this new young Prince.
"Uncle, now!" Varin shouted atop his lungs as his uncle slid under the beast's stomach, driving a spear up into its underbelly and causing it to wail in agony.
"KILL IT!" Cregan screamed out from under the creature, desperately holding onto the shaft of his spear as the beast trashed around in a crazed panic.
The creature was moving slightly as the wargs and Prince Varin drove their swords and spears at it; hacking and slashing like butchers gone mad. The beast turned in agony to face Varin just in time to land the killing bow. He missed. The Prince's sword embedded itself into the bird's neck – missing the head by an inch – not quite killing it.
The griffin screeched, gurgling on blood as it did so; a gruesome sound.
"Uncle!" Verin cried out as the creature collapsed, breathing heavily; but still alive.
"Prince Snow!" One of the wargs yelled, as last he saw the bastard prince the man was under that creature…
It collapsed from exhaustion and loss of blood. Prince Varin said nothing as he raised his oily dark longsword above the griffin's skull, the blade sliding through bone with surprising ease as he muttered "die you winded bastard" to the creature as if it understood. It died with a final defiant flap of its winds, now cut to ribbons…
"Fuck sake," a voice broke the silence that washed over the ruins. He was lying up against one of the half-broken stone pillars.
The wolves had dragged him out from under the creature, just before it collapsed.
"Uncle!" Varin rushed over, leaving his sword in the bird's skull.
"I'll be fine," Cregan assured the boy. "It's just a scratch…"
"Your arm is broken," Varin countered, scowling at the sight of it.
"I've had worse," came the reply with an attempted shrug, only to feel a sharp stabbing of pain from the break.
"W- What was that…"
Varin looked to his cousin, her face frozen with fear as she was still clutching to the native child.
"Uncle?" Varin asked, unsure; clueless as to the beast's name.
"No fuck idea," came the unhelpful answer. "It's dead though…"
Cregan thought his days of outlandish wild nonsense were left back in Westeros, but Noooooo, giant bird-cat-things….
"Griffin," came the words of young Toth, a sad look in the child's eyes when she looked at the slain creature.
"Griffin eh?" Cregan hummed, ignoring the sharp stabbing pain.
"As good a name as any," Varin supposed with a shrug, pulling his dark steel free of the creature's skull.
Looking closely at the corpse now – the blood aside – it was almost majestic looking. The body, tail, and back legs were of a lion; the head and wings of an eagle with an eagle's talons at its front. A powerful and majestic creature. One that had tried to kill them all… so why hadn't it attacked the Ibbenese?
The world just kept getting bigger by the day and with that came too many questions with too few bloody answers…
"It's feathers," one of the wargs noted, plucking one free with some struggle.
The quills were silver and as sharp as ice…
"Why did it attack us?"
A hell of a question, that was.
"Toth!?" Serana's voice was frantic, taking her free hand off the beast's head; she'd lost the child.
"Little thing's over by the alter," Varin eyed the child curious, wiping the blood off his dark steel and sheeting it.
The child had rushed out from Sera's grasp, running over what appeared to be a alter – to some god or another – gilded in gold; as she brushed aside the layer of snow and dust it gleamed in the pale light. "Gold," Serana muttered, running her hand across the surface in awe. "What in the gods name…"
"Griffin," little Toth came walking back up to her, holding something large and shiny in her small hands.
It was a stone – silver and shiny – so much so that Serana could see her own face in the rock.
The child muttered "Griffin" once more as she held the ro… wait…
"That's not a rock, is it…"
Volki was sniffed at the child and the shiny rock in its hands.
"Nope," Varin popped the P as he wandered over, eyeing the child with suspicion.
In its hands was an egg that looked to be solid silver; smooth and cold to the touch… but an egg…
"I'll be damned," Cregan muttered as he looked at it. "The world just keeps getting stranger…"
The child refused to let it go, even though they could've easily taken it from her – it was Serana to stop them.
"Leave her alone," she'd growled like a wolf at the wargs.
Volki was there in a heartbeat, eager to guard its master against anyone.
"King Rodrik will want it, Princess…"
"It's hers," Serana didn't back down though. "You'll not steal it…"
"Enough!" Cregan barked, sighing; rolling his eyes at how stubborn the girl was. Too similar to Willam, this one…
"Uncle," she began to plead with those puppy dog eyes of hers.
"Don't do that," Cregan frowned. "The child can carry it, but if the King wishes it…"
"I'll vouch for her," Serana promised too easily as Volki whined pleadingly with the humans.
Prince Snow merely frowned deeper at that. She made promises too readily without any means to fulfil them.
