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.

9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: This is an alternative story of Game of Thrones season 6 and onward, made for entertainment purposes only. All characters belong to the talented G R.R. Martin. I only own any original character utilized in the story.

The Time of Blood

Winterfell

Most would think the Lady of Winterfell would be happy at the tidings brought to her early this morning. That her Silent Brotherhood had done as she ordered, effortlessly hunting down the band of militants that had burned part of their fleet at White Harbor and ambushed several of their patrols; that their leader, the so-called Shepard, was now chained to the wall in one of their freezing cells, awaiting to be hanged for all his crimes. The Brotherhood had also taken a map from his possession revealing the locations of several camps they had hoped to establish in the North. Some of which had already been supplied with food, bedding, and weaponry.

Not only had her agents crushed a threat in its infancy, but also gained several discrete footholds within the vast countryside. Footholds that would only further their ability to traverse undetected, as she had always intended. With secrecy being paramount, only she, Brienne, and her uncle knew of every dwelling. But all the fruits of her labor had soured when maester Wolkan delivered a letter to her, one borne by a raven that was half-dead from hunger and exhaustion. Her mother had always said, 'dark wings, dark words' whenever a raven arrived, but Sansa doubted that even the wise Lady Catelyn could have grasped the circumstances this letter brought before them. Embedded on the parchment was the wax seal bearing the three-headed dragon of house Targaryen.

All her life, house Targaryen had been nothing more than a history lesson. Something that was only recalled when recounting the events that shaped Westeros into one united kingdom. A history of betrayal, madness, and the lust for power. One she could now sae more clearly having experienced it first-hand. But still, like many others Sansa had thought the continent had seen its last of them when Rhaegar Targaryen fell to Robert's hammer and his father the Mad King was slain by his own Kingsguard. True, she had heard rumors of the Targaryen girl in far off Essos, back when she was a hostage, but she had never given them serious thought. Her thoughts were focused on surviving the monsters that had been all around her.

Yet, in her hands was proof that all the court rumors held some truth to them. Anxiously sitting at the high table, Sansa felt a chill run down her spine as her thoughts turned from the last Targaryen herself and towards her dragons. The inspiration of the foreign house's banner and the power behind their words. Fire and Blood. Part of her still didn't wish to believe in the fabled creature's return, that the beasts Aegon the Conqueror had flown upon were nothing but dried bones beneath the Red Keep, but the Lady of Winterfell knew better. The same had been said about the giants, yet not long ago she had seen one with her own eyes.

Proving that there was more to this world than she had ever realized. She could still feel the utter shock and wonder she had experienced when first setting her eyes upon the creature. The auburn-haired Stark also remembered the heartbroken looks of Jon, Tormund, and so many others when that same giant died within their very courtyard. While she felt a pang of sorrow for the giant's sacrifice in reclaiming their home, the prospect of facing the fire breathing musters of old terrified her to the bone.

Tentatively, she broke the wax seal and began reading the letter, unsure of what lay inside the message. A message that came from a house that had been an enemy to her family once.

'To the Lord of Winterfell Jon Stark, and those of his household,' Sansa immediately noticed the lacking title of King in the North, something that did little to ease her mind. 'I Daenerys Storm-born, Mother of Dragons, and Breaker of Chains, in recognition of the important role house Stark played in upholding the king's peace during the long reigning Targaryen dynasty, hereby invite you and your leading household members to Dragonstone to discuss the terms of an alliance against our common foe. It is my hope to usher Westeros into a new age, an age of peace and unity between the fractured kingdoms begotten by the decadent rule of tyrants and madmen. If you are indeed the noble lord that I have heard tale of, send forth your answer with all haste.

Finishing with the departing courtesies, Sansa considered all that she had read, and all that was implied between each word. The talk of peace and stability of a united realm, while in part true, had been achieved with the threat of a fiery doom for anyone that opposed the Conqueror. The more Sansa thought of it, the hollower the word peace rang in her heart. What peace had the Targaryen's brought the North and her people under their rule. By the time the dragon riders came, her predecessors had already won peace and stability for the blood of the First Men. Quite content with ignoring and being ignored by the rest of the continent. Until the house of the Dragon dragged them into the affairs of the South.

For it was the North that recognized the legitimacy of Queen of Rhaenyra in the Dance of the Dragons, it was the legendary Winter Wolves who delivered several decisive victories for the Black's cause at great cost to their own lives, and it was her ancestor Cregan Stark who brought order and justice to the royal court during the war's conclusion. A war started by the petty squabble between a brother and sister. Her people would also fight in the War of Ninepenny Kings, in part bringing an end to the Blackfyre pretenders once and for all.

Yet, as a reward for house Stark's faithful service to the crown over the centuries, the last Targaryen king had her uncle strangled as her grandfather was burned alive in his own armor. Unsatisfied with two murders, King Aerys would then call for her father's head to be delivered to him in a basket. Her father who'd been fostered in the Vale and had no part in his brother's actions.

As a child, Sansa had asked her father about his late siblings, particularly her mysterious aunt Lyanna, who was said to be a great beauty. But her father never spoke of her, perhaps because the pain was too great for him to relive. His brother was another story, wild, unpredictable, and unfaltering in his devotion to his younger brother and sister. She remembered the warm look in her lord father's eyes as he recalled the time when his older brother learned that he would be leaving their home to start his wardship in the Vale. Her father admitted to being afraid, wanting nothing more than to stay with his family, a sentiment she completely understood now.

Uncle Brandon assured him that should he ever have need, he would ride day and night to stand by his side. That same devotion, along with his famous temper, compelled him to ride to the capital, demanding the return of his sister and the life of the crowned prince all in the same breath. Although rash, his actions should not have cost him his life. She knew all too well the pain her father must have felt with the passing of his brother, father, and that of his sister at the end of the Rebellion. Pain that could be laid at house Targaryen's feet.

'The shear nerve of this Targaryen girl,' Sansa thought bitterly. To think that they would forget the wrongs done to them by her family and bend the knee to the dragon once more. That was without a doubt what the last heir to the Mad King wanted, it was evident within the letter. Failing to recognize her brother's proper title, talk of a "united" kingdom. Jon's marriage to Robert Baratheon's daughter wouldn't help matters either. The Lady of Winterfell doubted her brother had any ambitions to sit upon the Iron Throne, he barely desired the mantle he bore already. But to the Dragon Queen they were perhaps a greater threat to her claim than Cersei.

