Battle of the Bastards: Rise of House Stark

by AvidLoreReader

An alternate telling of the Battle of Bastards (Hopefully a believable blend between the show and the books). Although still reeling from the tragedies and betrayals they have suffered, Jon and Sansa with the aid of Brienne and Ser Davos rally the North to their side as they prepare for the coming Winter. The North Remembers.

8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer, this is an alternate version of Game of Thrones season 6 and onward, with some facts more in tune with the books. Also includes house Forrester. I do not own the characters (except any original characters), that privilege belongs to the talented G. R. R. Martin. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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Wayward Wolves

Beyond the Wall

Amidst the rustling of pine branches in the blistering cold wind, the screech of a snowy owl cut through the silence of their small camp. Brandon Stark casually searched the surrounding tree line, hoping to catch a glimpse of their feathery observer. When his natural eyes failed to find the bird of prey, the young warg opened his third to see all that was around him. Hearing the whispers of every tree, their stories of all they had witnessed in the sky and earth. The Three-eyed Raven focused so that he would not lose himself. Finding his quarry, Bran felt the owl resist him as he entered its mind.

This bond was crude compared to the ones he had with Summer and Hodor, his teacher had told him that warging was easier when there was an existing bond between the man and the beast he wished to wear. Despite all his training and experience entering the minds of his late direwolf and friend, Brandon was unprepared for this new sensation of freedom. To look towards the sky and be able to reach heights no man could ever achieve. The currents of wind ruffled his feathers, beckoning him to take flight. Stretching out his arms, he leapt from his branch and allowed the wind to carry him.

He staggered only for a moment, relying too much on his mind, before surrendering himself to the bird's instincts. In moments, Bran found himself far above the tree line and gazed at the world below him. With the owl's sharp eyes, he could see numerous small creatures scurrying across the white snow, yet his true quarry was nowhere to be seen. Much to his relief, the Walkers and their undead followers hadn't followed them since their fortuitous reunion with his uncle, Benjen. However, the exhilarating sensation of not being tethered to the earth, made such worries disappear. The young Stark could so easily soar away, leaving all the troubles of the world that plagued him every moment of every day for the last five years.

But such a thought was soon forgotten when a distant voice called out his name, anchoring him back into his own body. As his mind returned from his foray into the night sky, the sense of cold and hunger took hold of him. It had been hours since his uncle had left to go hunting, and while game was more common as they traveled further South, it still took a great deal of effort to provide enough to sustain him and Meera. The young lad noticed that his uncle did not eat, nor did he seem to notice the blistering cold as they did. He doubted the former First Ranger even slept at night; such was the work of the Children's magic. Magic that he had only begun to understand, let alone master.

"Bran," Meera called again, lightly shaking his arm. Her eyes filled with worry, worry that had been present ever since he nearly lost himself in the weirwood's vision of the past.

"I was just checking if the Army of the Dead was near," he offered, trying to abate her fears. She would never admit it, but she was afraid, afraid that if he entered one of his trances again, he'd never awaken. While he now had his uncle, Meera had no one else to trust, having lost Summer, Hodor, and most of all her brother. 'Brother,' he thought, reminded of the dream he had nearly a month ago, the kind of dream the young Stark hoped he'd never have again.

In the dream, he searched amongst the stone faces of his ancestors in the crypt of Winterfell, till he passed the grave of his father. There, torch in hand he saw Rickon standing alone in the next tomb. Yet, when he looked at his brother, he wasn't the same as when they parted ways, he had grown taller, and the anger that had filled his heart, ever since word of their father's death reached them, was gone. However, it was his brother's words that haunted him the most. "I found them Bran. I found them, father, mother, and Robb, they're all here. I told you they were here waiting."

Before Bran could speak his little brother turned from the light and faded into the shadows. Desperately chasing after him, the Three-Eyed Raven found only the lifeless gaze of his ancestors. When he awoke from that dream, he knew its meaning, like he did when he dreamed of his father, ser Rodrik, Robb and his mother. Bran would never see them or his little brother again. That night he wept for all of them, for the home they had lost, and everyone who had died for them.

He still wondered how Rickon died, the meaning behind his visions were always clear, but the specifics of the events in question remained shrouded in mystery. No doubt it meant Osha and Shaggydog were gone as well. Both would have died before letting anything happen to the youngest Stark. That meant there were only three people left from that wonderful time in his life: Jon, Arya, and Sansa. Bran missed them terribly, Sansa's sweet voice singing of knights and fair maidens, Arya's mischief throughout the castle and Jon's reassuring presence in the training yard. He had lost track of how much time had passed since he caught a glimpse of his half-brother during the chaos at Craster's, and it was even longer since he had seen his sisters.

But with each passing day it meant he was closer to seeing them again. Sadly, such a joyous event would have to wait until after they spoke with the Night's Watch, about what they had discovered. Upon reaching Castle Black, they would be questioned. Their story was hardly one most would believe, but the moment Jon lays eyes on him he'd vouch for them. Giving weight to their words with the Lord Commander.

The sound of hooves on the snow-clad ground approached, before long the dark apparel of the once lost ranger came into view, a string of snow hares at his side. As Meera skinned their freshly caught meal, his uncle built a small fire, bringing a small reprieve from the cold air. The Lone Wolf was the first to break the silence. "We're close, we should reach the grove by midday tomorrow."

Bran was admittedly growing tired of hearing about this hidden grove Benjen was leading them to. "You still haven't told us why you're taking us there instead of Castle Black."

Adding another branch to the fire, the veteran ranger merely looked at his nephew with a weary expression. "When the Three Eyed Raven summoned me to come to your aid, he bestowed a vision of where I'm supposed to take you. He told me that you'll find what you need there. That those who dwell there can give the answers he could not."

'Because of me,' the young Stark lamented. It was because of his foolhardy decision that led the Night King to their cave, that allowed them to break through the magical barrier, to murder his mentor, Leaf, and what was left of the Children of the Forest. Words couldn't begin to describe how he felt after bringing about such calamity, all because of his damn curiosity. The thought of Leaf made Bran feel heartbroken, as if the world had grown darker with the passing of her people. But maybe it wasn't so. "Do you believe there's another clan of Children living in this grove?"

The look in his uncle's eyes gave his answer before he even said a word. "Leaf and her sisters were the last clan; the Walkers hunted down the rest before even my time." The first Ranger thought long and hard before he said anything else. "If there's any human fear left in them, it was for the Children and their magic. It was as much their magic as man's steel that drove the Walkers back a thousand years ago."

Disheartened by his uncle's solemn and honest answer, the same answer his father would have given him, Brandon wondered at the point of his journey. When he set out all those years ago, the crippled Stark boy hoped he'd learn to walk again, but that wasn't to be. When he began his training with the Three Eyed Raven, he hoped to learn how to stop the Night King. But now his teacher was dead, and he was left with more questions than answers. "Then without them there's no hope for us."

His words caught both his uncle's and Meera's attention. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that." demanded the heir of house Reed as she walked over to him. "If you give up now, what was it all for? What did Summer, Hodor, and… and Jojen give their lives for? If they died for nothing, then it means your father, mother and brothers died for nothing as well, everyone who has ever lived has died for nothing. That is something I cannot and will not allow. For as long as I live, I will fight. I will fight with every breath in my body, what will you do?"

For the second time in his life Bran had been chastised about giving up by someone he cared for. He wasn't that little boy who couldn't see past what had been taken from him, and not on what he still had… not anymore. But what they faced now seemed impossible to overcome.

"She's right," interjected Benjen, kneeling beside him. "The Children may be gone, but the Old Ways endure in those who yet live. You and those like you have the strength within yourselves to challenge the Night King." Hearing the conviction in their voices, made him think of his father, mother, and brother Robb. All three would certainly tell him the same thing. If he gave up now, he'd spit on everything that they stood for, everything they held dear.

Before he could give his answer, they all heard snow crunching and branches snapping within the dark woods. At first Bran thought it could have been a wight, but as it neared it sounded too large to be one of the bewitched corpses, neither was there any spine-chilling hiss that rattled from their decaying throats. Both Meera and Benjen readied themselves, taking sword and spear in hand, eyes watching for any sign of danger. A sudden change in the wind caused the black stallion to panic, pulling at his tethered reigns in a mad attempt to escape. As his uncle went over to calm their only mount, Meera stood closer to guard him.