It was a short walk to the valley's edge – and their whole reason for coming so far – looking down from the cliffside. They waited.
The eagles peered down from above, watching an army of hairy axe-loving men, feeling the cold winds blowing past their wings. They could see for miles around, flying above, looking down upon the twists and turns of the mountain passes and watching as the enemy marched through the snows; believing themselves safe and secure. They ensured that every detail of the enemy host was noticed, every solider, every straggler and every weakness was seen and reported. One soared higher than the others, uninterested in watching single men, but the host as a whole. They were some ten thousand strong by their eyes, armed with axes and shaggy brown shields.
A thought muttered silent prayers for the gods to grant these people the mercy of a clean death, for they would find none from mortal hands…
They dived lower, exiting the narrow mountain pass ahead of the enemy and entering a large open valley with a small pristine lake to the right that fed a small waterfall. The wargs were up ahead, knelt atop the valley in the snows beside those others that joined him in the sky. The battle was afoot, their tasks clear as crystal waters.
Prince Darion had gathered some five thousand men to his side, glad in heavy plate with large and strong shields. "Prepare yourselves!" He commanded them, stroking the fur of his wolf Fenrir to grant himself courage. "The fools have taken the bait," he raised his voice. "Victory will soon be ours for the taking!"
Darion drew his sword, a thing of dark oily metal. The eagles dove above him as the Ibbenese host entered the opening of a small valley on the opposite side, the looks on their ugly face too priceless. "It seems they weren't expecting us!" Trian Greystark jested, the Heir to his house, earning a laugh from his men to raise spirits.
They were all afoot, what horses King Rodirk had brought for the invasion were somewhat limited and not ideal for these conditions. The enemy were shouting and muttering among themselves, shocked that the enemy had somehow met them. These were their lands, after all. How did foreign invaders know it so well? Regardless, the enemy seemed to understand that they outnumbered the invaders two to one. They charged forward, pass the lake, straight to Prince Darion and his men.
"SHIELDS!" Darion cried out, raising his rounded shield and locking it with his men's own shields. A wall of steel was formed at the pass.
The clash was fast and brutal, like waves upon rocks, braking on spear and sword.
Fenrir ripped and tore at the Ibbenese with ease, by far the biggest and strongest of his litter.
"WE HOLD!" Trian Greystark cried out bravely, driving his sword outward in a stabbing motion.
"WINTERHOLD!" Darion yelled as he stabbed out at the enemy, standing alongside experienced swords, the best his family had. These men and women had served for years, with officers staying on for longer. The bulk of the Islands military consisted of levied men and women as one would expect, but the elite standing army of Winterhold was a different story. Well-armed, well trained, well equipped, gathered from around the Islands from all walks of life and trained to fight as a group.
The Greycloaks had been trained for this, though years of peace had softened them somewhat; their training was second to none.
They fought as a unit, never breaking in search of individual glory. They knew their strength came from functioning as a whole, like bricks in a wall.
The clashing of steel and spilling of guts went on for barely a minute before the sound of shouts came riding on the northern wind.
"TO THE PRINCE!" A voice screamed in the distance, his voice barely making it to Darion past the chaos of battle. After dropping another short hairy bastard, he sighted a glorious thing; as his Uncle Edrik stormed through the pass behind the Ibbenese. This newly arriving second host locked their shields and began to slowly advance, slamming steel against shield to get the enemies attention. They chanted curses, largely and crudely insulting the enemy's mothers.
"Now!" Darion commanded, his shield wall advancing against a shocked and tired enemy.
Step by step they gained ground and eventually connected with the second host's wall of shields, merging into a single formation that continued to push back the enemy. "TO THE LAKE!" The voice of Prince Edrik rang in the air as the invaders pushed what remained of the enemy towards the lake. "VICTORY IS OURS!"
It had been bloodier than Darion hoped, too many of his own had fallen or been wounded. He'd envisioned a clearer trap. The enemy, or at least the few thousand that remained out of the ten thousand that charged forward at the start of things, were successfully pushed back to the frozen lake. Those that refused to comply were cut off and dealt with. Now the remains of the Ibbenese host stood trapped – some slipping – on the bed of ice waiting for a blow that never came.
"HOLD!" Darion yelled so loud that his lungs hurt, the icy air biting, his army halted on the edge of the ice.
The shield wall remained intact, the weaker chains reforging themselves quickly during this momentary pause.
High cliff walls surrounded the small frozen body of water and the army that called it home, the only exits being through Darion's army or down the waterfall to the rear. Atop the cliffs numerous dark figures appeared on the edges, standing ominously as their cloaks fluttered in the breeze.
