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Chapter 65: These Old Bones
"We're more Ghosts than People."
– Prince Willam Stark
Treason had tasted some concoction of pork or veal and was a notion they'd agreed on taking to the grave with them, as the gods alone could judge if such a thing was worth their notice. The Skagosi had laughed when Makin emptied the contents of his stomach to be feasted on by shaggy dogs eager for a free meal – feasting to the sound of mockery– even as Jorg chewed his slightly tough cut and pretended it was merely some rare slice of meat; fully developed, not young, but not yet beef…
He'd had ample time to dwell on such things. They'd sailed along the fjords that littered Skagos, nestled between great jagged walls of blackened rock, like so many saltwater veins under mountainous skin; closer to a darkening sky choked with ash and smoke that reached out and threatened to take away the sun.
The child – Forn as the Magnar named it – spent the final moments of their rowing at the forefront of the longboat, singing in its True Tongue.
It was an eerie thing, equal parts sadness and longing as their oars stuck water and the mountain came closer.
The song was as rain on water and seemed to dance on the wind, broken only by the rumbling mountain.
"The words are broken," is all Forn offered in explanation. "The hour is-"
"Late," he'd interrupted to the blinking of great red eyes. "You've said that…"
Once more the mountain groaned and shook, as if in agreement with the ancient child.
Forn lead them up through the mountain by treacherous paths cut into the walls of jagged rock, striking out like so many black glass swords meaning to cut them for daring to trespass; bleeding more than one or two of the Magnar's more careless men as they climbed with care, arms tight, keeping narrow for fear o the rocky swords and the sudden gaps within the mountainside – revealing depths so dark that one wondered if there was any end to the darkness there…
It was strange, he thought, how the deeper a hole was the stronger it drew a man. There was a fascination that lived on the keenest edge, sparkling on the sharpest point; gathering in the depths of a fall. It was a feeling Jorg could only relate to the depths of the open ocean. Was there monsters between the dark as well? Jorg felt the pull of that fear every step of the climb. The child meanwhile seemed well crafted for the ascent, making it look all too easy, almost dancing in front of the group of men, practically skipping up the steps with a disregard that brought about some envy within Jorg's thoughts as he watched the strange creature.
He walked on all the same, rubbing at a cut on his forearm where the jagged rocks had knitted at his flesh.
A thousand steps. He'd been counting, if only out of boredom, so he'd missed the first few minutes of the climb. His legs were turning to jelly, his armour felt as though it were made from ich-thick lead and his feet were growing clumsy. Forn had insisted they press on without rest for the hour was late.
There was death at the heart of the mountain. Old magics, the child claimed; long twisted and past impatience.
"Come," the child beckoned as Jorg halted at the entry of blackened stone.
It was as if some giant from the stories had plunged his sword into the mountain.
Was that why it roared at them? Was that the death the child spoke of? Could a mountain feel?
"Trust now Drowned Wolf," Magnar planted a heaty hand on his guest's shoulder, smile beaming wide and toothy.
"Trust?" Jorg thought in doubt, as the mountain rumbled, the ash fell lazily from the blackened sky and trust seemed a foolish thing.
"Seems a shame to turn back now my Lord…"
Captain Makin had a heart of steel about him.
"We're with you lad," the Lord Vetur gave his own vow.
"Touching," Jorg mumbled as he put one foot ahead of the other.
They slipped into the blind depths, through corridors of black stone cracked and veined with black glass, as the child held in outstretched hand a ball of flame with an unnatural light to lead the way; its glow dancing off the reflective glasses that lined the mountain stone. They wove a path around fallen rubble brought down by the mountains rumble, sections of stone larger than carthorses, they headed deeper all the time, like worms burrowing to the core, seeking the heart of the mountain.
Forn's flame dimmed and flickered as the world itself seem to shake once more.
"We should head back," Vetur voiced his change of tune, eyes squinting about the dark.
"Come now," Jorg offered him the white crescent of a smile. "Where's your sense of adventure my Lord?"
The mountain grumbled once more, as if in answer, as Forn's flame flickered in the palm of their tiny hand.
If things kept up, Jorg wagered, all of their senses would be buried under rock and ruin if they weren't quick.
The wide rocky tunnels seemed to stretch for endless miles until the path angled up, the tunnel thick with dust and scattered bones, here and there laying half-covered in ashes. Then came more bones, then a skull, then three more old bones crunched under the steps of their disruptive boots.
"What is this place?" Lord Vetur stood in awe at the opening of the great cavern, a warmth washing over him with molten light.
The cavern stretched beyond sight. On the ceiling blackened glass flickered into life, dancing in light of the liquid fires that leaked from every fissure, leaking from the rock like so many rivers of molten fire – paling in awe to the great mount of stone that graced the caverns centre.
"Zaldrīzes," the Child named the rocks, as if rocks had names. "They were once noble and solitary guardians…"
"Guardians?" Jorg glared at the great mount of black rock…
It was smooth as marble and-
"It's warm? Why is it warm?"