'Yet another ordeal to thank Baelish for.' The very thought of that manipulative whoremonger sent her into a seething anger. It had been near a month since Littlefinger's device had reached fruition, and she was no closer to understanding it. While his presence had long since become offensive to the Lady of Winterfell, his current absence and proximity to her brother filled her with dread. Even more so, now having learned that the new Queen of Winter would not be joining them here at Winterfell, instead she would remain in the king's party.

Sansa did not take comfort in this departure from their agreed upon plan, where the girl would remain in their ancestral home under her charge and away from any ploy her former mentor may enact. That had been the condition to which she gave her consent in her brother's decision to marry King Robert's daughter. Only then could she be sure that they weren't allowing another viper to coil itself in their midst. But this unassuming trail guide had rendered that impossible now. According to lady Leona Manderly's letter at least. The girl not only forced herself into Jon's company heading south but had taken ladies Wynafryd and Miranda with her.

The matriarch of house Manderly was, of course, thrilled that her eldest daughter was in direct service to the royal family, stating how clever and reliable Wynafryd was, but in all honesty, Sansa didn't care about the girl… for now at least. Her worries lingered on Myranda Royce. While the Lady of Winterfell had always intended to have Nestor Royce's daughter placed in the company their new Queen, this turn of events showed a degree of initiative that she hadn't expected. The only question was whose initiative it was?

As a lady of the Vale, Myranda had spent her entire life in the court of house Arryn, it wasn't unimaginable for the Royce girl to capitalize on her friendship with Mya Stone, or Stark as it were, and advance her own house's interests. Her father was certainly taking every opportunity to reaffirm his position as a landed lord in the North. While his appointment had initially antagonized the minor lords of the Barrowlands, no one could deny his capabilities. The region was well in order with the allotted grain stores already delivered to Winterfell. Perhaps his daughter had learned the same qualities from him, if so, it would be a greater comfort than the alternative.

However, if it had been planned by Sansa's new sister-by-law, it meant she was faced with an uncertainty, something she had grown to dislike. At best, the matron of house Stark would have to reign in an ambitious low-born girl… or at the very worst contend with another pawn in Baelish's game. One that had a direct link to her brother. Jon was an honorable man, but a man none the less, susceptible to certain 'advances.' Advances the women in Littlefinger's employ were well trained in. Not even their father, a paragon of honor and duty, was able to resist such things in his youth.

The auburn-haired lass sighed wearily, with a mockingbird in their hall and a dragon on the horizon, there seemed to be no end to the dangers surrounding her family. But fretting about it would not solve their problems, only decisive action would. Sansa still believed that Myranda Royce and perhaps Wynafryd could serve her purpose of corralling the 'Queen'. They would simply need a firm hand to bring them to the table, one that any of her agents could easily deliver. The Dragon Queen, however, was beyond her reach, with three monsters of old at her beck and call.

Starring down at the letter once more, Sansa felt another chill run down her spine at the thought of her brother agreeing to meet with this would-be queen. Jon was a leader who cared for those under his command, he would never risk their lives needlessly, nor would he have them undertake any danger he was not willing to face himself. It was what endeared the King in the North to his army, but that same devotion could lead him to his disaster. Undoubtably, if made aware of this proposal he would unite with her army in favor of a swift victory, all in hopes of saving lives that would otherwise be lost.

Horrid images of her elder brother falling into a trap and sharing in the cruel fate of Robb and her mother filled her mind. Only instead of dying from murderous daggers, the last of her known kin was consumed in dragon fire. Her thoughts turned even more morbid as she recalled the Frey's desecration of Robb's body and that of her mother. Sansa could only wonder at what new depravities, the daughter of the Mad King could inflict upon Jon should he meet with her, in hopes of shattering their people's will to resist her reign. Leaving her all alone to mourn yet another member of her family.

'But what if… he wasn't to learn of the letter.' She thought cautiously. This letter needn't find its way to her brother, clouding his judgement when he needed it most. At least for the time being, that way she would have more time to discern a better approach in dealing with the Targaryen. After all, is the Dragon Queen not mortal herself, susceptible to death like anyone else? Having traveled so far and endure so much, Sansa now understood that death came in many forms, a dagger, a cup of wine, a simple push, or even by one's own hounds. Of course, this would need more thought, but at least the matron of house Stark had a notion of where to begin.

Yet as Sansa started to tuck away the letter, guilt and shame began to claw at her throat. The once scared and lonely Stark girl felt as though she was betraying the last of those who she truly cared for. While not necessarily a lie, she would be withholding the truth from her brother, something Sansa had sworn never to do again. 'But I'm protecting him, aren't I?' That was all she wanted, her family safe, and the prosperity of their people. She repeated these virtuous desires to herself hoping to alleviate the guilt, but to no avail.

With the opening of the great hall's doors the internal struggle within her heart was forgotten momentarily. In full armor, as always, the Lady of Winterfell's sworn shield, Brienne of Tarth, approached the high table before bowing her head. Sansa's trusted guard informed her of her uncle's impending departure. "The Blackfish and his company are preparing to depart as we speak, if the weather holds, they may reach Torrhen Square within the week and join with the party lady Tallhart has assembled. From there they will continue their journey and join the king's campaign in the Southern Marches."

"Good, my uncle has been away from the Riverlands long enough," Sansa replied, still unaccustomed to the new name for her mother's homeland. While it had been called as such in the past, during Robb's reign as King in the North, the name simply did not suit the land. A land watered by the greatest of rivers; blessed with the most fertile fields, and bountiful in beauty. How she longed to see that land again. It was odd, for years she wanted nothing more than to see Winterfell again, the home of her father's family, but now she wished to see Riverrun.

As if walking down the castle's corridors would allow her to connect with her mother once more. Sansa never had the chance to give her murdered family members a proper farewell. She had only been able to give them whispered prayers from afar and her silent tears late at night, but there had been no sense of closure. Neither was there any to be found with the deaths of Roose Bolton, his monstrous son, or even Joffrey. It was only when she stood at her father and brother Rickon's tombs she felt any acceptance for what happened. She still missed them of course and would likely do so till her very last day, but now they could rest.

Her mother could not unfortunately. After the Freys had cut her throat to the bone they threw her body into the river, stripped of all dignity and decency. The very thought of it filled the young matron with such sorrow and anger that she felt as if a turbulent storm raged within, threatening to break loose. She knew Jon would be approaching the Twins soon enough, and when he arrived, she hoped he would burn that wretched keep to the ground for all the blood spilt within its walls. Those would be her orders if they were hers to give, as well as having every member of house Frey punished as befitting oath-breakers and violators of guest right.

Clearly, Sansa's growing anger was plain to see as Brienne cleared her throat. "My lady, are you well?"