Once again, Bran silently wished he could protect her for a change, and not by warging into Summer or even Hodor, but with his own body and strength. It was a foolish thing to desire now of all times, but it was a desire none the less. There were several more encroaching steps before it stopped, leaving the small band in utter silence. Feeling his throat dry out of growing fear, the young Stark felt an odd sensation, one that he had never felt before. The closest thing was when he heard the Three-Eyed Raven call to him in his dreams, but this wasn't as clear. It was like someone was whispering to him amidst the raging currents of a waterfall.

He knew someone was speaking to him, but he couldn't discern what they were saying. Feeling the hair on his neck stand up, Bran turned his head to find a massive snow bear staring at them. His heart nearly stopped at the sight of its massive paws, which with one swipe could disembowel a grown man. While his voice failed him, he tried reaching out for Meera, but stopped when he noticed the beast's eyes. Within the dark brown eyes, Bran saw the reflection of a man. Again, he felt the same sensation, but this time knew its meaning. This was no mere bear; it was a fellow warg.

A frantic scream from Meera brought Bran to his senses, seeing the crannog girl and his uncle about to charge the snow bear. Finding his voice again the Three-Eyed Raven intervened before blood was spilled. "Wait, it's a warg. There's a man inside the bear's mind."

His outburst stayed their hands for the moment, but neither Meera nor Benjen lowered their weapons. Just because there was a man guiding the bears actions, it didn't mean that they were out of danger. Yet, there was something compelling him to wait, he could feel the warg's intentions and they weren't to harm them… but to guide them. Even after all they had witnessed after setting out on their journey, Meera couldn't help but question how he could be so certain. His answer silenced her worries for the time being. "The same way Jojen knew the meaning of his dreams."

Cautiously the three travelers gathered what few provisions they had and made their way to depart. Tying off Bran's makeshift sleigh to the horse, the First Ranger offered his hand helping Meera mount the beast behind him. Slowly the trotted along following the lumbering form of the snow bear. All pressed on in complete silence with every moment seeming like an eternity. It was only when a bird let out a long warble that Bran dared to speak. "It must be getting close to dawn."

While it wasn't uncommon for winter mornings to remain as dark as night, especially beyond the Wall, his uncle quickly dismissed the notion. "That was no bird Bran, it was a sentry, sending word that we're drawing near." Turning his head to get a better look at his uncle, the young warg heard another call further down the path. Now that he listened more closely, the calls did indeed sound like they were made by men.

"I thought wildlings didn't trust wargs in their camps," Meera asked giving a weary look towards their animal guide, now believing that an ambush waited for them at the next clearing.

Keeping his gaze forward, the last son of Rickard Stark kept his stoic expression as he answered. "That was before Mance Rayder united the tribes, showing them the importance of having every warg possible on their side against the Walkers and the Night's Watch. Now that Mance is gone, their need for the skin changers is greater than ever." Noticing the nervous glances between them, Benjen addressed both his young charges. "Stay calm and don't do anything to provoke them when they reveal themselves."

It wasn't long before their hidden watchers did as his uncle predicted. From amidst the trees, four hunters revealed themselves: two armed with bows, a third with an axe, and the fourth a spear. None of them spoke at first, they simply walked beside them as their escort or guards as they case may have been. Admittedly, Bran was beginning to wonder if he made a terrible mistake by convincing the others to follow the warg, to put their lives on the line for a feeling he had. If anything happened to them, it would haunt whatever was left of his short life.

"It has to be you," a new voice blurted out beside him. While he had silently moped about the possible mistake he'd made, Bran hadn't noticed the wilding holding the spear approach. Taking his first real look at her, the new Three-Eyed Raven saw that she was younger than the others, looking perhaps a year or so younger than him. Yet, it wasn't just her young features that caught his attention, it was her hair, from what little he could see it was as white as the snow around them.

Taken aback by this unusual appearance he failed to comprehend what she said. "I don't understand," he blurted out unsure of what he was supposed to say to the Wildling girl.

"The warg. The one that everyone has been whispering about for the last moon," the girl clarified keeping pace with him as they wandered the forest. "Why else would someone drag a cripple lordling around this far Beyond the Wall." Bran wasn't sure which part insulted him more, being called a cripple or the fact she knew him to be a noble with a mere glance.

"What makes you think I'm the warg," the young Stark asked giving her a stern look, one that he hadn't used since the last time he saw his sister Arya.

She returned the look with a mischievous smirk and a small chuckle. "No one among the Free Folk would go to the trouble of keeping someone like you alive like this, not unless you were a warg… or they were fattening you up for the pot." Her final words brought a chilling reminder of Old Nan's stories of how wildlings ate the flesh of their captives, even while they still lived. But as he saw the smile on the girl's face grow at his worry, he realized she was joking. While Bran wasn't sure how to react to this wildling's morbid humor, Meera on the other hand wasn't amused at all.

"We didn't make it all this way just to end up in some wildling pot or on some snowball's spear," retorted the heir to house Reed, now eyeing the girl with growing distaste. For a moment the two girls stared at each other with equal distrust, and neither one backing down. Bran noticed that the two archers were casually gazing back at them with bows in hand. Clearly, they didn't see a problem now, but if things transpired further, he had little doubt they would resolve it in a heartbeat.

Tensions lifted when the wildling girl turned her attention to their surroundings, noticing the frozen lake up ahead. "We're close now, the tunnel is on the other side. From there it's a simple walk till we reach where we're heading."

"And just where are we heading," inquired Meera with a slight shiver from the cold air.

The girl's smile grew as she gave an answer that wouldn't satisfy Meera in the least. "Somewhere safe from prying blue eyes. You two better dismount and unhitch the little lord, unless you want a moonlit dip in the icy lake. You'd come out as pale as your crow there."

"His name is Benjen, and he is my uncle," defended Bran, realizing they had yet to do the simple courtesy of giving their names. After so many years of hiding from those who wanted to kill or use him for their own gain had left his courtesies somewhat wanting. "That is Meera, and I'm Bran. What do they call you?"

The white-haired girl gave him a very odd look, probably considering whether she should give her name at all. After a moment of thought, she saw no harm in doing so. "The name's Sylvi, but I'd save your southern manners for when you meet the others, especially the witch."

Bran felt the hairs on his neck stiffen at the mention of a witch, nor did he fail to notice the sudden change in Sylvi's expression at the very mention of the woman. What had been light-hearted become scornful in the blink of an eye. Swallowing his new fear, the Three-Eyed Raven finally dared to speak. "What witch?"

"The Witch of the North Grove," Sylvi replied walking away, leaving a small chill run down the young Stark's spine.

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The Crossroad Inn of the Riverlands

The inn's dining hall was warm and smokey from the roaring fire at the hearth. A dozen or so parties spoke of business, of the coming winter snows, of rumors passed on from one stranger to another, and of course the most pressing of all… war. Yet, there was one person who didn't join in the talks, she simply sat in the corners listening as she awaited her meal. It had taken her nearly a month to reach this inn; weeks sailing across the Narrow Sea, and even more walking or hitching rides on merchant wagons (regardless of whether the owners knew she was there or not). Yet, in all that time this was the first opportunity she had to learn what had transpired since she departed Westeros.

"The conversation she was currently listening to was between two farmers who were unknowingly talking about her handiwork at the Twins. "Throat slashed ear to ear," replied the balding old man as he tore apart a piece of bread before soaking it in his beef stew. His companion, a much larger and bearded man took a hearty drink from his tankard of ale before answering.

"The Late Walder Frey," he said with a drunken slur in his voice. "About time the stingy old git died. I was beginning to think he'd outlive his entire brood, maybe now we'll get a fair toll when at the Crossing." As the farmer took another swig, Arya noticed a stream of ale running down his face. It was strange, seeing such careless drinking after spending so much time in Braavos, where even among the lowest company wine was revered, something that shouldn't be wasted. But she soon forgot such odd musings as the conversation pressed on.

Laughing at his friend's notion, the old man dispelled any illusions on the subject. "A fair toll from the Frey's, not likely! Especially now that they're at each other's throats. I'd wager you'd have to pay twice the usual miser's toll. One bag of coin to the lord Ryman Frey on the east bank and another to Merrett Frey on the west." Arya couldn't help smiling at the consequences of her actions. Admittedly, she hadn't given much thought to what would befall house Frey without lord Walder and his sons; lame Lothar, and Black Walder.

There was a time she would have slaughtered them all for every drop of Stark blood they spilled, but now… now she was more focused when exacting revenge. It was Walder Rivers who slit her mother's throat, it was Lame Lothar who hired the archers that killed Greywind, and it was lord Walder who broke the sacred law of guest right when he arranged the massacre. They were the ones who had to pay, the others were nameless faces she couldn't be bothered with. But that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the woe they brought onto themselves as she made her way to the remaining names on her list.