Forn held out a hand to the stone.
"He passed many years ago," the child spoke. "Magic lingers…"
He? Jorg scowled, this was getting foolish. Rocks didn't get names.
"Um," Makin's mumbling barely went heard over the rumbling of the cavern.
"You brought us all this way to see some rocks?"
Madness…
"My Lord…"
Utter nonsense…
"Rocks," Jorg scoffed, waving a hand dismissively at the stupidity of it all.
They'd climb a damn mountain – that seem fit to crumble – all for some stones.
"So," the Magnar uttered in the Old Tongue. "This is the Shadow? I'd only heard the legend…"
"The Shadow of Skane," one of the Magnar's sons mumbled in awe, hand outstretch to touch the black marble.
"Seastark," it was Vetur's call that got Jorg's attention, beckoning him around the mound of black marble to be faced with-
"By the Gods..." It was a skull, giant and terrifying, the great hill of black rock where its bones were coated in molten slag; black shining teeth the size of bastard swords. Alive, such a creature could've crushed a small castle beneath its mass with such little effort that no mortal man could hope to stop it.
Alive, this thing could've shaped the very world.
"Dreki," the Magnar named the titan's remains.
"Why?" Jorg eyed the child, ignoring the burly lord.
It looked up and blinked with great wide sap-red eyes.
"Ice and Fire," came the answer, as if it was so helpful in the slightest.
The Mountain shook before Jorg could voice his thoughts to the small child.
"Talk later," the Magnar declared with a huff. "Gather the glass! Hurry!"
"And this'll work… this dragonglass as you say?"
Obsidian. Razor sharp, but brittle; ill-fitted blades.
The Islands had plenty of it back home. Ornamental. Useless.
The Magnar's men went about gathering as if it were precious.
"Arrows," Forn answered with a look. "Daggers as well, they must serve…"
Jorg's eyes remained stuck onto the titan's remains, hand outstretched to run across the sword-sized teeth, smooth and almost shining an oily black; the light of magma flickered on its surface and- "Shit!" his hand recoiled, crimson dripping down.
"My lord!" Vetur was quick to his side, to the man's continued credit.
"Still sharp," Jorg kept eyes on the skull of the fallen guardian and thought a moment.
"Yes," the child seemed to grasp his mind before he could so much as form a decision of it.
The rope snapped when they tried to wrap it around the tooth and yank, as sharp as it was; the mountain rumbled and Jorg turned to the Magnar to summon over his men with their pickaxes – chipping away at the skull as if it were some great vein of ore. And to the dead titans credit it withstood blow after blow.
"Those caves," Jorg's eyes wandered over beyond the titan. "Where do they lead?"
Some easier path away, perhaps? Some stash of gold and treasure for their taking? Curiosity killed the wolf…
Monsters always kept gold and jewels laying around for adventures. The stories said as much. It was the rules, surely…
Forn frowned deeply at the question. "Tunnels and caves, timeless and vast," the child said with sorrow. "They go down into the earth. Into the stones, into the trees. Before the First Men came, what you know as Westeros was home to us, yet even in those days we were few. The gods gave us long lives but not great numbers, lest we overrun the world as deer will overrun a wood where there are no wolves to hunt them. That was in the dawn of days when our sun was rising. Now it sinks, and this is our long dwindling. The giants are almost gone as well, they who were our bane and our brothers. The great lions of the western hills have been slain, the unicorns are all but gone, the mammoths down to a few hundred. The direwolves will outlast us all, but their time will come as well. There is no room for them anymore, or us..."
The child seemed sad when they said it. It was a sadness so primal that it seemed to seep into Jorg's own bones so that he too might feel sorrow.
A sorrow so deep that, if he dared to acknowledge it, he feared might never leave.
Instead, he scowled in strained defiance, pushing away sorrow to replace it with fury.
"Such little faith," he mocked the child, and instantly scolded himself for it in silence.
"Faith?" Forn frowned at the notion, full of dreaded doubt. "Faith alone will not save us, Jorg Seastark…"
The titans tooth crashed away with a final swing of the Magnar's might; sending the swinger stumbling – only to be caught by his fellows.
A great cheer came amount at that, only to be silenced by the rumbling of the mountain and the distant crashing of stone and rock as a wave of dust poured from one of the nearby tunnels to crush men's spirts. "We leave," the Magnar declared, turning around and barking orders at his men with their baskets full of black glass.
"My Lord?" Vetur called after Jorg as he stepped towards the titan's skull and knelt at the beast's chipped tooth.
The break was not clean. At all. Those pickaxes had made a crude job of things – given time he'd have avoided that – but time was ever an unforgiving enemy of late. Knelt, he wrapped the broken monster's tooth in his fur cloak and turned back to the men. "A gift," he called the thing. "For the King…"
An ancient monster tooth, sharper than steel…
A gift that would perhaps earn him some favour?