"Winter is Here," Prince Darion took a few steps forward, out from his shield wall.
He held his arm up in the air, smiling at his enemy; devious and proud in his victory here.
As the young heir lowered his arm, the figures above followed his command and arrows began to rain down onto the ice and those unlucky enough to not be paying attention, or simply lacking shields to protect themselves. The Ibbenese wore no plate, in attire that protected from cold doing nothing to stop the rain of death that now faced them. Most cowered and died. Some rushed Darion's wall of shields and others jumped down the waterfall in an attempt of escape. They would not be followed.
Victory was had and the bulk of the Ibbenese force wiped out with minimal cost to the invaders.
The archers above the cliffs vanished and in the background their eagles circled, pleased with themselves.
"Fine work little brother," Darion thought with a warm smile, turning his eyes away from the cliffside.
A women placed a hand on his shoulder then, causing him to spin around. She was lean of build and long of face, wearing a dark green longcoat sewn together in such a way as to make it look like a dress of leaves and a green cloak with a red cloak-clasp in the shape of a leaf. Her belt was like bark, and in the darkness of her hood green eyes seemed to almost glow. "Prince," The women spoke as she pushed back her hood to reveal flowing chestnut hair and a warm smile. "The day is yours, as was promised…"
"As if there was any doubt," Darion smirked, shrugging off the woman's hand as he raised his sword up high.
The army cheered for their prince and this victory, with bloodied swords, but to win with so few losses was a thing to celebrate.
"The gods are happy, Prince Darion…"
He looked at the woman, a green priestess in service to his father. "We lost too many…"
"They died well," the green woman only smiled at him, comforting but somehow distant.
"Aye," Darion sighed, lowing his sword. "A small comfort to the living though, I fear…"
The princess kept her smile, bowing her head slightly before walking away; her clothes moving gently in the cold winds.
"Word must be sent to my father," Darion turned to his distant cousin. "See to it, would you Trian?"
"Consider it done," the Heir to House Greystark bowed respectfully and without complaint.
The winds of winter blew across the valley as the army celebrated, though the war was far from done.
The water below was still as a lake as wargs soured in between the sails of Fisher, Mormont, Seastark, Wright and Ryder. Ahead was a true warship, a galley of three decks, built of ancient ironwood, tweaked with few ideas taken from years of trial and error and some suggestions from the empire to maintain a ship with a single purpose. Scores of scorpions bristled the decks, with spare parts kept in the holds below alongside a trained crew of carpenters who could mend any damage the ship took, whether it was caused by storm or battle. The sails were graced with the wolf of Stark. The Shipwright was the flagship of the fleet, if looks didn't make that all too obvious…
A hawk dived in, souring over the deck and landing behind the king.
He wore a breastplate with faulds attached to protect his front waist and hips, along with matching fine thick steel gauntlet and legs alongside ornate yet practical silver pauldrons covering his shoulders in the shape of snarling direwolves. Brandon moved up beside him, bowing his head in respect to his kindly uncle.
"Victory in the pass," King Rodrik answered the unasked question.
"Sera and the others are-"
"Fine and well," Rodrik answered, sparing the boy a kind glance to assure him – handing over the hawk's letter, written and signed by a Greystark hand.
Victory against the savages, it reported, alongside talk of a creature half eagle and half lion; straight out of myth.
He'd have called it nonsense, but far be it for him to question the word of a Greystark…
"I shouldn't have brought her with me…"
"It's done lad," Rodrik dismissed the notion. "You helped her leave – accept it – move on, understand?"
It was easier to say than it was to do… at least for him…
"Aye," Brandon held his head lower. "Your Grace…"
King Rodrik turned only briefly to look at his brother's son.
"Your father was furious, you know…"
That was an understatement. What could he do though, stand idle while others fought and died?
"I-" Brandon frowned in thought, an anger boiling in his heart. "I want to fight, uncle…"
"I know," Rodrik hummed his reply after a moment. The boy had courage by the shipload.
This was his first war but so far, the king had kept him at his side throughout – away from the fighting.
"Come here," the King demanded, motioning to his side by the ships railing. "Tell me what you see Prince Brandon…"
Moving to the edge of the ship, a great city was burning on the horizon. It was a city of cobbled alleys, steep hills, with teeming docks and shipyards, lit by whale-oil lamps suspended on iron chains. It was grey, gloomy, and being sacked by a large force of men. You could see the fires and smoke from off the shore.
"Victory here too," King Rodrik stated, having placed a hand of his nephew's shoulder. "I have my own reports, but tell me; what say you?"
"I see-"
Burning, death, destruction, battle… death…
"Do you see glory out there, Bran?"