'Illyn Payne, Cersei Lannister, the Mountain, the Red Woman, Roose Bolton,' she silently recited in the order she would kill them. Illyn Payne for beheading her father with Ice, Cersei for allowing it to happen, and ser Gregor for all the people he tortured at Harrenhal. All three were in King's Landing. It only made sense to finish them first, in the place where it all began. Roose Bolton and the Red Woman though, they would be more difficult, for two very different reasons. Arya had no idea where the foreign witch was, but for taking away last of her true friends, she'd track her down no matter how far it took her.

Roose Bolton on the other hand, was the more daunting kill, not because she was afraid of the man himself, but because killing him meant returning home… to Winterfell. To see the shades of her siblings, her parents, her past life, all at once. It wasn't something she looked forward to, but it was lord Bolton who stabbed her brother's heart, it was lord Bolton who butchered their fellow countrymen, and it was lord Bolton who stole the North from her family. Like all the other's Roose Bolton will die starring up at the Stark they failed to find.

"Arry is that you," a familiar voice asked, calling her back to the present and away from dark ambitions. Before her very eyes, was the same lump of a baker boy that she had spent nearly two years traveling with. She had forgotten that Thoros of Myr and Anguy the Archer had sold him to the owner of this establishment.

With a gentle smile, probably the first that had graced her face since returning to Westeros, Arya greeted her old friend. "Hello, Hot Pie."

"It is you," the baker exclaimed in joy, placing the tray of empty tankards to their side as he joined her. "Never thought I'd see you again. Where have you been all this time?"

Arya couldn't even begin to explain what had happened to her after they had parted ways. The places she had been and the things she had done, she imagined Hot Pie wouldn't believe her even if she told him. "Different places."

Suddenly they were speaking of everything that had happened in the last three years, or at least Hot Pie was, talking for the sake of talking was something that came naturally to the baker boy. Surprisingly, he knew a great deal about events that had transpired since she set out for Braavos. The rebel lords in the Riverlands, the burning of the Sept of Baelor, the deaths of King Tommen and Queen Margaery, and rumors of the last Targaryen along with her three dragons. After describing how monstrous the beasts of legend were, Hot Pie realized he hadn't allowed her to speak yet. "So where are you heading?"

"King's Landing," she replied taking a drink from her ale. "It's past time I stopped running from the people there. Past time they answer for what they did to my family." The once nameless girl saw the look in her friend's eyes grow slightly fearful. Despite being somewhat of a simpleton, Arya had little doubt he knew what she intended to do. "You don't approve."

It was a statement rather than a question. Despite what he claimed when they first met Hot Pie was a gentle person, she doubted he could bring himself to kill a pig if his life depended on it. She half expected some innocent plea for her to stay, saying it would be like the old days, without the threat of harm around every corner of course. But what he said next surprised the little wolf. "I just thought you'd be heading home to Winter hall."

The misspoken name of her home made her look away for a moment. "I'll go there eventually, and the Lord of Leeches will learn what happens when you let one member of the pack live." She relished the idea of driving Needle right between his ribs and into his heart. In a moment of morbid humor, she wondered if there would be any blood staining her blade when she pulled it out. Given to how often the cryptic northerner leeched himself, that is, if the rumors were to be believed. She would find out soon enough.

There was a perplexed look on Hot Pie's face, even more so than usual. However, it was what he said next that left her looking like a gaping fool. "Arry, Roose Bolton's dead. All of them Boltons are dead." For a moment Arya's heart stopped at her friend's revelation, seemingly too good to be true.

"What?" She asked, unable to say anything else while she tried to comprehend what she had been told.

With a somewhat proud smirk on his face, Hot Pie began telling the little wolf all that he knew. "See the way I heard it, them Bolton's got ahold of your sister and married her off to lord Bolton's bastard son, only she didn't like that and ran off not long after. She ran all the way to Castle Black to find your brother Jonos- "

"Jon," corrected Arya, beginning to wonder just how reliable this tale was. Her friend while honest, had proven gullible more times than she could count during their travels together.

Making note of her brother's proper name, Hot Pie continued his story. "Anyways, they left the Night's Watch with an army of Wildlings and went about rallying them other northern families. When they marched on Winterfell, your brother won the Battle of the Bastards, and after he killed Roose and his son, they named him King in the North."

Arya was thrilled to hear of Roose Bolton's death, but not nearly as thrilled to hear that Jon and Sansa were alive and well in their ancestral home. Where Jon now ruled as king no less, had anyone told that such a thing was possible she would have thought them mad. Yet, there was one thing she wondered about, and that was whether Roose died in a befitting manner. "How did he do it? How did my brother kill them?"

Scratching the back of his head, the baker boy gave the best answer he could. "Not sure really. One bloke said he cut off their heads and mounted them on his front gate, while another said he fed 'em to his direwolf still living." Arya considered the two stories carefully, while she preferred the latter herself, the former seemed more like her brother. Quick, clean, giving the person a chance to die with dignity, whether they deserved it or not.

A sudden realization struck the young Stark girl, she had a family and a home waiting for her, things she had given up on ever having again. She wanted to see them more than anything, she wanted to see Jon's smile once again, to feel his warm embrace once more, she even wanted to hear Sansa scream at her again. The two sisters hadn't gotten along growing up in Winterfell. Sansa had always been so lady-like, so stupid, and so annoyingly perfect in their mother's eyes. Even though she knew their mother loved her, Arya recalled the times where the Stark matriarch had silently wished her to be more like Sansa. That was probably one of the reasons she was always angry at her sister.

But none of that mattered now, she had been alone for so long that it felt only right that they be reunited. It's what their father would have wanted, for all his children to be together, protecting one another from the harsh winds of winter. But such a sweet notion only reminded her that her family would never be whole again, and that some of those responsible still lived. Considering all that she had endured and all that she desired, the Stark girl finally made her decision. She would go to her family, but that didn't mean she was forsaking her quest for justice.

Finishing her meal, Arya offered a small bag of coin that she had pickpocketed off a Frey guard at the Twins, only for Hot Pie to refuse it. She couldn't help but smile when he told her friends didn't pay. "Thanks, Hot Pie, take care of yourself." Looking around the inn, she knew her friend had a good life here, and truly hoped it would stay that way.

As she walked away the Little Wolf heard the baker boy call after her. "Don't worry Arry, we're the same, we're survivors." Arya couldn't resist chuckling at his remark, it was true in a way, they were both still here while so many others were gone.

"Aye, the last of Yoren's black company," she replied solemnly, thinking of the old watcher, Lommy, and Gendry… especially Gendry.

For the final time that evening, Hot Pie blurted out something she wouldn't have thought possible. "Right, us and Gendry that is." Her heart stopped for moment, it was too good to be true, not only was her family alive, but her dearest friend as well. It was so unbelievable, she called her friend a liar without thinking, to which he denied swearing by all Seven Gods that what he said was true. "He passed through here awhile back; said he was looking for work. Told him I heard Lady Smallwood needed a new blacksmith at Acorn Hall, because hers' got too old."

There was a slight flutter in Arya's heart, a demanding urge to ride out to Acorn Hall at once, if nothing but to see Gendry smiling face once more. Acorn Hall was only a few days ride southwest of here. She could easily visit her friend, then resume her journey home. 'Perhaps he would even- 'the Stark girl thought before dashing the notion out her mind. They had been down that road before, he told her he was tired of serving others and she doubted anything had really changed since then. Besides, she wasn't the same as she was back then, if he knew the whole truth about what she became, her friend would look at her with fear.

Still a brief visit would give her a chance to say a proper goodbye to Gendry, something they'd been denied when the Brotherhood without Banners sold him to the witch. This was probably her only opportunity to do so, she learned firsthand that tomorrow was never a promise for anyone, only a hope. With that somber notion in mind, she quietly thanked Hot Pie again and left, fading away in the movement and rowdiness of the crowd.

Moat Cailin

As the final preparations for the encampment were well under way, the King in the North studied the map of the Riverlands, within the Gatehouse Tower of the ruined keep. Of the three remaining towers, it was the most practical choice for his temporary seat before marching onward to retake the Riverlands, It provided a complete overview of the ruins standing defenses and the causeway to the South. It also proved to be the most well standing fortification. It's counterparts like the Drunkard's Tower was at greater risk of being engulfed by the bog with each passing year.