"Lord," Vetur gave a firm nod at that, accepting dutifully.
"Um," Makin butted in. "We ought to fuck off, no? I don't like this…"
The Mountain growled like a hungry beast and its fires bubbled angrily.
Jorg took once last glance back at the fallen titan – monstrous even in death; he bowed mockingly to it before taking leave of the mountain.
It was as a great black smoking fist against the sky once, the tallest of the island's peaks; ever a presence on the horizon now choked with darkness and ash that made the air bitter. They'd made it back down the side of the mountain with fair ease, back to the longboats and onto the great valley rivers that lead back home.
Forn's eyes never left the horizon, waiting, as if the child knew exactly what was to befall the earth.
Those big red deer eyes gleamed at the horizon with ancient sorrow, remember some distant past and dreading an uncertain future; it held an almost beautiful black stone close to its tiny chest – rippled with streaks of shining silver – more gem than stone, giant in the child's arms.
"I have not seen its like in near six centuries," Forn whispered, arms wrapped around the great stone gem.
"Seen what in when?" Jorg brought his eyes up, away from the monster's tooth unwrapped from his own cloak.
A gift fit for royalty, he'd figured; sharper than steel and thrice as strong – it would buy him at least something.
"No matter," Forn dismissed with a deep frown, never turning to face the man; changing tone to the True Tongue.
Their voice was as a fire crackling on a cold night, flames drifting to the sky and dwindling; as if it would be the final fire – the last to ever be lit on this earth – Forn sang in his true tongue and the ship hushed to listen. The child sang to his shiny obsidian-silver rock and the men felt as if all the colours might soon fade from the world.
As it happened, the far mountain seemed to almost lift; like a giant drawing breath. Fire woke beneath rock, bleeding bright and spreading through fissures like blood flowing from a man. In one moment, the mountain practically vanished, thrown at the sky in a spiralling inferno. A brilliance took the dark from the ash and smoke, washing over the land and blinding the sky. Jorg felt the hot kiss of its distant fury, like sunburn on his cheeks.
What burnt so brightly could never endure. The sky rippled and fumed as the fires poured down.
"By the Gods," the Magnar left his mouth open, lacking any more words that seemed fit for purpose.
Time ran slower and blood pulsed cold in Jorg's veins. Between two hearts of his heart, the blast shook the very waters; jolting their boats and sending many men stumbling – some falling off into the wet – all while the Child stood motionless, wordless, wet eyes never straying away from the doom of the world.
There was pattern in fire, as if something was written there, and some folks claimed they could read it. Willam couldn't though. It would have been nice to find some answers in the flames. He'd had many questions that life alone seemed ill equipped to answer. All these years on the road, always going somewhere, always doing something, from one venture and excuse to the next; no answers ever seem so easy to him as the drink. In that, he and the Dornish were as kinsmen…
In another life he wagered he'd have liked to spend more time in Dorne. The climate and people sat well with him, odd as it was for a Stark to seek a Summer.
Yronwood had arrived just this morning with his banners of glittering gold at the head of a great Dornish host, only to be met with warily glances from the Reachmen and outright hostility from many of the Stormlanders with their storied history of blood and animosity. It was no small thing to forget a few thousand years of hatred when both sides of the camp were told stories of this or that great-great-great grandfather having been wronged or slain.
People held to grudges all too easily, even if they made so little sense from an outsider's perspective.
Rodrik had ordered his own men to cause no trouble and no trouble was caused, part discipline, part a lack of interest.
The Stormlands had once fought alongside Stark banners after all, and the young Lady Shireen spoke quite highly of King Rodrik Stark, thus many under the Stag banner got along with the Wolves like a field on fire. Aegon to his continued credit hadn't failed to make efforts in mending broken bridges within camp. Willam found despite his hesitation that he quite liked the young dragon, seeming to lack the pomp one expected of an andal raised to believe himself deserving of lofty titles.
King, Lord, Ser, Knight, such things were accompanied by a certain pride. And too much pride would oft twist hearts to creature monsters.
Although, raised to perform his duty for the people, as the boy insisted; his duty was to the realm and to avenge a family he'd never met.
"And may not even be part of it for all we know," Willam mumbled that quietly. It was best to not let anyone overhear…
Oberyn was convinced, but then Oberyn longed for it to be true so much so that he'd been blinded by the longing of the thing.
Not that it mattered, in all honestly. The boy had the look, the name, and most importantly he had the support; though it helped that the boy seemed to take his role as King rather seriously. Thinking on the matter Willam figured how Westeros might breathe a sigh of relief to sit young Aegon on the Iron Throne.
Robert wasn't a bad man, but he wasn't a King. The less said about Joffrey the better… and Tommen? A Child King during war simply wasn't ever ideal.
A child king born of incest surrounded on all sides by enemies he'd no role in making, hated for his position, friendless, puppeted by a cruel mad woman with delusions of grandeur. If Willam were a kinder man, if he were a better man or even a more sober man, then he might have felt pity for Tommen Waters. Maybe.