Sansa appreciated her bodyguard's concern; the lady of Tarth was truly one of the very few people in her life she could wholeheartedly rely upon. "It's nothing, I will see my uncle off on his journey," she replied, not wanting to burden her long-time companion with such personal matters.

Rising from her seat to take her leave, the Lady of Winterfell walked with the dignity and composure of the greatest of noblewomen, belying the fear and uncertainty brought on by a small piece of parchment firmly tucked away on her person. They were at the door when the powerful urge to reveal everything to Brienne stopped the auburn-haired lass in her tracks. Again, Brienne inquired if something was wrong, but Sansa remained silent for the longest time. She knew very well that this was the deciding moment, either to listen to her heart or her head. The moment to keep the letter hidden or have her uncle bring it to Jon and hope for the best.

'Hoping,' that was what she had done for years in King's Landing. Hoping that Robb would kill Joffrey and rescue her; that ser Loras Tyrell would whisk her away to Highgarden as his bride, and that her aunt would protect her when she finally arrived in the Eyrie. Only for those hopes to be shattered time and again, while others used her as a game piece. Never again.

"Tell me, has Gunnar returned from the lowland camp?" Even as the last words parted her lips, she had to bite down the growing guilt or else go against her decision.

Given that it took Brienne a moment to find her voice, it appeared her unexpected question left the warrior dumbstruck. "I- I'm told he still works to improve upon the foundation the Shepard left for him at the site. But Rhena arrived late last night, saying that the Hunter's Lodge is well in order."

Sansa felt a small tug at the corner of her lip, as the newfound name for the Wolfswood camp was not all that surprising, considering the shield maid's own moniker. Much like the young Lady of Bear Island, Rhena possessed a commanding presence equal to any man. Capable of bringing any unruly party to heel with not but a look, a talent that lady Sansa had every intention of putting to use. There was little doubt that the Huntress would at first object to the task she had in mind, given her preference to battle over subtly, but once she understood the necessity of it, she'd relent.

"Tell Rhena that I wish to speak with her this evening, regarding a linger issue in the Riverlands. One in need of tying down." Sansa gently commanded before resuming her walk to bid her uncle farewell.

---

The Riverlands, several leagues North of the Twins

Staring out at the countryside before him, the White Wolf realized he had never been this far south in his adult life. Instead of rugged highlands there were rolling hills, and instead of evergreen pine forests, stood oak, maple, and elder trees, whose vibrantly colored leaves were only just beginning to brown and fall from their mighty branches. But what surprised the young king most was the apparent lack of snow. While it was common knowledge that winter struck the North harder than the other Seven Kingdoms, this sheer contrast between the regions were nothing short of astounding.

Even the wind itself was gentle and welcoming compared to the freezing gales Beyond the Wall. He could only imagine what the weather was like during Spring, Summer, or early Autumn. A great deal better than what he was accustomed to. Mya's Ladies in Waiting certainly seemed to appreciate the warmth in the air, particularly lady Myranda. Their slow progress through the Neck had left the daughter of Nestor Royce in a sour mood, something his lady wife had tirelessly tried to sooth.

Jon found himself relieved beyond measure that they were speaking again. It had been their last night at Moat Cailin when Mya entered their chamber asking to speak with him. He still wasn't sure who was more anxious in that moment. But it was only right that he apologized first. After all, it was his actions that caused their dispute to begin with. Vowing to do better by her, the young man assured his wife that he would never undermine her in such a way again. From that day forward, he would ask for her stance on such matters, especially when they related to her wellbeing.

His queen had accepted his apology graciously, before offering one of her own regarding her distant behavior since that night. The likes of which he'd never heard before in his life. 'When one spends their life tending to an arse, they find themselves acting like one from time to time.' Even now, he still couldn't stop smiling at her remark. It surprised him at how quickly they were able to converse to so openly again. In his youth, he'd never been able to speak to a girl with such ease, not that any girl wanted to speak to him. Not when Robb, heir to Winterfell, was around. Gods, it was so easy for his brother to woo every lass that looked his way. The only women he ever had an inkling of were Ygritte and his younger sister Arya.

Suddenly it dawned on him how similar they all were; adventurous, stubborn, funny, independent, and never to be taken lightly when angered. He had seen it for himself for all three. As children Sansa had incurred Arya's pranks too many times to count. None of that, however, could compare with what the young king risked facing from Mya on that ill night. He'd seen the swirling storm in her eyes, a storm that would likely rival any from her father's homeland.

As for Ygritte, well… he still bore the marks 0f her parting gift across his back. It still pained him to think of her, how their love seemed to be doomed from the start. He had been bound to his duty to the Watch and his sworn brothers, even when he lay with her, just as she was bound to her freedom. No, that wasn't right, she was freedom. Unbridled in their beauty and unpredictable in their fury.

Something that Jon could never fully embrace, a man had responsibilities to his family, his people, and his conscience. While there were many virtues to be found in the beliefs of the Free Folk, there were their share of shortcomings as well. A man could only claim that which he could hold for himself, if he wasn't strong enough it was taken from him. They respected strength and strength alone. Honestly, the White Wolf was uncertain as to how well the Free Folk would take to the peace that the Gift might offer. His late lover certainly wouldn't have taken well to plowing fields or tending sheep. She was a proud hunter and warrior, and many of her kinsman would doubtlessly feel the same.

Some of his bannerman certainly feared as much, particularly Hothar Umber, who refused to leave the North while, as he put it, 'the raiding cunts lingered at their doorsteps.' It was an all too familiar story, past wrongs guiding the actions of the here and now, marking that even if they succeeded here in the South, his house would be hard pressed to keep the peace. The only comfort in that was his close friendships with Tormund and Karsi, two of the most prominent leaders among the Free Folk. It put the notion of peace one step above hopeless. Sadly, the time for peace was not yet at hand, no matter how much he wished it was so.

Peace was something every man was entitled to, something that didn't have to be bought with the blood of others. His queen understood that as well. Aside from Sam, she'd shown more compassion than anyone else he encountered in the last six years. With no greater proof than the lad standing next to him, Ronnel Egen, heir to his father's house and newly appointed squire to the King in the North. The lad whose anxious gaze reminded him of their purpose being here. Turning away from the countryside, the king and his squire faced the large encampment before them. The sheer scope of it all reminded him of Mance's camp, though not as large, it was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

Their numbers were well over twenty-five thousand; with ten thousand riders comprising the cavalry, another sixteen thousand men at arms making up the infantry, three thousand pikemen and several hundred archers and arbalists. This wasn't even their full strength, since roughly a third of the army had been left at Winterfell when he made his rash march south. Still, most would find great comfort at having such a force at their backs. But the question remained how many were truly loyal to him. Currently, the numbers favored the Knights of the Vale over his Northman.