As for the Children's Tower, it's roof had collapsed from rain and wind years, if not decades ago. Honestly, if all he needed was a place to plan the incursion into the southern kingdoms, Jon would have gladly taken that tower for his own, instead of using the same lodgings his brother had before him. It was hard, standing where his brother stood, overlooking the same map, and leading their kinsman away from their homes and families once again. But such qualms would have to be put aside, as the tower's bedchamber was the only one suitable for the Queen of Winter.

The White Wolf, a tested warrior and commander, still couldn't believe that the former trail guide had forced his hand in bringing her here. He remembered how confounded he was when Mya along with Ladies Myranda Royce and Wynafryd Manderly presented themselves to his company. It was even more confounding when she commended his courage for riding out to war but noted it would be reckless to do so without ensuring an heir to his realm.

That's when he realized what she had done, by talking of furthering the Stark line before the bannermen, she had essentially overturned his decision to have her escorted to Winterfell. The lords of the North and the Vale, expected an heir for a sense of solidarity and security, that should he fall they'd have something to continue fighting for. Something that couldn't happen if three hundred miles stood between them. The White Wolf, let out a half-amused chuckle thinking of how he had unknowingly given Robert Baratheon's daughter the means to stay by his side. It was a clever move, reminiscent of the one Littlefinger used to arrange their betrothal in the first place.

Despite this underhanded act of defiance, and his frustration at how stubborn and headstrong this woman could be, Jon couldn't bring himself to blame Mya for any of it. Ever since that night when she told him how his actions made her feel, how he had undermined her dignity, the young warrior questioned whether he could do right by her.

'Would I have done anything different if I were in her position,' he silently asked himself, remembering how easily he took offense at the jests and whispered remarks behind his back, especially before his time in the Night's Watch. His service to the once renowned brotherhood had certainly prepared him to lead men but left him woefully ignorant in appeasing a woman. Which made their new sleeping arrangement rather unusual and awkward, at least for him. Rather than continue their established routine, she insisted that they share the bed, allowing him to get the rest he'd surely need in the coming days.

There had been a few moments on their journey here, that he tried to apologize, but his lady wife wasn't ready to hear it, so all he could do for the time being was wait until she was. As far as Jon could tell this was not out of spitefulness, but rather stubbornness. He nearly laughed, spiteful was the last word the monarch would use to describe Mya. Thinking of what he had learned of her so far, he thought passionate suited the Mountain's Daughter more. He could only hope to learn how to handle such passion with care. Otherwise, he would have had to coincide himself to a very cold winter, one that wasn't brought on by the Walkers.

Thankfully, the chamber doors opened, revealing the small assembly of his generals and captains he'd summoned, turning his mind to something he understood… war. Of his gathered allies stood Mors Umber, forgoing his usual hood and patch, allowing everyone to see the chunk of obsidian that was in place of his missing eye. Jon knew what the old man would advise even before he called this meeting, to crush the Freys under their boots and rescue Great-Jon Umber from their dungeons. The Wall would melt before an Umber ever counselled patience, especially when the life of a kinsman was at stake.

Next, was ser Desmond Grell, the acting commander of the Motte Cailin garrison. Upon arrival Jon had been surprised to learn that Sers Brynden and Robin had departed the keep for Winterfell, leaving the aging knight in command. While ser Desmond had served his post well, it was the Blackfish he needed to plan a successful campaign in the Riverlands. The White Wolf had already sent a raven to Winterfell calling back house Tully's greatest knight and demanding an explanation from his sister. All that the former master at arms could tell him was that a company of riders rode up the causeway, and the next day the Blackfish set out for Winterfell.

Jon knew something was amiss, the legendary soldier wouldn't abandon his post for an idle visit. Still, he couldn't wait, the Blackfish would have to reunite with the main army later. The King in the North could only hope that it wouldn't be too late. His military experience alone could turn the tide of any battle.

The remaining advisors consisted of lords Yohn Royce, Lucas Marsh, Horton Redfort and ser Davos, who after careful consideration believed he could be of greater service at Jon's side rather than remaining in White Harbor. In all honesty, Jon had to agree, not only because of the former smuggler's sage advice, but for his unfaltering loyalty which compelled him to speak the truth no matter what, something a king was in desperate need of.

After a simple exchange of titles and greetings, Jon began their meeting with their outriders' reports on the Riverlands current situation. "Ser Desmond, what word is there of the rebelling houses, do they still hold out against the Freys and Lannisters?"

"After the loss of Riverrun, the other houses lost their momentum and were pushed back by the Lannister and Frey alliance. Our last report told that lord Mallister is trapped within his own keep, surrounded by Frey soldiers led by Walton Frey of all people." The tone in the knight's voice told Jon how little he thought of the man leading the assault, as if it was a greater insult than the act itself.

Perhaps it was, for the young king had never heard of the man before, not that it was unexpected considering the scores of sons and daughters Walder Frey had sired over the years. "This Walton Frey, what do you know of him?"

Ser Desmond let out a dismissive chortle before answering. "Walton 'The Forgettable" Frey, the late Stevron Frey's third son. He's a self-entitled fool, who has never achieved anything of renown in his entire life, but like the rest of Walder's brood, he doesn't lack for ambition. No doubt he hopes taking Seagard will strengthen his claim to the lordship of the Crossing."

The shear amount of infighting and petty squabbles within house Frey, made it a wonder as to how it had survived for more a decade after its founding. This was yet further proof loyalty and honor were foreign notions to the lot of them. "Whether he takes the castle or not a third born son cannot inherit before a first born, that has been the king's law for centuries."

"When have the damned Freys ever concerned themselves with the laws of gods and men," growled Mors Umber, with the others muttering in agreement. The Red Wedding, that's what the singers called it, Jon called it what it was… murder. The murder of his brother, countless others, and the Stark cause. Worst of all it was done in the face of the sacred law of guest right, that was something the gods couldn't forgive, nor could he. House Bolton had paid in full for their hand in it, now it was house Frey's turn.

It didn't matter that lord Walder was already dead, his sons and men at arms bore the blood of those slain as well, and he would see justice done upon them. Jon had always dealt out justice because it was his duty, he'd never taken pleasure in it, but he could feel that part of him would enjoy what he intended for house Frey, and it shamed him. "What of house Blackwood?" he asked, hoping to focus his mind on something else.

"After his confrontation with the Lannisters at the Widow's Wash, lord Tytos has been retreating to Raventree Hall in good measure, with the Brackens nipping at their heels. The bloody traitors." The King in the North felt his jaw clench, houses Blackwood and Bracken had bitter rivals for centuries, but during the War of Five Kings they had fought and bled together for the Stark cause. Sadly, it would appear such things meant little to Jonos Bracken, who was among the first to bend the knee to the Iron Throne and turn on his former comrades.

Sympathetic to both house's plights, the White Wolf was resolved to aid them, not only to unite the other kingdoms against the White Walkers, but to repay their loyalty to the North and his brother's memory. However, if he was to help either one, they'd first have to cross the Green Fork, and to do that they would have to take the Crossing. Despite the incompetence of house Frey, their seat was one of the most formidable strongholds in Westeros. Like Riverrun, each fort on either side of the river had moats that essentially turned them into islands. Not to mention the very length of the bridge, the Water Tower erected at its center, and the remaining keep's defenses would prove the greater challenge.

Each of his advisors, save Davos and Lucas Marsh, voiced their thoughts of the matter. As Mors Umber claimed that the mere sight of their host would break the Frey's spirits into surrendering, lord Horton Redfort counseled that they should send a vanguard further down the river to find a crossing and so that they might assault the keep on both sides.

Bronze Yohn put an end to both notions. "A narrow path negates superior numbers, the First Men of the Vale understood this when they built the foundation of the Bloody Gate, just as the Freys did when they constructed their bridge. A frontal assault would mean a costly victory, but neither can we divide our forces. If Walton Frey, or more likely the Lannister forces come to the keep's aid, our men on the west bank would be caught between the hammer and the anvil."

Jon had to agree with his high general, even with its occupants squabbling amongst themselves, this keep wouldn't fall to strength of arms alone, it would require strength of mind as well. "Ser Davos how well versed are you with the currents of the Trident."

Despite the lofty looks from the patriarchs of house Royce and Redfort, due to the landed knight's past crimes, all had learned to head the words of the old seafarer. "There have been times in my more disreputable days, where I moved goods- "

"Stolen goods," chided lord Horton, letting his distaste of them listening to a lowly criminal, even a reformed one, be known. But upon noticing Jon's gaze upon him, the old warrior bowed his head and remained silent.