"A cornered beast is at its most dangerous," wisdom whispered in his ear as he took another gulp of the dornish red.
The crimson dripped down his chin, ignored; eyes scowling across the flames against a starry cloudless sky.
"Don't quote father at me," he dismissed her after a moment, looking away from the crackling fires.
"He wasn't wrong," she told him, hand playing with the fire – unburned and uncaring as no child ought to.
"I've had too much," Willam groaned at the thought, gulping down the last of the wine. "Stupid, Stupid, Stupid…"
Father would give him that disappointed look, were he alive to give it. Mother would smile sweetly and try to help him back up, though she'd never quite known how to do that for him. And his brothers? His brothers wouldn't notice. Rodrik was too busy, Ed was his shadow, Arty had his own issues...
Ashlyn would scold him while Suko passed another bottle and aid in its drinking, then the two might argue.
And then Aedan would-
Willam snatched another bottle.
The girl was frowning at him now.
Sapphire blue eyes. Gods, he'd had too much…
"YeP," she popped the P with gusto, smirking happily; those eyes flashing blue, black, amber.
"Leave me," Willam all but growled, pointing warningly with the dornish red as if it were a sword.
"NoPe," all too cheery playing with the flames in her hand.
"Stubborn," came the only thought, sighing as he undid the bottle.
He'd not seen her since… when was the last time? When was the last time he'd drank this much?
The word "Idiot" formed on the girl's tongue, rolling those ever-changing eyes. That was new. Was she broken?
"Am I?" Her head tilted at that, suddenly away from the fire and standing before him. "Are we? Mmmm?"
"Stark!" A voice snapped Willam from his growing headache, so sudden that the red shattered on the ground.
"My wine," he mumbled as the dornishman approached his little corner of camp. "It was innocent…"
"We've others," Oberyn's smile beamed like a rising sun.
Willam only hummed, looking up at the fire and all around.
"Who were you talking to Stark?" The Viper slithered over; fire casting shadows.
She was gone. Just as well. "Nobody," Willam blinked. "Myself. I'm a chatty drunk…"
"I see," if the Red Viper believed him, one could not say; or perhaps he did not care.
"Can I help you with something Martell?"
"Indeed," Oberyn helped himself to a seat by the fire.
At his approach, the wolf's slumber was stirred and met with growls.
"Easy," Willam muttered to Flash, the wolf seemed to huff and return to its rest.
"I heard you'd carved yourself a private section of the camp," Oberyn glanced around, noting the apparent area of space casted around the two Prince's like a great shroud – not so far that men weren't seen stumbling this way or that but enough for a little privacy at least.
Although, it seemed hardly enough to avoid being overheard by strays.
"I wished for quiet," Willam hinted not so subtly. "I found it, somewhat."
"Not the tale I heard my friend…"
"Men make up all manner of fables, Martell."
Your nephew for example, he ought to say, but opted not.
"That they do," Oberyn was helping himself to a bottle of his own.
He'd have been content to leave it there, truthfully; but the viper-
"Want to hear this fable, Stark?"
The Viper wasn't going anywhere.
"A Black Wolf wandered into Santagar's tent and stole his wine, the way men tell it, the leopard pissed himself free of his dots while wolf stole away with the dornishman's wine – mumbling insults as he departed – others say he cut down tenfold Dornishmen as he took off to drink his spoils."
Santagar huh? "The man was asleep," Willam shrugged. "And there was no cutting to be had I'm afraid."
Oberyn only grinned. "Santagar's more for horses than wine, I doubt he'll complain even if he wished to do so…"
Spottswood was a dutiful house, but that duty hadn't bought them strength. Oberyn took a sip of said wine and scowled.
"Come," the Viper offered the Wolf. "No man should drink alone on the eve of battle, Stark."
"Are you certain?" Willam countered half-hearted. "I might cut you, if the fables hold truth…"
"Promises," Oberyn only chuckled. "Come, leave the leopard piss – it's not fit for purpose."
"I like this one," the girl stood behind Oberyn, as his arm outstretched.
Willam blinked and she was gone again, shaking the haze from his head.
"So be it," Willam took the Viper's hand and found his legs shaky, the world unbalanced.
"It'll be fun," Oberyn made promises of his own. "And besides, people were starting to think you mad; all this talking in the dark…"
"We're more ghosts than people," came the girls voice in a whisper and half his own at the back of his skull, creeping up with knife in hand; bringing an ever so slight smirk to the wolf's lips as he looked to the fire. The flames danced, embers crackling their stories.
"Perhaps I am mad," Willam said aloud, grinning in challenge.
The Viper looked at him in the quiet, judging, then he shrugged.
"Aren't we all? Life would be so dreadfully dull without spice, no?"
"Tell that to your sister," the girls voice echoed. "Tell it to the Mad King."
"Drinks," Willam said instead, ignoring the thoughts. "You promised drinks, Martell."