Normally, Jon would never question the honor and loyalty of the reputed knights, especially after witnessing their valor in the Battle of Bastards, but after Mya and Ronnel revealed what the lad had overheardthat night, he'd be a fool to ignore the danger. His Andal bannerman were devote followers of the Seven, which in part, condemned the Old Gods and the Children of the Forest, naming them demons and false idols. Such beliefs could easily be stoked into action by the likes of the Faith Militant, or any Septon or Septa who shared the same view.

He did not however, show any sign of worry as he traversed the camp, greeting the men at his command as his command both common and noble alike. All seemed well in order, with the camp itself situated in a small clearing with a thick tree line to their western flank. Using the backroads and secluded wood trails the Northern army had moved further into the Riverlands without raising any notice from house Frey, not that their fractured leadership allowed for any diligence in their duties of keeping the peace within their own lands. So far, his outriders had intercepted and captured two enemy 'patrols,' a term he used loosely after seeing their sorry states.

Being composed of undisciplined fools and drunkards, neither party had offered any real resistance. In fact, when Roose Ryswell and his followers discovered the first patrol passed out from drink alongside the road, the northerner simply waited until they awoke before chaining them together and leading them back to camp in naught but their smallclothes. The camp certainly had their laugh at that, but before any further humiliation could occur Jon had ordered the men to be fed, dressed, before being interrogated. He may not have any love for them or the house they serve, but the King in the North wouldn't dishonor himself by stripping their prisoners of what dignity they had left.

Jon's attention quickly shifted to Ronnel, as the lad tripped over a moss-covered rock. Taking hold of his arm, the king helped his squire regain his footing, who gave him a genuine smile of gratitude. Even as he returned the smile, the prospect of being a mentor once again left him conflicted. Not to say the boy beside him didn't have potential, quite the contrary. While a bit shy and overeager upon receiving his new role, Ronnel proved to be very bright and diligent in his work. His doubts were more with himself, considering what happened at Castle Black and Olly.

But this arrangement wasn't about him, it was about the boy's wellbeing and that of Mya. Clearly, the young lad was like a little brother to his queen, his safety being the forefront of her request for Jon to take Ronnel into his personal service. While not immune to danger himself, it certainly offered a greater sense of protection than if he were to join the common ranks of the army. At his side, Jon could keep a watchful eye on the youthful prospect should any trouble come his way and… perhaps set him on a better path than his last apprentice. If nothing else, the sheer joy and relief it brought Mya to have Ronnel so close to her once more was reason enough for him.

Casting out such memories, both light and dark, for fear of being engulfed by them, Jon chose to focus instead on their surroundings. The endless line of tents sprawled out before them, the soldiers honing weapons, bringing in game and wood from the surrounding forest, all of whom bowed the heads and addressed him accordingly. From the corner of his eye the White Wolf noticed how intently Ronnel listened to their voices. "He still hopes to find the men he overheard that night,' the king thought appreciatively.

While the young Egen's intentions were noble, Jon knew it was unlikely they would happen across those same men again. Their army and camp were simply too large, but he would not say aa much to the boy knowing it would break his spirit. Despite the great service house Egen's heir had already done for the North by bringing his attention to these 'rumors,' his squire seemed anxious to prove himself worthy of the position he'd been given… most of all to himself. A sentiment Jon was all too familiar with.

Still, the matter was as resolved as possible for the moment, having given orders to his fellow Northmen, as well as those of the Vale he could trust without reservation, like Yohn Royce, that should they hear any more whispers he would be informed immediately. Part of Jon hoped that these walks would remind his followers that he was a man no different from them. But the King in the North couldn't deny that these were dark days with darker ones to follow. In such times men often clung to whatever comfort they could find and fought to the death to keep it.

"My king!" a voice bellowed over the sound hooves sprinting across the ground growing ever closer. Turning about Jon saw the crowd of soldiers clearing a path for a single rider to come forth. Reigning his mount to a stop the rider called out again, "My king, I bring word from my captain, ser Mychel Redfort, he awaits at your tent with a great prize, one that will deliver the Riverlands into your hands!"

All those present shared in the messenger's excitement as they cheered 'King in the North' in one voice. Jon, however, remained composed, waiting for the clamor to die down before speaking. "What prize is that ser?"

"Apologies, my king. But ser Mychel bid me not to say, he wishes to reveal it to you himself." With little other choice, the White Wolf and his young squire made their way towards the royal tent. Traversing the various rows of tents, they found half a dozen men-at-arms waiting outside his temporary lodgings, all dressed in the red and white surcoats of house Redfort.

When catching sight of him, the soldiers immediately bowed their heads addressing him as 'your grace' or 'my king.' That was when her heard Mya voice from within the tent, to his surprise it was on the verge of anger. Whatever had been brought before his queen had certainly displeased her, leaving the White Wolf to wonder what in Seven Hells it could be. His curiosity only grew at what he heard next from within the tent, the sound… of a child crying. True, there were many young lads in camp, but they were of the age where boys went to war, this sounded much younger. Perhaps, around Little Sam's age when he, his mother, and his namesake left for the Citadel.

Putting an end to the mystery Jon opened the flap to his tent revealing a small gathering; consisting of his wife, her ladies in waiting, three other men, one of whom was in iron fetters. Focusing on the boy for now, the White Wolf noticed he couldn't have been older than sixteen, and that one of his eyes was swollen shut from a hearty blow. Clearly, ser Mychel and his men hadn't been gentle in taking this prisoner. A slight sob brought the king's attention to lady Wynafryd who was tentatively rocking a young child in her arms, trying to sooth him. Before he could even open his mouth, the leader of the Redfort party bent the knee to him.

As the knight rose to his feet, Jon noted how he carried himself. Proud, with a certain confidence in everything he did. The bearings of a young man born into a great family, having received the best training from a veteran master-of-arms, and possessed the arrogance to believe himself the next Arthur Dayne or Barristan Selmy. It irked the young king, reminding him of himself before joining the Watch. Still when the knight spoke, he addressed him with the proper courtesy and was given the same.

"My king, it is the greatest honor to finally stand in the company of the legendary White Wolf," began the knight as he walked over to him, offering his hand in a simple show of comradery between soldiers. As he took a firm grip of the extended hand, the hesitant king noticed Mya's unwavering glare at the back of the man's head. Not once did she look towards the prisoner nor even at the child in the arms of the woman beside her. It was becoming clear what displeased her so dearly. But whatever cause the man had given her, it would have to wait.