With no further interruptions house Seaworth's founder continued. "Where I moved stolen goods from the coastline to the banks of the Trident, but I never sailed as far up as the Green Fork."

"Do you believe you could transport a handful of men, equipped with climbing spikes, to the Water Tower without being seen?" Now intrigued by his notion the other members of the war council looked towards the former smuggler awaiting his answer.

Considering the notion carefully, the Onion Knight thengave them an honest answer, as was his way. "Provided we find a few lads familiar with the tracts and bends of the river, and we let the current guide us under the cover of night, it may be possible to get them close enough to scale the bridge's supports and into the tower. But none of that will matter if they know we're coming."

Jon nodded in agreement; the element of surprise would be crucial for the plan to succeed with as few casualties as possible. Ferreting out house Frey's scouts needed a diligent hand at the reign, one experienced with hunting down small parties in the countryside. "Lord Horton," the young king addressed calmly, "You and Roose Ryswell will ride ahead of the army with a company of your best trackers and deal with any Frey scouts. I don't want them to know of our movements until we are at their damn gates."

With a glint of pride in his eye, the aging knight of the Vale accepted the role, seeing it as an opportunity to win honor to his house. "It was the Vale's greatest shame to have our knights remain idle at their hearths while the War of the Five Kings raged on, but now it will be house Redfort that restores her honor by being first to draw steel against the Northern Realm's enemies."

"Lord Redfort," the King in the North interjected, putting an end to the old lord's bravado with one look. "Do not take this charge lightly, many lives depend on your efforts. I'll not have them put at risk for a knight's vanity." It was true, this campaign wasn't about honor or glory; it was about securing their best and perhaps last chance to save all the realms of men. As the lord of Redfort assured him that he and his sons would not fail, the patriarch of house Stark turned his attention to another matter, one as equally important.

"Lucas Marsh," he called forth, bringing everyone's attention to the only Crannog-man among them. The man in question was a sharp contrast from his fellow northerners, dressed in leather and wool, he was short and lean, so short that a squire of fifteen would tower over him. "During the war, the Ironborn took this keep, shutting my brother out of the northern half of his kingdom, I will not let that happen again. To that end, I'm sending you to inform lord Reed, that every house within the Neck is to aid in the defense of Moat Cailin."

"My king," began the reclusive swamp dweller, considering his words carefully as he was the first of his people to address a Stark king in centuries. "You have our support now and always, but the Crannogmen do not fight as you do. We do not marshal together in great numbers, march in columns, or hold keeps against invaders. We blend into our surroundings, letting the land itself fight our opponents, and when the time is right… well, as we say, a well-placed dart is as deadly as any blade."

There was no denying his claims, the Crannogmen were famous for their use of poison spears and arrows on unexpecting parties before disappearing into the shadows. Even at Winterfell, he had often heard them called Bog-Devils for this reason alone. Many in the North and no doubt the Vale, thought this way of fighting was dishonorable, and for the longest time so did he. But after witnessing firsthand how the Free Folk fought in harmony with their surroundings, the White Wolf saw the wisdom in it.

Not only did the Mud Men of the Neck learn how to repel larger forces than their own, but they managed to flourish in a region most thought uninhabitable. That was precisely what he needed to ensure that the gate to his homeland remained open. "I'm not asking you and your people to join the garrison, but to aid them from the shadows and harry any force that dare approach."

The crannog-man nodded, understanding the full extent of his orders, the keepers of the Neck would set snares, ambush sites, and make false trails that would lead the unwary to the sinkholes and quicksand pits that the region was infamous for. Concluding this meeting, Jon informed them that he had already given orders for a company of Waynwood arbalists and Glover footman to remain here and join in the defense of the ruin. Bringing the keep's marshal strength to five hundred men, a force that could hold out against a host ten times its size, as had been done for over a thousand years.

After discussing the matters of maintaining steady supply lines, the condition of their soldiers, and their departure by week's end, the monarch bayed his councilors to see that their lieutenants were informed of his orders, save ser Davos. As soon as the doors closed the northerner let out a small sigh of exhaustion. "Tell me Davos, did Stannis ever take comfort in these meetings?"

The older man, with an amused smirk recalled the exact words of his late king. "He once told me such meetings were like the braying of mules to his ears, and that they rarely brought forth any useful notions."

That much was true from what Jon had seen. Mors Umber believed 'Northern Valor' was all that was needed to assure victory, while Horton Redfort's mind was fixed on personal glory and honor. Only lord Royce had offered any sound advice in their strategy for taking the Twins, the man was first and foremost a soldier. Taking the wolf shaped token, that had been positioned where his army resided, in hand, the eldest living son of Ned Stark pondered the coming battles and whether he was up to them.

"You needn't worry, your grace," assured Davos, seeing the doubt in eyes. "With the North, Vale, and soon enough the Riverlands, the odds are in our favor."

"They favored Stannis as well." he countered, placing the marker back to its original setting. "He was one of the greatest military leaders in Westeros, he understood who the true enemy was, and yet he still lost." As hard as it was to say the words, it was true. During his brief stay at Castle Black, Jon had grown to admire the man. As hard as he was, Jon had never met a man so devoted to his duty, save perhaps his father.

Turning his gaze back to the Onion Knight, the solemn king saw the man in deep thought, considering his words. Jon imagined it was regarding the last Baratheon king, no doubt the seafaring knight sought the best answer without insulting his late liege's memory. "King Stannis, for all his faults, was a great leader and the greatest man I'd ever met, but there is a difference between you and him, your grace. One that may let you succeed where he failed"

The smuggler now had his full attention, remaining silent as he continued. "He fought to win the throne believing it would save the realm. You're fighting to save the realm and everyone in it because it is the right thing to do. So that when the Long Night does come, there will be a dawn for us all afterwards. I believe that is possible, because I've seen what you've accomplished, things others couldn't even dream of doing."

The conviction in the seafarer's voice grew with each word, as he listed Jon's accomplishments. Most of which had been done out of a sense of duty both to his brothers in arms and to his family. "After the Battle of Castle Black, I heard the tale of a young lad who held the castle against one-hundred thousand wildlings with only a hundred men under his command. That same lad would go on to form an alliance between the same men who have been killing each other for centuries. He then took back his ancestral home from a traitor and madman. That lad, standing before me, is the best chance for something that Westeros hasn't seen since before my time."

"What is that?" Jon asked, feeling more inspired by ser Davos' words than he had felt in some time.

"A ruler with the strength to lead and make the hard choices but has the heart to put the needs of others before his own." At first his friend's words sounded like the fabled notion of what knights and kings should be, told to young boys since the day they were born. But the more he thought on it, the more he understood their meaning. While a king needed to be just and honorable, there would-be times where duty to their people would ask them to set these things aside.

Perhaps that had been his father and brother's greatest failure, neither one compromised their honor, yet both paid for it with their lives. He'd done the same in the Night's Watch and was murdered for it. If his people were going to have a chance, he'd have to learn when to uphold his honor and when to set it aside. Otherwise, everything he accomplished would have been for nothing.

"I suppose we'll see if I am that man in the coming battles," muttered the King in the North, now more wary of his title than ever before.

000

Mya stared at the banners flying over the Children's Tower, one more so than the others, a crimson Red Castle on a white field, the banner of house Redfort. She couldn't hide the small frown that graced her lips, the banner's presence meant lord Horton was here, and that meant his sons were not far… all his sons. She supposed it was fortunate that Moat Cailin's ruinous state prevented more of the Northern army from being housed within it. No doubt, he was out there somewhere in the outer encampment.

Now faced with the possibility of crossing paths with Mychel, perhaps going to Winterfell wasn't the worst thing possible. But this was what she had wanted, she would have to live with it. Her musings were interrupted by an exasperated gasp from behind, her old friend and keen mentor, Myranda Royce. Who was currently shooing away a tenacious bog gnat, a rather large and bloodthirsty thing that made its home in the marshlands of the Neck. It went without saying just how much her friend hated their current surroundings.

A pang of guilt ran through Mya's heart, Myranda wasn't accustomed to the wilderness like she was, Nestor Royce's daughter had spent all her life in the court of house Arryn. Yet, when she came to her for help, she didn't hesitate and began tutoring her in the ways of politics. Something that Randa was taking great pleasure in, given how in their childhood, Mya couldn't have cared less about courtesies and 'the game,' as the initiated called it.