"That I did!" Oberyn clasped the wolf's shoulder and led him wayward across the camp.
They all but sailed through the sea of tents and banners that was Aegon's Host, resting along the southern banks of the Wendwater; thousands of fires burnt against the dark – ever vigilant against the enemy to the north – many men bowed their heads as they passed, or kept their distance from the Princes and the Wolf. Southward they ventured, as the gold skulls gave way to red dragons and burnt orange suns, up to the hilltop where the Dragon had taken to roosting for the night.
King Rodrik's own tent was nearby, just below the Dragons where a sea of Grey and Silvers glittered in the moonlight, close yet separate from the others.
This field adjacent the river was, as Lord Wendwater was fond of reminding any who would listen, where Daemon III Blackfyre suffered his shattering defeat in what men called the Battle of Wendwater Bridge, when Blackfyre casualties filled the river and Daemon was slain by Ser Duncan the Tall of the Kingsguard. The loyalists, it was said, lost less than a hundred men that day. Daemon's ally, Aegor Bittersteel, retreated back across the narrow sea, and the war was quickly over.
Lord Bennard Wendwater, or Ben as he insisted, was eager to make sure everyone knew it was His family that so masterfully chose the field that day.
The Bridge itself was all rubble in the rushing waters now, however. To hear Lord Ben tell the story it was the Loyalists doing – more specifically House Wendwater – who destroyed the bridge with catapults and collapsed it under Blackfyre's host; cutting them in two and ultimately making the slaughter possible.
One bridge was, Wendwater claimed rightfully if true, a small price to pay for such a victory.
In truth Willam doubted the Wendwaters had much choice in the matter. Doubtless, it was decided, and that was that.
Some of the other Stormlanders had their own versions of the tale after all and spoke in whispers of Wendwaters distain for losing the bridge.
It had been a vast and strong thing, after all, used once upon a time to transport goods up through the Kingswood to the capital. With its destruction the Wendwaters had suffered for a generation or two; for whatever reason never rebuilding. Local conflicts, banditry and wars had seen the Wendwater's strength falter with time.
They'd found themselves on the wrong end of disagreements on more than one occasion, it was said; largely by Lord Errol who seemed to hold a grudge.
Oberyn paid the guards in gold no mind he passed into the Dragon's tent, vast as it was, all blacks and reds. Inside a great oaken table had been prepared courtesy of the local lordlings, now littered with maps and markers and so much wine or tankards of storm ale; too strong a drink for many men.
At table's head sat young Aegon, with an empty chair to his left and Connington to his right, ever scowling at their approach.
"Uncle," Aegon noticed their arrival and the others went silent as the grave.
"Nephew," Oberyn held a grin, winking mockingly over at the Griffin Lord's frown.
"Another Stark," Connington's frown only grew deeper. "Drunk as well this one, I see…"
Willam ignored the man, eyes scanning about the table. The world was dizzy, but his mind was sober enough to act the part. The Dragon was scolding his pet Griffin while Oberyn made some muffled jest. Yronwood was present with his sandy blond hair and azure eyes, the man merely gave a nod in passing. Princess Arianne was pouring the dragon his wine, smiling sweetly and whispering in the boy's ear while Ser Daemon Sand stood at the rear as her ever-grumpy looking shadow.
Others at the table were a mix of faces, those of the Golden Company and Dorne chiefly; only one demanded Willam's attention.
The boy gulped as those grey-silver eyes locked onto him.
Flash went to him, growling half-hearted at the woman on his lap.
"Brandon," Willam swayed, looking to the woman straddling his nephew.
The woman looked him up and down with her large lustrous eyes. She was slim and elegant, pale olive-skinned, her long black braid bound up in red-gold wire.
"Nymeria," Brandon shifted awkwardly. "This-"
"Nym," the girl smiled sweetly at him, adjusting herself on his lap.
"Nym," Young Brandon blushed a Lannister crimson on his cheeks.
"Gods," Willam groaned as Oberyn's laughter echoed around the tent.
"Prince Stark," Nymeria Sand knew him well enough, smirking like some demon.
If the girl was at all embarrassed to, well no, Willam knew she wasn't at all to be caught toying with Bran.
"Try not to break him," is all Willam said as he passed the pair. Lady Sand only giggled and planted a kiss on her prey's cheek.
"What business do you have here Stark?" Lord Connington was quick to ask, scowling.
"Me?" Willam pointed innocently at his own face.
"Jon," Aegon frowned. "Prince Willam is most welcome."
The Griffin 's features were hard as stone.
"Yes," he relented. "As you say, Your Grace."
The Young Dragon only smiled sadly at his mentor's distrust.
"Please," Aegon insisted as Oberyn pulled out a chair. "Take a seat Prince Stark."
"Wine," Willam glared and raised a brow, eyes darting between the chair and the viper.
"Only the finest," came the answer, as a pretty serving lass appeared from the shadows of the king's tent to fill up a silver chalice.