Dispensing with the remaining courtesies, the King in the North sought his answers. "Your man informed me that you wanted an audience, I assume it has something to do with the lad you have here." For a moment the boy in question met his gaze, just long enough to glimpse the recognition and shame that flashed in his one good eye. The latter compelling the boy to advert his gaze towards the ground.

"Indeed, your grace," replied ser Mychel as he took hold of the prisoner by the scruff of his shirt. A smug smirk grew across the face of lord Redfort's youngest son as he continued this disdainful performance. "Here before you, stands Olyvar Frey, former squire for your late brother, and son of the swine that murdered him."

There was a moment of silence as Jon stared on with profound realization. An inexplicable anger grew within him, envisioning the boy having taken part in the mutilation of Robb's body, and cheering on as his fellow butchers paraded it about their castle grounds. The lad seemed to wither under his stern gaze, perhaps praying to his gods for deliverance from his seemingly inevitable fate. A fate that was delayed a moment longer when his chief captor shoved him aside, drawing the White Wolf's attention towards the whimpering babe, innocently ignorant of what all that transpired around him.

"The real prize, however, is the child weeping into the fair lady Wynafryd's bosom." As the knight said the words, lady Wynafryd grew rigid with vivid distaste for the Redfort's unwanted gaze on her. "The son and heir of Edmure Tully, the rightful Lord Paramount of the Trident."

Shifting his gaze from the fettered Frey, Jon took a closer look at the boy in question. He certainly had the traditional looks of house Tully; fair complexion, tufts of auburn hair, and the same light blue eyes his sister had. When the young king spoke, his voice was gentle so that he wouldn't frighten the child any more than he already was. "If this is truly Edmure Tully's son, why is he here instead of with his mother at the Twins?"

Ser Mychel began to answer the question, before being cut off by his king. "I want to hear it from him." All eyes now shifted back to Olyvar, who seemingly found his courage as he met the gaze of the man who controlled his fate.

"I was taking him to the Crownlands, to my mother's family in Rosby." The Frey's words were firm, his gaze unwavering, normally Jon would have been inclined to believe what he'd heard, except that the words slithered out from a traitor's mouth. A traitor who belonged to a house of liars and murderers. None of whom were above using whatever or whoever to achieve their own ambitions.

The thought of a Frey letting such a valuable hostage to slip from their oily clutches was almost enough to make the White Wolf chuckle. "I doubt that lord Ryman or ser Merrett would simply let their greatest claim to Riverrun to be sent off to the Crownlands, not unless they were ordered to do so by Cersei."

"It wasn't Queen Cersei," replied the young lad with a look of sorrow taking hold of his face. "It was my sister Roslin, who begged me to take her boy as far away from the Riverlands as possible." Intrigued Jon listened as the boy recounted his tale, how his sister came to him after the father's death, hoping he could protect the boy from the ensuing power struggle between their older siblings, aunts, and uncles. Given how every one of them hoped to sink their claws into their only hope of holding the Riverlands.

As his tale went on, the White Wolf was almost impressed with the bruised lad when he revealed having tricked ser Merrett into giving him access to the eastern bank of the river by feigning to exchange the boy. Almost, as it only showed the propensity for lies that house Frey was known for.

"With help from a few loyal friends and a well bribed watchman, I rode off into the night with my nephew in hand. I hoped riding North then doubling back would buy us time to throw off the hounds my brothers would send after us." Olyvar than gave a stern look towards ser Mychel, a defeated chuckle escaping his lips. "From there, I planned on traveling south to Saltpans and cross the river. Instead, I was set upon by your men."

"You knew nothing of our coming?" Inquired Jon taking a dangerous step closer to his prisoner. While he knew their movements couldn't be kept secret for much longer, he'd rather his men take a divided stronghold unawares, rather than face a united enemy. Even if it was the Freys.

"No, but we feared it." Offered Olyvar his voice unwavering under the scrutinous gaze of everyone around him. "We heard whispers of Stark loyalists raising an army against house Bolton, but our thoughts were on a more immediate threat, The Blackfish and his rebellion."

For a moment, there was a flash of admiration in the lad's good eye, It wasn't something Jon expected from someone reciting the dire threats mounting against his family. Then again, Ser Brynden Tully's name was revered by many, almost spoken in the same breath as ser Barristan the Bold, or Arthur Dayne the Sword in the Morning. Legendary heroes and veterans of wars fought long ago, all inspiring young boys to greatness. The moment passed, however, as the lad dissuaded his remaining concerns. "When the ravens came bearing word that house Bolton was slain and that the direwolf flew over Winterfell again, my brothers the fools that they are, chose to escalate their feud rather than uniting against the North's Vengeance."

The interrogation carried on as such for some time; what weak points were there to the front gates, how high the upper ramparts were, at what hour were the guards relieved of their posts, who held the Water Tower, and more importantly, in which keep did their prisoners reside. An untold number of Northerners had spent the last three years rotting in the dungeons of house Frey, while their captors extorted their families in exchange for their safe return. Jon intended to see them all free.

Each answer was given with a moment of reluctance, but they were given all the same. "Most of the hostages are being held on the eastern bank, under Ryman's jealous gaze. Chief among them being Lord Jon Umber."

"What of Edmure Tully?" asked Jon, noticing that his sister's uncle hadn't been mentioned yet.

"He was given to ser Lyle Crakehall, by order of Jaime Lannister, who now holds house Tully's ancestral home with the remnants of the Lannister army. He's been tasked with keeping the Riverlands loyal to King's Landing."

Remembering the lessons that maester Luwin had engrained into his mind as a boy, the White Wolf recalled the Crakehalls were of the Westerlands and had a reputation for being strong warriors, their words None so Fierce. He imagined this ser Lyle would be no exception, but that was a battle for another day.

His musings were cut short by the young Redfort when he stepped forward. "Your grace, if you have no further need of him, I will gladly take charge of the child in my house's name="

"You will not!" declared Mya breaking her silence at last, her tone fierce as any direwolf. The guard, who had started to reach for the boy, suddenly stopped under her gaze. Eyes blazing with the same torrent of anger that had threatened Jon over a fortnight ago. "The boy will remain in the care of Wynafryd… until a more suitable arrangement can be made."

"Perhaps, you don't fully understand Mya," offered ser Mychel shifting his gaze from the stormy blue eyes of Jon's queen to the child. "Should anything happen to lord Edmure, then whoever holds his child holds the Riverlands."

"Meaning his wellbeing and care is a matter of the realm, to be decided by the Queen and upheld by her household," countered lady Myranda. The mutual glare between the daughter of house Royce and the son of house Redfort left a bitter silence in the air. But Jon's eyes were on his wife, whose anger far surpassed what he witnessed at White Harbor. Undoubtedly, this was about more than just the child. Yet, when she met his gaze, the anger momentarily abated, replaced by an earnest plea for his support. A plea he couldn't deny.