But politics would do very little to save the lady from the feracious appetite of the many pests abound. "Pardon my asking my Queen but was there no place more suitable for his grace to take residence than this gnat infested ruin! The little beasts are likely to devour us all, that is if the stench doesn't choke us to death first!"

Interceding on her behalf, Wynafryd Manderly, her second Lady in Waiting, defended the stronghold's legacy. "Lady Myranda, you should feel honored to stand here, for centuries the Stark kings of old safeguarded the North from this battlement, and before that the Children of the Forest called down the Hammer of the Waters from that very tower."

"Yes, while Grumpkins and Snarks snatched away disobedient children from their beds at night," Myranda retorted, having lost her usual good humor after being bitten for the third time this afternoon. Mya had doubts she would regain her jollity until they were well past the neck and within the Riverlands. "Perhaps we can discuss the history of this majestic keep once we are inside her grace's chambers and away from the damn insects."

"We can't," answered Mya, turning her gaze to the Gatehouse Tower where her lord husband was in council. "At least not yet, not until Jon's… his grace's council has concluded." This greater attention to royal titles had been one of Myranda's lessons, that when in public the use of personal names supposedly diminished a king or queen's authority in the eyes of their followers. It was proving difficult to recall, since she had hardly used her husband's title until now.

The thought of Jon brought about something else that had been weighing on her mind of late, she knew they'd have to talk soon. The young queen felt that the silence between them had gone on long enough, but her pride hadn't allowed her to make the first move. It was obvious Jon wanted to talk as well but hadn't pressed the issue. Her last attempt to do so amounted to a mere proposal, a remedy if you will, regarding their previous bedding arrangement.

Mya had repeatedly seen her lord husband put her comfort above his own since White Harbor. While she appreciated it, the Mountain's Daughter was beginning to feel like a heel, sleeping in comfort while Jon made do with whatever was available. The young queen had had enough, but what surprised her the most was his reaction when she made her proposition, a slight stammer in his speech and flush to his face. It was rather sweet, seeing the softer side of the King in the North, it certainly brought a small smile to her lips even now.

"My queen," called Myranda, snapping the mountain lass out of her sentimental daze. Noticing her friend's gaze on her, Mya realized she hadn't heard a word her mentor and companion had said.

"I'm sorry, what was it you were saying?"

"Lady Myranda," answered Wynafryd with an amused glint in her eyes, "was asking why you are not with his grace at this moment. Given your adamance of remaining in his company, I can't help but wonder as well."

It was a fair question, one that had a simple answer on her part. While living as a trail guide in the Vale, meant she had learned long ago how to defend herself should the need arise, which was only thanks to ser Robert Stone's tutelage. Something that had been done out of the knight and fellow bastard's affection for her mother. It hardly made her a strategist.

"My being here is about not allowing others to decide my fate," she stated firmly, meeting her friends' eyes. "but that doesn't mean I'll force myself onto every council and speak of things I don't know, things that may decide whether countless others live or die."

Myranda's placid face changed as a satisfied smirk pulled at the corner of her lips. "Well said, my queen. It seems you have more wisdom than you first believed. But there is still much to learn." The suddenly serious tone in her friend's voice made it clear she wanted to talk of her beloved courtly intrigue.

"And what lesson do you have for me today, lady Royce? The importance of a smile?"

The attempt at humor only raised Myranda's eyebrow before she explained her stance. "A reminder, Mya. This ploy we've fashioned doesn't come without risk. While it has given you your desire, the noble families will now look to you for an heir, and if one does not come soon, they will begin to whisper."

"We've already discussed this, Myranda," the queen stated defensively as her body tensed, knowing fully well what her friend was about to say.

"And we will discuss it again, my Queen. Whispers in a royal court are like fine thread, harmless by themselves, but when woven together they fashion a noose that will choke the very life from you. For a queen, there is perhaps no whisper more deadly than being barren." Mya bit the corner of her lip, she knew her friend was telling the truth, if she didn't attempt to bear a child soon the noble families might think her incapable of doing so and seek to replace her. Finding cruel irony to how fierce the great houses guarded their daughters' virtue, until it otherwise served their ambitions.

But none of this made it any easier on her, while she had always enjoyed living life, she had only ever lay with one man and that had been out of love. A love that he betrayed, leaving her hesitant to risk having her heart broken again. There was no denying Myranda's claim when she said Jon was handsome, that was something she noticed the moment they met. In fact, after glimpsing her husband's slim yet defined frame on more than one occasion, Mya's curiosity had admittedly been stirred. But that was hardly enough for her to consider-

"BREAK IT UP!" a booming voice echoed from across the yard, where three young boys were wrestling in the muck. A large, grey-bearded man rushed over to them and pulled the top two boys off the third. The man in question was not gentle with the lads, keeping an iron grip on one's arm and tossing the other to the side as he picked up the third by the scruff of his neck. Although he was covered in mud, Mya was startled when she recognized the face of the third lad, a face she hadn't expected to see here.

"Ronnel," she whispered in disbelief, hurrying to his side, with Myranda and Wynafryd close behind. Her eyes widening as the soldier began raising his hand to strike one of the boys. "Stop, what is going on here."

Her intervention had caught the older man by surprise, no doubt the thought of conversing with his queen seemed impossible. Yet, when his shock faded his anger returned focused on Ronnel and the others. "Your grace, nothing that need concern you, just a bout of rowdy milksops in need of discipline. Rest assured, when I'm done with them, they won't even think of causing trouble in camp again." The look of fear in the boys' eyes left little doubt that his notion of discipline would leave them battered and bloody, something she couldn't let happen to the heir of house Egen.

"Stop," Mya cried out as the soldier began leading them away. As the quartermaster turned back to her, she noticed he wasn't the only one, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered around them. The mountain lass wondered at what she had gotten herself into, growing steadily uncomfortable with so many staring at her. "This is a simple matter, as you said the rowdiness of boys, hardly worth the effort to chastise them, especially at times such as these."

There were a few murmurs in the crowd around them, spoken too softly for the young queen to hear, leaving her to wonder as to whether the agreed or disagreed with her words. The quartermaster on the other hand made his stance perfectly clear. "Pardon, your grace, but spare them the rod now and you'll only have to bring it down harder tomorrow. They're part of the northern army, they must act like it. Besides, hiding behind a woman's skirt only makes cravens out of lads." At this many of the soldiers gathered around nodded and voiced their agreement in the matter, but Mya's attention was on the quartermaster, whose expression was becoming more indignant with her presence.

Noting that her first appeal was falling on deaf ears, Mya considered simply ordering the quartermaster to let them all go, but she then remembered Mya's first lesson. A ruler that forces their will on others without true cause, is a ruler that doesn't sit long on their throne. As her friend noted, many Targaryen kings had done as much and paid for it with their lives. True power wasn't commanding others to your cause but persuading them to join it. Taking a breath, the mountain lass thought carefully of her next words.

"Perhaps, it would be better to make use of them instead, as quartermaster you undoubtedly have many responsibilities, surely, they can fulfill the more menial of them. Tasks that would prove too strenuous if they were still reeling from your… discipline." Her new approach seemed to be working, with the old man scratching his face as he considered the prospect of fewer burdens on his shoulders.

"I have many duties both here and in the outer camp, I can't waste my time or my aids' time watching all three of them." While his voice was skeptical, his eyes showed the growing interest in the idea, causing Mya to smirk to herself. Addressing his final worry, the queen suggested taking one of them, specifically Ronnel, off his hands, assuring him that as kinsmen of the Vale, she would remind him of the standards and dignity their people aspired to. Consenting to the arrangement, the stern old man warned the two lads in his charge that should they fail, their punishment would be worse than they could imagine.

Once they left and the onlookers dispersed, the heir of house Egen silently thanked her with a smile, a truly rare occurrence in the last six years. Leading Ronnel away from the courtyard, Mya noticed the look on Myranda's face as they approached, both taxed and impressed at the same time. "It seems the next lesson I must pass on to you, is knowing when to intercede in matters, and when to let events unfold. But still if nothing else this proves you have been paying attention."

"Surely that can wait till tomorrow. Right now, brave ser Ronnel here, has a story to tell, as to how he found trouble… again." replied the Queen of Winter, now turning a raised eye to her surrogate little brother, who indeed had much to say on his behalf. Finding respite in what would have been the keep's kitchen, the three ladies listened intently as the boy regaled them with his life and what transpired after Mya left the Vale.