Willam took a sip and kept his eyes on the room, still standing in a lazy defiance.
Oberyn had taken his seat beside his would-be nephew. Connington glared daggers at the wolf's apparent refusal to sit. Yronwood watched him like a hawk, as did the eyes of Tarly; sitting across the table from the Dornishmen with his son. Brandon meanwhile was avoiding his uncles scanning gaze like a mouse hiding from a hawk.
The dornishwoman on his lap only smiled as sweetly as honey. The wine was even sweeter.
"Your Grace," Willam ultimately decided, taking the seat and lowering himself. "My thanks…"
"Friends of the crown will always have a place at my table," the Dragon declared happily, innocently, gleefully even.
"You practice that line in the mirror?"
Shit. Had he said that out loud? Damn wine…
"I-" Aegon blushed at the truth of the thing. "Well…"
"You dare speak to the King in such a manner!" Connington was up to his feet, chair knocked aside.
Oberyn only laughed aloud however, clasping his nephew on the shoulder and offering a supportive grin.
Willam couldn't help the smirk of his own as Aegon deemed to join in on the laughter and most in the tent followed.
"Another mark in the boy's favour," Willam thought, watching the order of laughter. Oberyn, then Aegon not long after, though Yronwood seemed unimpressed; there was however briefly the flash of a tug on Tarly's lips. Aegon had a talent for winning men to his side it seemed.
"No offence intended Your Grace," Willam finally said as the laughter faded.
"None taken," Aegon had quickly recovered from his embarrassment. Good lad.
"So," Oberyn winked at one of the serving lasses as his chalice was refilled. "What did I miss?"
"You-" Connington jumped at the chance to answer.
"Well," Willam interrupted. "It seems we've missed your daughter coiling about my nephew…"
Connington scowled and barked offence. Oberyn only grinned, as bright as the sun, while said nephew blushed.
"Prince Brandon was sent on behalf of his uncle King Rodrik," Aegon explained, though he held to a grin of his own; seemingly glad to speak so freely.
"Aye," said Brandon with an awkward look.
"Did my brother tell you to find a wife, Bran?"
"I," Brandon looked nervously at the woman. "Lady Sand is-"
"Making our guest feel comfortable," Nymeria had one arm around Brandon's neck.
"I'm sure," Willam only sighed. "What else is there Aegon?"
"You'll address the king as Your Grace," Connington frowned.
"Careful now Griffin ," Oberyn was beaming. "Keep frowning, your lips might just fall off…"
"His Grace," Willam said with no lack of disinterest. "Named us all here friends at this table, did he not My Lord? Friends needn't use such lofty titles in private among fellow friends surely – if we are to truly be friends. I doubt young Aegon cares for such formality, my friend Jon…"
Oberyn giggled more like one of his daughters than himself. "Yes, isn't that true Jon?"
The great vein in Connignton's forehead looked like it might suddenly burst.
"There's no need for formality among friends," Aegon agreed, raising his own chalice to the table.
Aegon's Lords mummed their honors and agreements, raising their own drinks up to the king who continued to impress.
"To Aegon," Willam smirked wide at the look of defeat on the Griffin as he offered the toast.
The Young Dragon all but basked in his lord's admiration.
"To Aegon!" They all raised silver chalices one by one.
And then they were back to the sobering reality of war, in what seemed a moment, the raised chalices were lowered and Connington found his footing, delving into strategies and planning; making his case for why Aegon ought to hide at the rear of the army. The boy would have none of that.
"If I won't fight for my men," the Young Dragon had declared. "Why should they fight for Me?"
It had proven the singular issue the Griffin and the Huntsman found common ground on, in fact.
"A King is a beacon," Tarly countered with a stoney look. "If that beacon was to go out, an army may lose its way."
"Rhaegar fell at the Trident and his army melted away," Connington said with unveiled sadness to his words, as a man who lost a brother, or a lover.
"The boy should fight," Willam butted in as a received another chalice full of dornish red.
"Uncle will be in the thick of it," Young Brandon said quietly, though it earned him many a glare.
"Aegon fights," Willam declared, as if it were his decision. "And we, friends, shall be there to keep his fire burning."
There was a mummering of agreement there, many of the Lord's warm to the idea of another Rhaegar, a Warrior Prince, a People's Prince, charging into the fray alongside his soldiers… and if these lords could be there, earning Aegon's favour in battle at his side? All the better no doubt. All the better.
"I'll be quite safe Jon, there will be a thousand swords at my side," Aegon vowed. "I promise…"
"It's settled then," Willam signalled for more wine, finding his head cloudy; words loose – tactless – he declared "no king rules forever, as sure as the tide, no sense hiding behind the griffin's skirts forever" as he pushed himself up from the table clumsily and made to take leave, ignoring the muffled threats of Lord Connington.