No. He couldn't see that anywhere…
"There's none," Rodrik kept his eyes on the horizon. "All this death – such is war, it'll never change – but it's a fool who seeks glory my boy."
He'd been kept from the fighting. The king had stayed by his side too, away from the thick of battle… and Brandon had wondered why that was…
"So," Rodrik pried, deeming to glance over at the young Prince. "Do you see it yet lad?"
"I-" Brandon blinked, hands on the railing as he watched the city burn. "I don't know Your Grace…"
The King smiled, humming in quiet reply to his honesty. At the boy wasn't lying to him like so many others might.
"It's the greatest irony," Rodrik told him after a moment. "To seek peace, we make war."
"Why aren't you fighting with them Uncle…"
The late King Brandon would've been over there, in the thick of it, cutting down men with a great smile on his face.
"Do you think me a craven, eh lad?"
"No!" Brandon barked, wide-eyed. "Never, uncle, I wou-"
Rodrik truly laughed – a rare thing to see – as he patted the young man on his shoulder.
"Just testing you," he smirked devilishly at his nephew.
The king had an odd sense of humour sometimes…
"I'm not fighting because I needn't do so," Rodrik answered calmly, clearly, without a hint of conflict in his voice. "My son – your cousin – has won one battle of late; though it was an assured thing against primitives. Glory and renown is a thing for future kings to strive and achieve. A king must look beyond such selfish desires…"
Rodrik's reputation was a ruthless one built by his choices and his own father's legacy. No man living could call him weak and hope to live for long.
"I'm not so old uncle," Brandon nearly huffed, but thought it childish.
"No," Rodrik's smirked hadn't faded. "You're eight and ten, are you not, eh lad?"
"Aye," he nodded, still watching the distance fires burn.
His cousins were six or seven and ten, a whole year or two his younger; yet they'd led men into battle…
"Bedded a woman yet, have you?"
Brandon nearly choked on that as the king laughed heartily at his response.
"I'll take that as a no," Rodrik assumed knowingly. "Never killed a man neither, have you Bran?"
It was all he could do to shake his head, mildly shamed at the truth of things.
"Your father only killed his first man at twenty and three, did you know?"
"N- No," Brandon blinked, genuinely surprised; as his father rarely if ever spoke of his own deeds.
"Best sword I've ever seen, your old man is; no competition – but he didn't take a life for many years…"
He supposed his father never had cause to take a life before then… but it was still surprising…
"His first woman was your mother," Rodrik said quietly, his smile fading entirely at the memory of her.
Nobody really spoke of his mother. Randvi Sunstark, was her name, taken from the world by brining her son into it.
"His first love and his last," the King looked over at him now. "No shame in that. Do you think less of him now though, I wonder?"
"No," Brandon replied quickly, easily, without a second's thought. How could he? His father was a great man.
"And why would you, eh? I could think of worse fathers…"
The king had a strange forlorn look in his eyes for a brief moment.
"This life is short," he looked out at the burning city. "Your deeds will define you – in the eyes of your friends and your enemies, that are too often one and the same – do you see? In the end what matters is doing what needs to be done, not what anyone else may expect of you. All this? It need not stain your hands, not here, not yet…"
Brandon scowled, thinking for a moment, finding himself unsure as to the words his uncle wanted to hear.
"My father never enjoyed killing," Rodrik admitted abruptly to him in barely a whisper.
"I-" Brandon looked to his uncle suddenly. His namesake was called 'The Bloody' for good reason…
"He wasn't a kind man – perhaps I'm not either – but he was a strong king, bound by my grandfather's legacy just as I am by his own."
"Why?" Brandon asked after a moment thought. "Why is this war what needs to be done…"
The king looked at him, then back to the burning city. Men, Women and Children would be dying or dead by now… but such as the price paid…
"Security," he answered simply. "My father and his grandfather before him fought to secure our families rule throughout their lives, but this here? This butchery will secure our families rule for generations to come Bran, do you see? You will rule Midgard someday – where trade will flow – the beating heart of our kingdom…"
The Hundred Islands were to be grant to Prince Artos, while Ibben would…
"Uncle Edrik will hold Ibben…"
"Indeed," Rodrik hummed his reply.
Starks at every corner of the kingdom, watching, ruling… perhaps forming new cadet branches…
"So long as the bounds of family hold strong," the King muttered too quietly, as if to prey to the gods.
"I want to fight though Uncle," Prince Brandon insisted despite it with all the ignorance and blind courage of youth.
Rodrik didn't look away from the burning city. "You shall, though choose your battles wisely Bran; or you'll be fighting forever."