Breaking the silence the White Wolf settled the matter, his voice decisive and clear. "It will be as the Queen says, the child will be looked after by lady Wynafryd until we can find a more permanent arrangement." In truth, Jon wasn't sure what made his wife smile more, his support for her, or ser Mychel's visible twitch of annoyance.

"Then by your grace's leave, I'll see to it that he is properly fed and bathed," replied Wynafryd, running a finger down the child's check, soothing away the last of his tears. With a slight nod, the lady of White Harbor began to leave, reaching the flap of the tent before Mya called out to her.

"A moment," his queen asked, as she walked over to Olyvar, who starred anxiously as she approached. Eyes all on her as she spoke. "What is his name?" Jon marveled where he stood for a moment. Such a simple question, asked so gently by his queen, had gone unnoticed by everyone, himself included during this entire preceding. So consumed with politics and his own anger towards house Frey, he hadn't bothered to learn the name of his sister's kin. It shamed him.

"H-Hoster, your grace," replied the young Frey, taken aback by Mya's kind tone and consideration for his nephew. "My sister named him after his grandfather."

"You have my word; little Hoster will be taken care of." Silently, the battered lad bowed his head in thanks, for no words could express the gratitude he felt. Yet, as the promise made echoed within his mind, Jon found himself struggling with his inner demons. This wasn't some boy that had been forced to take part in another's heinous plot; nor was he someone she'd known all her life. He was their prisoner who belonged to a family of murderers. Yet, she wasn't speaking to him as if he were any of these things, but as a man worried for the wellbeing of the innocent child that had been entrusted to him by his own sister.

As his wife made her way to leave along with her ladies in waiting, Jon felt Ronnel's anxious gaze on him, asking for his permission to join them. A slight nod was all the lad needed before he hurried after the Queen of Winter, weaving around their guests. But it was only when his squire passed ser Mychel that the King in the North noticed the knight's lingering gaze following Mya, as a snide smirk graced his lips. Jon's grip tightened around Longclaw.

"Your grace," replied the knight as he pried his eyes away from the queen's leaving form. "It is good to see that Mya is as spirited as ever. You are a lucky man to have her." While there was nothing inherently wrong with what he said, Jon felt irked by the man's words and even more so by his tone.

"I take it you've met Queen Mya before," Jon stated coolly, his gaze hard on the fourth son of house Redfort. 'Much to her disdain it would seem.'

"We knew each other in our youth, we knew each other well." There it was, that same damn smile and look in his eyes. The same as Theon Greyjoy. The one he always wore after his latest tussle under the sheets with Ros or one the other Winter Town whores. But unlike with the Ironborn ward, Jon felt a crucible of emotions that were burning within him like hot iron. Feelings of anger, disbelief… and jealousy? He wanted to call the man a liar right there, but a memory kept him from speaking.

'I've only ever spoken about this to my mother, my friend Myranda, and… and one other.' He remembered their first real conversation and how reluctant she was to say that last person's name. At the time he hadn't pressed the issue, but that issue appeared to be standing in front of him now, with that damn smirk on his face. There were dozens of questions racing through his mind and each one only made his jealousy worse. Yet, Jon knew it was irrational. Mya's past was her own until she saw fit to share it. Besides, by what right did the White Wolf have to question why she refused to speak of a possible former lover when he hadn't even mentioned Ygritte's name to his wife. The feeling persisted though.

To alleviate this unexpected turmoil in his heart and mind, the young king decided to focus his attention on the most pressing matter, house Frey. His device worked, for Jon's mind was now rooted in the here and now, abundant with vivid thoughts that conflicted with each other. Some were vengeful, and others were more practical for the coming battle. Lord Redfort's son noticed this as well. "My king, I hope that this taste of justice for your fallen brother proves that you may depend upon me. When it comes time to decide who will ride beside you during the first assault, you should have none but the very best."

Jon nearly scoffed at the knight's request. It seemed that the hunger for personal glory was a family trait in house Redfort. Something the King in the North had little need of in this war. Especially from someone too young to have fought in a true war.

"I take it that you have vast experience with laying siege to keeps, ser Mychel?" inquired Jon, suspecting the answer well before the knight could reply. His question cut lord Horton's son to the wick as he grew rigid, jaw clenched, and his hands tightening into fists. Just as he thought, the young knight had been given his title without being tested in earnest The lord of Winterfell would go so far as to say that the Battle of the Bastards had been the man's first true taste of battle. And he expected Jon to give him a captaincy? Such a post required men who knew the burden of leadership.

"Command of the assault will be divided between Mors Umber, Yohn Royce, Robett Glover, and myself." Ser Mychel was not pleased with his decision, not pleased at all.

"Robett Glover is nearly sixty years old. Mors Umber is even older than that! They're as white as all the winters they've seen."

"Aye, but those 'whitebeards' fought in Robert's Rebellion and the Greyjoy Rebellion after that. Commanding men in open battle and overcoming castle defenses longer than we've been alive." Jon hoped this would be enough to end this meaningless debate with the over privileged knight, but sadly, it wasn't.

"My contributions today should merit some consideration- "

Whatever else the knight of Redfort was about to say was lost, as the king silenced him with a barbed remark. "Yes, capturing a single rider with a small child in his arms, quite the accomplishment for a Knight of the Vale." At long last, ser Mychel held his insolent tongue. But whether it was out of fear of offending his king, or simply because his fury had too great a hold on him, Jon couldn't tell… nor did he care. Before the man in front of him could gather his wits, he put an end to it all.

"Ser Mychel, I imagine your father has further need of you, I'll not keep you from him any longer." The young knight's expression fell, realizing his dismissal. Silently gathering his men, Ser Mychel made his way to leave before Jon called out to him again. "Ser Mychel, I trust the next time you address the Queen you'll show the proper respect, or else the next order you'll receive will be from the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

With that final word, Jon found surprising satisfaction in putting the arrogant knight in his place, who could only whisper his departing courtesy. Yet the feeling was sort lived as he took notice of the tent's remaining occupant. Both men studied each other for a moment, trying to figure out what would happen in the coming moments. The silence was tense in the air as neither of them dared to move a muscle.

The Frey was the first to speak, unable to stand the silence any longer. "Are you going to have me killed or not?" A fair question, one that he wasn't entirely certain of himself. Anyone else in his position would have taken the traitor's son's head and mounted it on a pike by now. But he still had questions that needed to be answered first, questions not regarding the Twins' defenses.