"And ser Rickard said all the boys of summer had been called to serve in the White Wolf's army, that it was time for us to learn how to fight in a proper war," recounted young Ronnel, leaving the mountain lass to ponder what was transpiring back home. Boys went off to war at thirteen, that had been the way of it for centuries, but she couldn't help but wonder how many would see their homes and families again. A frown tugged at Mya's lips knowing fully well that the latter was something Ronnel no longer had.

"Ronnel," she stated calmly, seeing the lad's knowing look before she even asked the question. "What caused the fight between you and those two boys?"

At first house Egen's heir sat in silence, refusing to meet her gaze, instead fixating on the cracked stone floor. Before she could inquire again, he finally answered, "They said my father was a false knight… A craven killed by some nameless sellsword. By what right do peasant boys have to pass judgement on a knight of the Vale!"

Ronnel's fists clenched at his sides, eyes gleaming in anger, Mya knew that the boy had worshiped his father, and for good reason. In his youth, ser Vardis Egen earned his knighthood by slaying the Moon Brother chieftain Wulff in single combat and would later fight in the Battle of the Bells. Killing one of Jon Connington's lieutenants, and in part allowing her father to engage the royalist commander himself. For such valor and courage, the newly appointed Hand of the King named him as captain of his personal guard. A task he served faithfully until lord Arryn's questionable death six years ago.

But sadly, when Catelyn Stark brought the Imp to the Eyrie, the dwarf of Casterly Rock called for a trial by combat. It was ser Vardis who took up the challenge to honor his lord's memory, only to die at the hands of the Lannister's champion. She had not been there for the duel, but she heard how the cutthroat mercilessly murdered the knight and threw his remains through the Moon Door, adding further dishonor to the act.

Seeing how he died in service to house Arryn, lady Lysa had been obligated to host his funeral in her hall, with the entirety of the household in attendance. The young queen remembered how ser Vardis' remains had been covered by a white shroud, hiding his broken form from his tearful son, who was only seven at the time. Amidst the anger and pain in the lad before her, she could still see that devastated little boy who missed his father. Wordlessly, she placed a hand on his shoulder offering what little comfort she could.

His anger seemed to abate at her touch, after all she was the closest thing, he had to family. With both his parents gone, the late lady Egen having died from a pox not long after he was born, Ronnel had been raised by nannies and the castellan of Stone, the second waylay defense of the Giant's Lance. That was how they met in earnest, she was on her return journey from delivering supplies to house Arryn's ancestral keep, when she stopped to rest at Stone. The next day, Mya departed not knowing that young Ronnel had stowed away in an empty barrel in his latest attempt at running away.

They had made it all the way to the Gate of the Moon when he was discovered. She still didn't know what made her speak up as Nestor Royce chastised the boy, volunteering to escort him back up the mountain. Perhaps it was out of sympathy for his loss, or perhaps it was because she saw a kindred spirit that felt as lost as she had at his age. Being the lowly children of important men, who were seemingly overlooked now that their sires were gone. Whatever the reason, from that journey onward they had forged a sincere bond, making it even more heartbreaking not having the chance to say goodbye when she was summoned to the North.

"Has… has the king treated you well?" Ronnel's gentle question had caught Mya off guard, having been lost in sad yet warm memories of the two. For the second time today, the young queen recalled all her interactions with her lord husband, who despite their recent argument, endeavored to do as he promised when they met.

"Yes... his grace has been most considerate and kind, more so than I ever expected." She could see the inquiring look in young Ronnel's eyes, yet the boy held his tongue as if uncertain as to how he should go about asking his many questions. "If I'm able, I'd gladly answer any question you have regarding the legendary White Wolf."

"is it true what they say? That he defeated a hundred men himself in the Battle of the Bastards and that he killed the King beyond the Wall in single combat?"

It was only the lad's first question, and he already left her searching for an answer. "Jon has never spoken of his battles, and while I have little doubt he has acted bravely and decisively, he seems to take no pride in killing." The mountain lass's answer seemed to leave the young Egen somewhat disappointed, as all young boys enjoyed hearing of their heroes' exploits, believing every word to be true.

"What of his direwolf?" Ronnel inquired further as his excitement grew within him, desperately wanting to hear of the mythical beast. "Is it true that it's as large as a bear, with glowing red eyes and has a thirst for the blood of his grace's enemies."

Mya had to stifle a chuckle, while Ghost was indeed massive compared to normal wolves, and possessed red eyes, bloodthirsty was not a word she'd use to describe the snow-white animal. She wasn't naïve though, she had heard how the direwolf participated in the Battle of Castle Black, and how it had killed a dozen or so Wildlings. But like any war hound, he was fiercely loyal to his master and those he was familiar with. However, there was something else to the beast of legend, Mya had never seen such intelligence and emotion in an animal's eyes before.

Yes, she had become quite fond of the direwolf since Jon had introduced them, a guarding presence they both found comfort in. Yet, when Mya noticed the expectant look in Ronnel's eyes she couldn't disappoint him… not completely anyway. "True, Ghost as his grace named him, can smell a man's intentions and should they prove false…" As the young Egen leaned in, she took hold of his shoulders, pulling him in as she imitated a wolf biting at the air around his neck.

His startled expression quickly faded as he playfully pushed her away, a slight flush shining in his cheeks as Wynafryd giggled at the scene. Even Myranda seemed amused by it. But the moment of levity passed as the young queen noticed the hesitant look Ronnel now had, as if afraid his next question would offend her.

"I've heard it whispered that… that the king and the direwolf can hear each other's thoughts. That every full moon he can guide the wolf's actions as if they were his own. A bond forged by a pact between his ancestors and the de-… Old Gods of the Forest." House Egen's heir turned away from her, looking towards the stone floor when his tongue nearly slipped, but Mya knew fully well what her 'little brother' intended to say.

"Where did you hear that story, Ronnel?"

He shamefully refused to meet her gaze for some time, before finally answering her question. "Late one night, I heard two knights whispering by their campfire, they were talking of the king, but I never saw their faces or coat of arms. They said the father would judge us all harshly for bending the knee to a pagan king."

With that haunting note, the very air around them seemed colder, bitterly reminding Mya of Brother Milton's parting curse that they would find no haven from the righteous. It would seem not every soldier from the Vale was as loyal to the Stark cause as she and her lord husband thought. Mya felt a cold shiver run down her spine, as her ladies in waiting exchanged concerned glances. For all they knew, they could be under the same roof as militant sympathizers and potential traitors.

It was Wynafryd who broke the silence, her words calm yet resolute in her conviction. "Superstition and pretentious fools. House Stark has fairly ruled over followers of the Old Gods and the New, ever since my ancestors came before them bereft of all honor and dignity." Myranda said something about ensuring that Jon learned of what Ronnel overheard, but Mya was lost in her own thoughts, particularly of Ronnel and the fisherman's son Jeremy.

As irrational as it was, the Queen of Winter couldn't shake the thought of Ronnel sharing the same fate as the lad from White Harbor… or worse. As a page in the Northern army, he was far from home, impressionable, and all alone, things that those whoresons in the Faith Militant would gladly take advantage of. They were not the only threat to him either, war by its nature was unpredictable and soulless. In fact, if she allowed him to leave her side there was a chance she'd never see or hear of him again. He didn't deserve to be forgotten or buried in an unmarked grave.

The notion was so repugnant that it made her jaw clench and hands tighten around her arms. The Queen of Winter would be damned if she was going to let that happen.

---

The North Grove

Towering snow-clad trees loomed over them, as the young Stark, his companions, and escort passed lit torches strown about in a line of defense. Every flame a vibrant blue, bringing light to the crushing darkness of the winter morning sky. Five years ago, Bran would have been amazed by the spectacle, having only seen Ironwood burn like that. But right now, his attention was on the growing number of sentries. Their attire was typical of Wildlings, reminding him of Osha and her companions back in the Wolfswood when they first met.

However, as the Three-Eyed Raven drew closer, there was clearly something different about them; their skin was abnormally pale, like his uncle, their stances seemed unnaturally rigid, and their eyes… their eyes were devoid of all emotion. It was like there was nothing else in the world to them besides their task. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end but it wasn't out of fear, more like awareness, for lack a better word for it. Bran just inexplicably knew that there was something greater at work here, like he did with the snow bear.

The beast in question was still at the head of the group, weaving about the torches with uncommon care. 'Whoever he is, his bond with the bear is strong," the young Stark thought, imagining the strength of will needed to maintain control of a bear. Especially a breed that was supposedly more vicious and bloodthirsty than their southern kin. But truth be told, young Brandon was more worried about the Witch of the North Grove. He felt foolish, after all he'd seen and done since setting out on their journey, the notion of an actual witch shouldn't frighten him, yet it did. It was the fear of a little boy, meeting the horror behind so many of his childhood stories in the flesh.