The Port of Ibben was sacked and seized in short measure, until soon the banners of House Stark were raised high.
The Conquest of Ibben was well and truly done. Any force the locals could field had been crushed and the major port towns and cities were flying Stark banners, the invaders already consumed by argument over who would be granted what land as reward for their undying loyalty and great sacrifice. Their words, when in truth they did little but slaughter rather disadvantaged savages. King Rodrik had been hailed as the Ambitious and the Conqueror but the name that stuck was the Ruthless.
He'd given Ibbenese no quarter, from the men to the women and the babes in their arms; it was a terrible deed, but one that would save his people years of civil unrest. The King was now in the Port of Ibben – a name that would need to be changed – walking into a colossal palace of rough-hewn stone that dominated the Port.
The palace ceiling was high, with thick stone rafters holding up a steep roof. The dais was wide and high, big enough that a good thousand could be feasted on the high table in comfort and a thousand more if they removed the proud statues that lined the walls. Tapestries rot, paintings fade, but statues were forever. The once great seat of God Kings was entirely untouched, to their surprise, the locals likely thought the place cursed; or some such ridiculous nonsense…
Prince Brandon held up a hand to one of the statues, removing the dust from one of the seemingly bronze statues.
"Your Grace," he called out in awe at the discovery. "These are not bronze..."
The young prince was right upon closer inspection, while at first it seemed bronze in the darkness where no light shun, the light of a torch revealed the statue to be gold; no doubt made in the likeness of the old 'God Kings' that ruled here. "God kings," Lord Ryder laughed at it all. "We should melt the bastards down, Your Grace..."
"Aye," Rodrik was inclined to agree, noting the golden chandelier that hung high over the room. This place would make them rich…
"Why leave all of this untouched?" Brandon wondered aloud. The entire place was a ruin, with sections of the roof being entirely lost in certain rooms they'd passed before, yet it seemed like they were the first people to step foot here since... well... since the alleged God Kings themselves sat in these halls.
"Cursed most likely," Rodrik voiced his earlier thought, smirking when Brandon quickly removed his hand from the statues.
One of the Green Priests laughed, shaking his head. "Have no fear young Prince, these false gods are long dead."
"Know anything of them, do you?"
Rodrik didn't like the Green Men all that much. Too secretive… but they'd blessed his plans for the future; bolstering support from zealous lords.
The priest did know a little. "God-King of Ib was the title held by the ruler of Ibben prior to their fall. Under their rule, the Ibbenese conquered and colonized a huge swath of land to the south of here, then the last God-King was overthrown. Since that day, Ibben is ruled by the Shadow Council…"
"Dead Council," Lord Ryder muttered, recalling how they'd cut down a group of fools in what seemed to be a council chambers or something like what they'd have would've considered such a chamber to look. There was no real way to know – they were dead – while what locals lived were either being hunted down or had fled into exile.
The end of the great hall was dominated by a large golden throne that gleamed in their torchlight.
"By the gods," Lord Fisher muttered in awe at the sheer size of the solid gold throne.
"False gods," the Priest corrected, brushing his cloak aside to kneel and inspect the many objects on the bottom on the throne.
"What are those?" Brandon asked, standing behind his kingly uncle.
"Offerings," the Priest guessed, picking up a handful of silver coins and letting them fall to the floor.
"What kind of god needs gold and silver?" Lord Seastark asked, a hint of anger in his voice.
The priest smiled. "The false kind, good lord…"
Rodrik stepped forward and processed to sit on the large throne without a care for curses.
"How is it?" Lord Ryder asked him, a mocking smirk on his face.
"Bloody unconformable my lord," King Rodrik replied, getting up off the throne before he continued to address the men that had travelled with him into the palace. Greystark, Seastark, Sunstark, Mormont, Umber, Towers, Flint, Fisher and all the others were present now. His sons had come too, after their exploits at Ib Sar.
"We'll strip this place to the bone," Rodrik declared aloud. "Melt down anything we can't carry. The spoils will be shared equally, my lords!"
There was a cheer of agreement from those present, unable to complain, with enough to go around. "The gods desire sight Your Grace, as was promised." The Priest stated, dressed in all green and browns. No moral man or women held sway over their actions, nor demands. The gods spoke and they obeyed no matter the words.
Rodrik was not one to anger the gods, however secretive their words. "I vowed and it shall be done. I trust you and yours to handle the arrangements."
The priest gave a nod in return before leaving the hall, with others clad in the same green attire following him out.
There was ritual involved in the planting of a new hearttree, for you did not simply plant it and call it a day. Rodrik was never one for such fanciful rituals but as king he would not anger the gods by refusing them such rights. His father – despite his flaws – had always taunt his sons to respect tradition.