"I imagine a great deal of that will depend on whether or not you took part in murdering my brother," replied the White Wolf, eyes burrowing deeper into his captive's being,

"I did not, nor did I have any knowledge of it beforehand. I was sent away on patrol by my father the night before, he feared I might try to warn King Robb had I been there. Though I imagine the word of a Frey is of little worth to you." He was right of course; his words did little to vindicate his innocence in Jon's eyes. Yet, the king had to admit, if the young Frey was experiencing any fear, he was doing well at . But they'd see how well the boy could keep up appearances with his next question.

"You were Robb's squire. Tell me, what did you think of him?"

At first the boy looked at him confused, clearly not expecting that question being posed on him. Yet when asked again he gave his answer, one that impressed the northern king. "He was my king. I needn't tell you what he was like. You probably know better than anyone else, that to be near him was to believe in him. From the first day I became his squire to his last day he remained my king." At a loss for words, Jon questioned whether he could trust anything the boy had to say, after all this could all be an attempt to save his own neck.

But the sorrow in Olyvar's eye haunted the young king, it reminded him how he felt when he learned of Lord Commander Mormont's death at the hands of the mutineers. Great men brought down by cowards, men who deserved far better fates than what the gods had given them. The Stark king now listened earnestly as the boy continued. "The worst part of it all is that it was my own father and brothers who murdered him. That for the last three years, I've had to sit and eat beside them in the very hall they butchered my king. You can't imagine what that is like. What it is like to have your family name cursed by everyone in Westeros and know that it is rightfully so."

Jon hadn't expected an answer like this, he expected sniveling praises of his brother's mercy and honor, or desperate pleas shifting blame onto other members of his family, in hopes earning himself a reprieve from what may come. Instead, this Olyvar openly bore the shame of his house's actions as if they were his own. And the way the lad spoke of Robb, it reminded him of how he described his brother to Sam at Castle Black. Part of him wanted to believe Olyvar's claim of innocent in the Red Wedding, but as this newfound sympathy for his prisoner took root, a familiar hatred surged in his heart. One demanding justice for his slain brother, a sentiment that he knew many in this encampment shared.

"Lord Olyvar, once word spreads of your capture, I imagine most of my bannerman will call for your head as payment for their murdered kin. A demand I won't be able to deny… unless I have good reason to do so." The White Wolf's stern assessment served to remind the young Frey of the severity of his circumstance. Mors Umber or Robett Glover would gladly tear out his heart themselves if given the chance.

"Your grace, I've already told you everything I know about the castle defenses. I'm not sure there is anything else I can give you."

Taking one step closer, the king stared deeply into the lad's eyes before making his decision. "You will not die tonight, but I cannot promise your life with what I have in mind."

---

The Sunset sea, aboard the Arbor Queen

The familiar spay of the sea spotted the old worn face of Ser Barristan as the waves broke upon the bow of lord Paxter's lead ship. It had been so long since the knight had seen the Sunset Sea, the sea that many believed marked the edge of the world. Over his many years, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard had heard many tales about it; that beyond the horizon lay another continent; that from the depths below monstrous sea serpents and giant krakens awaited any fool-hardy sailor to trespass in their domain, one fisherman even claimed that there was a lost archway that allowed mortal men to ascend to the Seven Heavens. But it wasn't these fanciful stories that made him uneasy, no it was the ever-looming battle ahead of them.

Word had reached Dragonstone that Euron Crow's eye and his Ironborn had begun a campaign along the Reach's coastline, burning as they go. They had already sacked Old Oak, Brightwater Keep, and taken the Shield Islands. Ser Barristan had known that the self-styled King of Salt and Rock wouldn't stay idle at Pyke for this war. The Ironborn hungered for bloodshed and plunder, with no fear of death. To them there was no greater glory than dying on the battlefield with a sword or axe in hand.

He'd seen first-hand the Ironborn's ferocity in battle during the Greyjoy Rebellion, or Balon's Madness as he called it. The late Balon Greyjoy believed that King Robert's reign wasn't strong enough to hold dominion over all the kingdoms, and that he could bring back 'the Old Way' of his sea-reaver ancestors. But the Stag King had proven him wrong when he brought the full might of the Seven Kingdoms down on the Iron Islands. In truth, Balon's rebellion had been crushed the day lord Stannis shattered the Iron Fleet, not that the old kraken or his people would ever accept defeat so easily.

The old knight remembered the assault of Old Wyk well, and how the Ironborn made his men bleed for every inch of their holy isle. But in the end the island fell, just as the others did and the iron raiders bent the knee same as their would-be king. 'Except for the Crow's Eye,' mused Barristan, recalling how the younger kraken had sailed to the Narrow Sea rather than submit to the Iron Throne. As the last rebel standing, Euron Greyjoy posed a greater threat than his defeated brother, but when the Lord Commander of Robert's Kingsguard asked leave to pursue the traitor, the stag dismissed the notion.

If Barristan correctly recalled Robert's exact words were, "Let the wiped dog scurry off with his tail between his legs. If the damned fool ever returns to Westeros, I'll shatter him and toss the pieces to his pissing Drowned God below.' He never did, and as the years went by Robert forgot about Euron Greyjoy just as everyone else did… himself included. Now Robert was dead, and the Crow's Eye had returned, threatening to undermine his Queen's plans to reclaim her birthright.

That had been one of Robert's many follies; ignoring dangers that would plague the realm in years to come, allowing the likes of Baelish and Pycelle to guide his actions by whispering whatever he wanted to hear, and shirking the responsibility of rule on Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark. As he once told ser Jorah, Robert was a great warrior and z good man at heart, but a terrible king. He simply wasn't made to sit on the throne, not like Daenerys or her brother Rhaegar. The Silver Prince who should have been king.

To this day, it still pained the knight to think of his student and friend. So much could have been averted had Rhaegar lived, had he stayed at his prince's side during the Battle of the Trident, to take Robert's killing blow himself. Or even before the rebellion, had he simply unhorsed Rhaegar at lord Went's tourney. Barristan hadn't been a superstitious man in his youth, but after witnessing all that he had in Essos, he now believed that Harren's monstrous keep was indeed cursed. Every great house that ever stepped through its gates met turmoil and destruction.

The fates of so many had been cruelly sealed that day; his prince, his Kingsguard brothers, Brandon Stark, the lad's sister Lyanna, but none more so than Elia and her children. Ever so gentle, kind, and clever, the Dornish Princess won the hearts of all those who knew her. Even in the vipers' nest of King's Landing, Elia could walk amongst them without fear, for none would bite her. Just as she was loved at court, Elia had loved Rhaegar with all her heart. A love that never diminished, not even when her husband vanished in the dead of night with Lyanna Stark, leaving her and their children in the Mad King's clutches.