Flash followed in his shadow, out from the tent and past the cautious looking guards who shifted uneasily under the shouts of the Griffin from the royal tent; yet Willam paid them no mind as he swayed into the cool night air. It was beautiful, the sky, a void of black scattered with diamonds and a silver moon. The grass was wet from melted snows, high atop the hill, he found himself halted to look out over the gathered force. Banners of strangers and banners of home fluttered in the wind, alongside fires.
"I know," Willam muttered when Flash whined, taking a seat on his haunches and seeming to calm the further the bottle of dornish red rolled down the hillside.
Its contents spilled as it rolled, turning settled patches of half-smelted snow crimson red as it went down, down, down towards the campfires.
"Prince Willam?"
It was the boy's voice.
Hard to mistake it. Young Aegon's voice was almost a melody, tainted with an uncertainty ever lurking in shadows.
"Your Grace," Willam uttered as he glanced over his shoulder but a moment.
He wasn't a short lad, nor tall, some head under Willam; with fair silver-blond hair and eyes of indigo.
The boy's own shadow lingered at a respectable distance. Ser Rolly Duckfield, Lord Commander of Aegon's Kingsguard, a brawny man with a shaggy orange beard and freshly forged silver plate; flanked by a pristine white cloak. He was far from the greatest sword to ever live, though he seemed loyal and true enough.
Said man lingered but made no move to approach further, watchful, closer enough to spring to action yet far enough to not impose.
Not that it would matter, Willam reckoned with a scratch of Flash's ear – the man could not stop him if he tried to kill the boy… even drunk…
"Please," the boy smiled so very genuinely. "Call me Aegon, as you said we are to be friends, no?"
Friends? Had he said that?
"Doesn't sound like me," Willam said aloud.
Aegon found it somehow amusing. "I say it's so," he claimed. "I am King after all, as Griff is fond of reminding me…"
There was some sadness in the boy, for all his friends and mending fences – all the fancy titles and diplomacy and courage about him aside – the boy was at the end of days still just a boy. Time would challenge the innocence in him as it did all men. In fifty years, he'd not be the same. Time had a funny way of twisting turning people. All men were victims of their first years, as the Emperor once taught – time laid the foundations of the soul and later struck without warning, tempering men like swords.
"Once a soul is forged," the kind old Emperor once told him. "It cannot be reforged without imperfections, but it can still hold an edge to cut despite those flaws."
What would Aegon's flaws become, he wondered as he looked at the boy. Would be become his Grandfather? His father? Something else?
"Aegon," Willam said after a moment, turning his eyes back ahead. "My apologies, to your Griffin; the drunk steals my manners…"
The boy only shook his head slightly. "It is refreshing, in truth…"
Willam didn't turn, though the boy seemed to read his silence as encouragement.
"He's a father to me, truly… he raised me and loves me… yet I wish he'd see that I'm no longer a child."
"He sees it," came the reply after a moment's thought. It was no doubt the reason the man acted as he did.
"I don't think he'll ever see," Aegon sighed, looking out at the horizon, trying to find what the Stark found so interesting.
Connington was an insufferable arse of a man, to be sure, yet Willam could read him like a book. He loved the boy as a farther loved his last living son, fearing in equal measure to ever lose him; to death or worse to others who might turn the boy against him. A foolish notion, obvious to anyone beside the man himself or perhaps the blind. The greatest threat to Aegon's leaving the Griffin was ultimately the Griffin himself. Jon Connington was afraid.
He reeked of it. Fear. Not for himself, or any lack of courage; yet it oozed from his every syllable.
"What are we looking at?" Aegon said finally, cutting away the peaceful quiet of the night.
Willam's eyes darted to the boy who now stood beside him atop the hill, searching for something.
"The fires," he told the dragon. "What is it you see, Your Grace?"
Aegon looked out over the lives of his army, so many thousands of flickering lights against the cold and the night, he looked over them all with deep purple eyes that looked almost dark blue in the night. "Hope," he decided after an undying moment. "I see hope."
"Hope?" Willam only grinned at that, not knowing what else he'd expected of the boy.
"Alone each flame is weak," the Young Dragon began, hesitantly. He looked to the Stark and found his face that of stone, judging what he might say next. "Together, they're a stronger flame, no? They're hotter, larger, brighter – the fire that'll keep us warm, lighting the way… guiding us…"
"Fire can also consume," Willam suggested. "It can burn, destroy, ruin…"
Aegon looked suddenly grim. "We mustn't grow complacent. I know I mustn't…"
He mustn't become his Grandfather. That reality had never been spoken in so many blunt words, but the boy was no fool. In all those flickering lights he could see the lives of every man that marched with him to the capital. Come the morrow many would likely die for him, fighting for his vengeance, for his justice.
They would fight and die for a man many would never know, or even so much as speak a word to before they died.
"You should leave your tent," came Willam's idea of wisdom.
Aegon only blinked in confusion. "I have left the tent though…"
Stark only chuckled. "Fetch your Uncle, fetch the wine; then bring it to your men – drink with them – toss aside those silver chalices and let your soldiers know they fight aside a king who will die for them, who will listen and treat them fairly. Let them see for themselves that hope you see in them."