The gods would have their eyes on Ibben, and elsewhere too if House Stark had anything to say about it…
King Rodrik was sat on the golden throne again by day's end, learning forward on the horribly uncomfortable seat in complete silence, listening ever so carefully as his lords began bickering about various topics that they wished to voice, the light from the wall mounted torches shining off the gold lined wall decorations. Aside from the throne, the room had been stripped bare, most of the gold and silver taken to be melted down into coins or bars for trade or storage in the vaults back home.
It was shared among the nobles with a large portion going towards the reconstruction efforts on the newly conquered land. The wind howled as it entered through the far windows, causing the large Stark banners that flanked the golden throne to flutter lightly in the breeze. Rodrik's mind drifted as he listened to the lord's bicker.
His sons were watching too, listening intently and learning; especially young Darion.
It was good for the boy to sit in on such councils.
"Not truly a boy anymore," Rodrik supposed in his thoughts. "Wedded, with his own child on the way… how fast children grew…"
"We've received reports that the Ibbenese are regrouping." The voice of Lord Ryder could be heard from the gathered group of lords, all arranged in a neat half-circle at the foot of the golden throne's steps. Allowing the lords to voice their thoughts was a necessary but often very tiring thing. They enjoyed the sound of their own voices.
Prince Darion watched from the foot on the golden throne beside his brother Varin and their two wayward cousins – both present against their fathers wishes.
Lord Wright agreed with his fellow noble. "Certainly, the recent attack against our foresters is proof enough of that…"
As did Lord Mormont, hardly surprising given the two houses storied friendship. "Agreed, they are on the move."
"This is absurd," the Lord Sunstark voiced his opinion. "We cannot stand by while they amass on our very doorstep!"
"The shattered remnants of a barbarian army is not our primary concern here." Another voice spoke, this one foreign from the mouth of the empire's ambassador that had arrived not days past with tales of woe and doom. Rodrik wished he'd stay with his own people; the man was a damn nuisance. "How many times must I repeat myself? King Rodrik, you must heed my warning! This conflict that has gripped the empire could have dire ramifications…"
"Another conflict?" Lord Towers laughed. "How is this any different than the others? You easterners are just being paranoid!"
A raven flew in through the great door to the notice of none but Rodrik, the bird circling around the rafters of the room as he watched it knowingly. Prince Edrik stood beside his twin brother unaware of the newest arrival. He took a step forward to address the lords in his brother's stead, as he was obviously not paying attention.
"Let's keep all this in perspective," Edrik's voice rang out and silenced the lords. "If this does pose a threat, what exactly are you proposing that we do?"
"It is simple," the ambassador spoke. "You must sail back east my lords – Your Grace – the longer we delay the greater the threat may grow with time!"
Rodrik heard that and rose from his throne to speak, his attention now away from the raven that sat happily looking from its vantage point on the rafters above.
"I will not abandon these new lands nor the settlers that've already begun, ambassador. My people have suffered long enough with our own battles without begin dragged into yet another of the empire's petty skirmishes! The gods commanded me here for a reason and I will see it fulfilled..."
"The gods, is it?" Lord Sunstark shook his head. "I don't believe any gods would be interested in mortal ambitious, Your Grace..."
The raven dived down from above and landed gracefully on the floor beside the steps of the golden throne, the lords bickering among themselves at Sunstarks outburst and insult towards the gods. Rodrik's attention was once again focused on the raven, its emerald eyes shining and gleaming with mischief.
It twisted in form, a cloud of feathers and black-green vapours dissipating around it…
A woman stood in the raven's place, her dress sown with green leaves and white bark – hooded to hide her features in shadow.
"Yet interested they are," she spoke with a mischievous smile. "My lords…"
"Guards!" Cregan Snow shouted first, taking a step forward with steel in hand.
"Seize them!" Lord Greystark commanded, stepping into formation as easily as breathing.
The strange woman did nothing as the spears surrounded her, smiling still, as if nothing could ever hurt her.
Fenrir moved first, the largest of his kin; the black wolf stalked forward with ease – eyeing the stranger warily – his low growl would've put the fear of death into most, but the stranger just smiled and knelt when the wolf approached. Freki and Volki were behind too, while Sol sat vigilantly beside Prince Brandon… just watching…
Greystark's wolves watched too, snarling from beside their masters. Vigil and Lupa were their names.
"Hello Fen," the strange woman held out her palm. "You look so like your father…"
Fenrir sniffed her hand. His eyes softened as he licked her hand, then shot glances at his littermates.