"My sweet little lord, far worse than any warg or their enthralled beasts were those who practiced the forgotten arts. Wood witches and hedge wizards who garnered dark favors from the Old Gods with their own blood and that of others.' Old Nan's gentle voice whispered in his ear, filling his mind with the image of a decrepit crone, with a long beak like nose, decaying teeth, and claw like nails grasping for his throat.

"The village is just up ahead," stated Sylvi, bringing Bran back to his surroundings. Indeed, there was a village fixated between a small stream and the largest tree he'd ever seen, its massive trunk surpassing all the Towers of Winterfell in both height and width. Though not a weirwood, it resonated with the Old Ways, no doubt having seen the centuries transpire around it through its roots and branches. Not even the weirwood his old master had been bound to, could match the splendor before Bran's eyes.

The village itself, however, was far humbler, as they passed numerous tents fashion from animal hides. Uncle Benjen had told him that Wildlings seldomly settled in one place, and when they did, the structures they built were simple, serving their needs until the season's change or when the herds moved on. After years of having only a handful of companions, he felt overwhelmed by the gathering crowd around them, who unlike their standing guards amidst the woods appeared normal. Their staring gazes, however, were beginning to make him uncomfortable and wishing he were invisible.

The ground suddenly shook with a loud thump, followed by another and another. "What in Seven Hells is that" remarked Meera, giving voice to their shared worry. Their answer soon revealed itself, as a hulking mass emerged from behind the overarching tree-root and tent line. Right out of legend, stood a giant in all its massive glory, covered in layers of furs, hides, antlers, and thick reddish hair.

Bran heard a chuckle, turning to see Sylvi barely containing herself as she stared at their deer like reactions to the giant. Indeed, even his uncle who was always calm and collected, looked completely awestruck by what stood before him. Yet to Sylvi and the rest of the village their presence was more interesting than that of the giant.

"Meg Nah Wuh."

"What?"

"Her name," clarified Sylvi before turning her attention to Meera. "I'd stop staring at her if I were you. Giants are a shy lot; they don't like being gawked at and what they don't like they stomp into the ground like a hammer to a nail. I'd hate to see anything happen to that pretty, southern face." The Wildling girl's lofty tone and crooked grin disproved her latter claim, eliciting a glare from house Reed's heir. Eyes only leaving her newfound rival to watch the giantess lumber away as she went about her business.

But before anything could be said, their escort brought them to the center of the village, where a young man sat, eyes glazed white as he stared endlessly into the grey sky. 'The man wearing the beast,' thought Bran as he felt the same presence as before. When the bear stood by his human's side, the giant predator went completely rigid. Only for it to shake its head as its master released him from his hold. The warg looked upon his animal, paying them no mind as he scratched the back of its ears, before allowing It to go its own way.

When his attention turned to them, Bran felt his throat dry before breaking away from the wargs hard gaze. Much like his bear he had an intimidating presence; with a wild mane of dark hair, broad shoulders covered in furs, wooden lamellar armor strapped to his chest, a crude dagger at his side, and he even wore the lower jawbone of a bear as a collar.

His harsh gaze bore into all three of them, unimpressed with what he saw. "So, this is it?" he remarked as he approached them as a few other wildlings followed his example. "This is what we've been waiting for, a pair of half-starved hares and a crow?" A small chuckle erupted from those closest around them, watching intently as the warg closed the distance between them, until Uncle Benjen stepped Infront of him.

Bran couldn't tell whether the young man was impressed or annoyed by his uncle's actions. The pair stood in silence as they studied each other, seeing who would be the first to back down. "You've seen better days old man." The warg began to circle around his uncle like a beast waiting for the first sign of weakness in its prey before striking.

However, when he saw the grim smile on the First Ranger's face, he stopped meeting his gaze once more. "Nor will I ever see them again."

"Perhaps I should put you out of your misery then," retorted the younger man, his tone growing ever harsher and his fingers reaching for his dagger. A fight seemed inevitable until a woman's voice put an end to it.

"Enough Josera!" From amidst the parting crowd a woman was fast approaching the warg, her eyes matching his in authority. Even though he was taller than her, the woman did not shrink from his scowl. She was pretty, dark haired with striking green eyes. But as she stood beside the warg, Bran noticed the similarities between them. His suspicions were confirmed when she turned from the man and addressed them. "Forgive my brother, he is wary of newcomers and does not have full reign of his temper at times."

Her gaze then fell on Bran, eyes widening before composing herself. "I am Elsara Snow and we have been awaiting your arrival. Welcome to the North Grove, Cigfran tri llygad." At first Bran didn't understand what she had called him, but a voice in the back of his mind that wasn't his own, whispered the meaning of the words.

"How did you know I'm the Three-Eyed Raven? And how did you know we were coming?" Elsera held a knowing smile on her lips before turning to his uncle staring intently at his face.

"The same way this one knew where to find us, a vision shared by many in our dreams, one sent by your predecessor." Bran wanted to ask more, but the women seemed to lose interest in him for the moment, her attention still focused on Uncle Benjen. His usual stoic and calm features became anxious, almost pained as she raised her hand to where his heart would be. "You were felled by ice, but before their hold could take effect the Children saved you. The heart has stopped yet the man remains."

Startled by her insight, young Bran realized who Elsera was. "you're the Witch of the North Grove." He soon regretted using that name, as Elsera's head snapped towards him, her face now a fierce scowl. The young Stark felt as though he'd disturbed a sleeping bear as he sat their frozen by her steely glare. The sorceress' eyes lingered on him for another moment, before turning to Sylvi, who didn't shrink back from her harsh gaze. In fact, the wildling girl seemed pleased with herself as a taunting smirk grew across her face.

"I don't much care for that name," Elsera seethed, her eyes never leaving the white-haired huntress, before taking a breath and allowing a calmer head to prevail. "But I do know the Old Ways, same as you, same as my brother and many others here."

At first Bran didn't understand the words coming from the sorceress' mouth, his eyes widening with growing realization as he turned to face the crowd around him. Amidst the mass of people there were several that caught his Third Eye. Yes, he could feel it now, like embers of a once great flame defiantly gleaming in the darkness, the old magic resided within them. Young or old, man or women it did not matter, all had been gifted by the Old Gods.

"Where did they all come from?" asked Meera, as she placed a hand on his shoulder, staring at a young boy who looked to be of the same age as her brother.

Slowly the sorceress walked among her people, gesturing to those in question and their families. "From all corners beyond the Wall and from all the tribes, green seers, wargs, alike were guided here by your predecessor's visions. Yet, upon their arrival they discovered the chance for something greater, the chance for a reconning against the dead and their demon masters."

"And you lead them?" inquired Uncle Benjen still reeling from whatever blood magic she used on him. All three southerners looked upon the woman awaiting her answer, only for someone else to make themselves known.

"I do," stated a man's voice cutting through the crowd's chatter. Looking in the direction the voice came from, they saw a young man, dressed in heavy black furs, carrying a bow and quiver across his back, with a sword sheathed at his left side and a string of hares hanging from his shoulder. While none of the wildlings bowed their heads as he approached, Bran could see the respect they had for the hunter as they cleared the way for him.

It wasn't until he handed the string of hares over to Sylvi that the young stark noticed the worn black leather armor beneath his furs. "Your part of the Night's Watch." Both Meera and Benjen looked at the proclaimed leader with greater interest, for there was a story to how a member of the Night's Watch became a leader of Wildlings, one that the young Stark was interested in hearing himself.

At first the hunter looked surprised by Bran's perceptiveness before chuckling to himself. "I was, and still am I suppose. My name is Gared Tuttle, welcome to the last stronghold against the coming night." Feeling the wind gather around them, the wayward brother in black gestured towards the giant tree. "Come there's much to discuss."

---

Wow finally finished. Sorry it took so long, but better to take it slow than rush things. So, Bran and Arya are finally here, hopefully the direction I'm taking with them is a bit more satisfying than the show. So let me know if this was a good start for them. For a while, I was unsure what to do with Bran's story, but then I remembered the North Grove, from the telltale game and thought the two would blend well together. For some spoilers we're going to have the Battle of the Twins, with Winter Coming for house Frey in the next chapter. Jon will meet a certain someone from Mya's past and Daenerys is going to make a costly mistake, one that will claim a life.