"Yes," Aegon uttered, half-sure. "I shall, my Uncle would love it too, would he not?"
Another chuckle. "That he would, no doubt about it. Give him my regards."
At that Aegon's smile faltered. "You'll not be joining us then Prince Stark?"
He thought to do just that. A part of him sought to accept, to drink until the dawn.
"No," he refused harsher than the boy deserved, scowling as if suddenly and gravely insulted.
"I-" the boy made to apologise all too quickly for no fault of his own.
"It's nothing lad," Willam placed one hand on the boy's hair and ruffled it suddenly.
The sound of Duckfield's steel hissing from its scabbard did not phase him in the least.
"Go to your Uncle," Willam said simply, removing his hand and sighing. "I'll remain here."
Aegon gave him a nod, still visibly confused by the sudden shift. "Have a good night, Prince-"
"Will," he interrupted. "Call me Will lad, gods, drop the titles…"
"Will," Aegon's smile grew back as if it hadn't ever faltered. "Until tomorrow then."
"Come the Dawn," Willam muttered to himself as the Young Dragon departed to fetch his uncle.
It would do good for the men to see their king. The boy had done wonders with the nobility, no doubt his upbringings doing; yet no man had pushed him to mingle with the lowborn soldiers. A foolish error, when your might consisted more of farmers with spears and pitchforks than it did of shining knights.
Prince Willam looked left and right, searching for ghosts and finding none. He'd had enough drink for one night… or forever…
My Note(s): It has taken me awhile to update – with (by my standards) a relatively shorter chapter than usual, but things have kept me exceptionally busy RL plus I wished to rework/tweak previous chapters. If you're wondering what's changing the answer is "very Very little" as I'll merely being updating/correcting some typos and/or making Very small adjustments to the story. It's nothing you'll have missed if you've read it all before :) aside from one retcon: having renamed Frostbite to simply Frost because of the relation to Ice and the house name itself; this was a tweak I wished to make before moving on and everything else is just overall quality improvements.
We're in the final stretch of this story now ladies and gents, there's about 14-15 chapters remaining and all of them (mostly) are quite massive chapters. This'll mean it's going to take me awhile to update, but rest assured I am ever committed to finishing this story :D and rather looking forward to moving onto other fics.
That said, I don't want to rush to the finish and sacrifice quality. Updates will take as long as they take but ultimately, they WILL arrive in due course.
As always thanks for reading and thanks to all those who leave Reviews!
I appreciate the time taken to leave any comments :)
My Regards
- Soul
246vili: One of the only reviewers on a chapter again :D thanks as always! (I'm not counting the Anonymous one :P) I've lost both of mine as well sadly, but as you say you keep the memories and push ever onward – there's a quote I forget but it's something along the lines of "if we can live on in the memories of those we love, then we'll be lucky indeed" or something. No sense dwelling in the past. You're not going that way. As for the chapter though things are indeed quite the clusterfuck at the moment.
The next chapter will make things even more clustered :D and it'll be one of those chapters I get hate for, I'd wager; when you play the game after all :)
MalSer: I'm glad you've enjoyed the story so far :) I'll do my best to finish in a timely-ish manner to the best of my ability, not far to go now. Thanks for commenting!
Anonymous: I don't usually bother replying to Unnamed Guest reviews, since frankly, put some effort into at least signing your name. That said it's a good opportunity to point out the short-sightedness of some people and the strange desire to have every character be "the good guy" for some reason. This review is essentially "Ibbenese Genocide Bad" and "Author Bad Person" as if a Fictional Character's actions are the Author's actions… because we all know GRRM is a rapist and a childkiller because he wrote Gregor Clegane. Nonsense. I'm Approving this review because of the silliness of it :D Yes, ordering the Ibbenese wiped out is "bad" and it's supposed to be bad.
Rodrik is the worst of his father by design. He isn't a "nice" person. He will do whatever is best for his Kingdom, regardless of how difficult or unpleasant it may be. He orders them removed because it's the most effective way of ensuring future generations can rule Ibben with as little difficulty as possible, the island population isn't too numerous but doing nothing (or doing less) would breed resentment and rebellion. Tywin wiped out the Reyne's because it was the most effective way to secure his family's position, to send a message and to ensure the issue never returned to threaten his legacy. Rodrik does the same with Ibben for basically the same reasons.
There is no such thing as Black and White morality. Real people do terrible things every day and justify it all the time. I'm not writing every OC to be loved – they're each unique and often flawed individuals by design. I feel these sorts of comments stem from individuals without a lot of world experience and can only pity the day they learn what reality has in store. Humanity is exceptionally complicated. Monsters exist, people cheat, kill, steal and lie while telling themselves they had good reason.
I shall rectify nothing, for there is nothing but reality to rectify. The world can be a harsh place. If that surprises you, dear reader, then I envy your innocence.