"Who are you!?" Trian Greystark stepped forward with his wolf Vigil growling at his side; only to earn a snarl from Fenrir in reply.
"I'm hurt," the stranger's smile grew more devious. "You don't remember your own betrothed, dear Trian?"
The man blinked – expecting anything but those words truly – for who was mad enough to make that claim? None who valued their lives…
"Betrothed?" Cregan narrow his eyes at that, getting a good look at the stranger…
"Impossible," Trian's father scowled, but his glare was questioning… looking over the woman…
Rodrik stood up abruptly from the golden throne, taking slow steps down – closer to the stranger.
The Greycloaks stood at attention, on edge, they held their spears at the ready to remove any threat.
"Father?" Darion asked after the king, confusion on his face.
"Your Grace?" Brandon pried, stepping forward with his sword drawn.
Sol's attempts to move forward were met with the snarls of Fenrir, daring anyone to step too close to the woman.
"Hello there," the woman was smiling at them all, upsettingly sweet.
"I-" Rodrik couldn't find the words. "Impossible... you're lying…"
"Father?" Darion stepped forward only to find his own wolf snarling at him.
"Fen!" Varin stormed forward, shouting at the wolf and staring him down in a heartbeat.
"As true as his father this one," The stranger said with a proud look. "Keep him close, pup…"
Darion frowned at that, cursed by the stranger to no end. "Who are-"
"Imposter," Prince Edrik stormed over with steel, uncaring for the wolves.
"Am I?" She smirked; head tilted in mock question.
"You dare," Edrik had drawn his steel; pointing it forward with a fury in his eyes. "You DARE TO-"
Rodrik took his hand and lowered his twin's sword, earning a confused look from the man's face.
"Roddy," She smiled at him, more genuine than he'd seen. "When did you become such a bleeding heart, hmm?"
"Fuck you," Rodrik snarled at her, eyes narrowed.
"I'd rather not brother," her smiled hadn't faced once.
It was impossible. She was dead. Gone. Lost for years. Dead. Dead. Dead….
Rodrik moved his hands and pushed back her hood in a flash, expecting to see a stranger behind the shadow.
The face was as he remembered – just as he'd dreamt – though the eyes were wrong. She looked so alike their mother…
"L- Ly?" He stumbled over the word, a pit of bile in his stomach as emotions threatened to erupt.
"Hello Roddy," Lyarra Stark was beaming widely at him, all sunshine and innocence.
He hugged her then – just to see if she was real – that to his surprise, she was.
"W- What…"
"You've questions…"
"Sister?" Edrik had lowered his sword, wide-eyed and wholly lost.
"Shit just keeps getting weirder," Cregan muttered quietly, thinking silent curses to cruel gods.
"What the fuck happened to your eyes," Rodrik asked first, pushing back tears that threatened to betray him; he focused on his anger instead.
"Long story," Lyarra shrugged, finding the subject to be quite dull. "Not very exciting I'm afraid…"
"Not-" Rodrik delved deep into his fury. "NOT EXCITING!?"
She grinned wider, as if the whole affair was amusing to her in some odd way.
"HOW IN THE FUCK-"
The king fumed, shaking her by the shoulders as his lords and family watched in silence and confusion.
"Years!" Rodrik raged, half angry half happy. "Why!? Where!? Fucking HOW!?"
"Aunt?" Darion muttered the words and found they tasted strange.
"Hello little wolf," she winked at him. WINKED.
Who was this woman and why was his father so… whatever this was?
It was hard to tell if the man was happy or about to kill everything without a twenty-yard radius…
"You were a raven," Varin stepped forward; narrowing his eyes at the woman.
He'd seen that raven before… with those emerald eyes… he'd dreamt of her…
"And you're a wolf," she countered easily, knowingly. "Is it so strange?"
"I-" Varin stumbled over the logic. "Y- Yes! It's bloody strange!"
She laughed at that, like some manic mad woman out of the wastes.
"You wear her face," Edrik shook off his shock then and there, the grip on his blade returning.
"My face is my own Eddy," came the reply with honey and sweetness.
"Don't use that fucking that name to-"
"You're off to see Willy," her smirk grew tenfold at the nickname. "Yes?"
Nobody used that nickname. Not their even their mother – though she'd found it hilarious; she knew how much Willam hated it.
There was a muffled scoff of laughter from Serana, standing behind her cousins.
"How the hell do you-"
"-know that?" Rodrik finished his twin's sentence.
"I'm me," Lyarra replied as if it were the easiest of things. "I know a great many things…"
There was something dark to those words, as she stroked Fenrir behind his ears; the normally dominant wolf was wholly docile.
"My lords," King Rodrik's voice broke a little, until he snapped it back – his kingly mask was back on in full effect.
"Aye?" Lord Ryder, to his credit, seemed the least phased of them all.
Most of the lords were looking like they'd seen a ghost by comparison.
"My King," Lord Greystark replied last, eyes pleading for orders. Any orders at all.
"Leave us," the king commanded sternly. "I must speak with my sister… alone…"
Greystark looked ready to argue, but one glance at the wolves was enough.
"If you need us," the old loyal lord decided, however hesitantly. "We'll be just outside, Your Grace…"
The lords left them at that, the Stark family alone; in a cursed hall of gold and dead gods – with an equally dead sister.
"Speak," Rodrik demanded of her quickly, his voice holding an edge of winter steel.
"What words should I pick?" Princess Lyarra asked, an eyebrow raised in question.
"All of them," Edrik decided for his twin and king.
"Tell us everything," Rodrik demanded, eyes narrowed.
"Very well," She agreed too easily, smiling unnaturally. "The cold winds are rising, Your Grace. The tides of darkness come again..."
The world was too vast of late. Too strange. Too unknown. King Rodrik Stark found himself longing for simpler times, free of myths and monsters.
My Note(s): Myths and Monsters, in a fashion; though dear Lyarra has a touch of flare for the dramatic – she'll be explored further – decisive to say the woman isn't the same as when she went missing so many years ago. The griffin was me writing shit in because it was 'cool' and because I could. No other reasons. Ibben's inner island is secluded as hell, the locals rarely even let outsiders into their port yet alone the rest of the island. There are griffins there because I fucking say so :) it's cool, sue me…
Much like the velociraptor in Bravvos, you probably won't see much about Griffins, buuut it was a fun little addition to an otherwise unexploded area of the world.
On a final note, thanks as always to everyone that leaves a review/comment, it's much appreciated. I always say that, but it doesn't get any less true – even if I happen to ever disagree ;) know it's never personal. I'm a blunt and forward guy, stubborn too, so you'll never see me change plans to "please" anyone. I do stuff for a reason.
Tertius711: You're free to whine, but it doesn't make you right :) to cut a long story short: Willam has influenced Jon Snow, not so much Robb, who he spent comparatively very little time with. Will hasn't seen Robb in months, he left Riverrun and hasn't had any say in Robb leaving Edmure in charge and Will's done nothing to suggest that Robb wouldn't act exactly as he acted in canon. The only difference is the Westerlings, but that was Jon's influence on his brother; not Will's. Not putting Edmure in charge of his own banners because "insert convenient reason" is pretty far across the line of reality and into wish-fulfilment. Not a line I cross, because it's boring as hell.
As for Stannis's lack of scouts and/or getting flanked, just welcome to canon; got the jump on Stannis there too. It happens. This isn't wish-fulfilment, never has been, never will be :P You can't make everyone happy at the end of the day and I'm certainly not trying to do that. It's my story, I know what I'm doing and why I'm doing it.
On that note, the coming few chapters are going to be SO gods damn funny reading the reviews. I can't wait… *que manic laughter"
Asharzal: We'll be waiting abit to see another chapter in KL – spoilers though – I don't like to ruin anything in my notes/comments :) gotta wait and see. As for the female soldiers, yeah, they're far more common from the Sunset Islands than Westeros. It's a "if you want to fight, we won't stop you learning how" kinda vibe. I wouldn't call it "equality" by any stretch of the imagination, isn't my intention, it's still a medieval society. Just think Shield Maidens outa Scandinavian mythology… kinda…
Max207: I've never really seen the need for Beta Readers; at least with how I write – it's a constantly flowing nightmare – as rarely do I ever write less than several slightly differing versions of a chapter before I go with whatever I feel works best for the continued story. You'd really need to know the plot like 10 chapters ahead of time haha.
I appreciate the offer though :) just don't think it's for me, I look at my own work critically enough as it is without needing to explain my thought process to others.
Dave: Glad you're still enjoying the story mate and as always, I appreciate everyone's comments, even those I disagree with :D keep them coming :)
Mister LaGuardia: Should have another PoV from Robb/Jon in the next chapter or the one after according to my plans, so we'll see ;)
246vili: The side-effects of Frostbite (basically a White Walker blade slightly refined, as past chapters have alluded to) are varied – but taking from the books it can turn steel brittle after a couple strikes (unlike the show where Walker's swords just shatter everything) so we'll see in future Will PoV's. I do have stuff planned.
Slycerr: I'm not sure what you were confused about honestly :) but seems you've figured it out haha – happy readying :P