Poor girl, after the Battle of the Bells and Aerys' temper soured, the princess found herself alone in court, save for Queen Rhaella, himself, and her uncle Lewyn Martell. All other 'friends at court' distanced themselves, either out of fear of drawing Aerys' attention or being dragged down with a crumbling dynasty. Of her remaining supporters none were fiercer than Lewyn, he was Elia's shield against the Mad King's anger, her comfort when she wept in fear for her children's lives. His oath to the king and the Kingsguard was all that kept Lewyn from drawing steal on Elia's tormentor. Had Aerys ever turned his cruel attentions to young Rhaenyra, Barristan would have been forced to stand in his king's defense against a dear friend.

'Thank the Mother's mercy he never did,' thought the old knight. Aerys never gave either of his grandchildren much thought and they were all the better for it. If only they could have gone unnoticed by Tywin Lannister and his mad dog. Ser Barristan had seen many terrible things in his life, but there were two sights that haunted his dreams to this day. The dying screams of lord Rickard as wildfire consumed his flesh, and the bodies of Elia, Rhaenyra, and little Aegon wrapped in Lannister cloaks. Hiding their blood and the shear brutality of the Mountain's crime. In the following years there had been many times when he looked upon the giant of a man and saw the royal family's blood staining his hands.

In those moments he wanted nothing more than to remove the murderer's head himself. But Robert had pardoned Gregor for his 'contribution' to the Stag King's ascension, though not even his hatred for the Targaryen's could burn away the shame of the act. It was only when Robert was deep into his cups that Barristan saw his doubts plague the warrior's soul, 'it was war,' he would say to himself alone at night. But come dawn whatever remorse he felt would be forgotten and his hatred for Rhaegar renewed. Nevertheless, the world was truly better off without the likes of ser Gregor.

"Ser Barristan," a voice called out, awakening the old warrior from morbid memories and regrets. Standing beside him was lord Paxter himself, having joined him on the ship's bow "You needn't worry, the men are ready, and the fleet is well in order. Remember the Ironborn have no discipline, no sense of unity in the way they fight."

It was true, the raiders of the Iron Islands were warriors not soldiers, each man fought for his own personal glory. But that didn't change they were at a disadvantage. "Their fleet is still twice our own, and the Crow's Eye is no fool."

"The Iron Fleet could be ten times our numbers and it still wouldn't matter. We have the old power of house Targaryen at our backs." As if answering Paxter's claim, a shrill screech echoed from above. Breaking through the clouds Rhaegal descended from above, all eyes fixed on the legendary beast as it dove beneath the waves. A moment later he resurfaced with his prey trapped in his bloody jaws, a shark no less. In two bites the quarry was down the dragon's gullet with Rhaegal returning to the clouds. Even after all this time, it was still hard to believe that they were real, that the songs of old given new life.

It was only in his wildest dreams as a boy that he dared to imagine riding on the back of a dragon. Yet even his dreams couldn't match the reality of soaring through the skies, the feel of the wind in his beard, the view of the world below, all from the back of Drogon alongside Queen Daenerys. After experiencing such a thing, a man could meet his end with a sense of contentment. It was that very wonder that had allowed them to traverse hundreds of miles in a matter of days in what would have taken over a month to achieve.

That went to the very heart of his worry, the sheer haste of his queen's actions. Without a doubt decisive action was needed in response to the Iron Fleet's plundering of the Western coast but abandoning most their naval might at Dragonstone in favor of speed sat ill with the old knight. He said as much to Daenerys during small council meeting, but her mind couldn't be swayed. She was still young and had never been so close to achieving the Iron Throne. From his experience when youth was met with ambition the person in question could seldomly be swayed. But whether ser Barristan agreed or not with his queen's decision, it was his duty as her Queensguard to see it through and protect her at all costs.

He could only hope his fears were misplaced, that her grace's dragons would indeed tip the scale in their favor. It had been centuries since any Westeros army had faced a dragon in battle, leaving them unprepared for what was to come, but the same could be said for the dragons as well. While Daenerys' children had proven invaluable during the Siege of Meereen they had never partaken in a full war where friend and foe blurred together in the madness. When drunk with rage a dragon only saw enemies. He'd seen as much back at the Fighting Pit, when Drogon set several Sons of the Harpy and Unsullied aflame in the same breath.

A prudent man would believe that such an unpredictable force should only be used at the utmost need, but sadly with the eyes of Westeros upon them, the weary knight could only press on into the fires alongside his Queen. With the first of the many tribulations ahead, now in sight.

"SAILS! SAILS DEAD AHEAD!" As the watcher atop the crow's nest called out many of the crew raced to the bow of the ship. Being presented with lord Paxter's spyglass, Ser Barristan looked on with steeled anticipation. Golden Krakens upon black fields graced every sail throughout the Iron Fleet, with personal banners discerning the many houses each ship belonged to. It wasn't until he caught sight of the flagship that Barristan stilled his sights. It was as the Greyjoy siblings described; a massive galley with a dark blood red haul, and upon the bow a black iron woman reaching out with her open arm.

Closing the spyglass, ser Barristan felt the same old fears he had at the beginning of every the battles he'd survived. Fear was a natural thing for all men, they lived with it from the moment they first drew breath and struggled against until their last. From his years of service to several kings, the old knight had learned long ago to accept it, for only fools and madmen claimed to be untouched by fear. High born or low, from the east or the west, all felt fear equally. It was only when one allowed themselves to be mastered by their fears that they became craven.

The air around him seemed sweeter; his old bones lightened, in that moment his many years seemed to fade away. It never ceased to amaze him how alive one felt in the face of the Stranger. Returning the spyglass and donning his helm, ser Barristan turned to face the crewmen. All eyes were on him as he stood gleaming in his silver-steeled armor, fashioned after those worn by the Kingsguards of old. "Men, I see the fear of what lies ahead in each of you. There is no shame in it, for I have felt it claw at my heart before every battle."

"A great many battles according to the bards," jested one of the soldiers in the background, eliciting a few laughs from the others. Barristan found himself smiling as well. At his age one could only take such jests in good humor. He was after all old enough to be their grandsire.

"Yes, more than I care to recall. Yet, there are only two in our history that can match the significance of the one ahead of us." The old knight's words had them all entranced, gently silencing any lingering laughter. "I know what the singers would have the world believe, that it was only Prince Rhaegar and Robert at the Ruby Ford, or Maelys the Monstrous, and myself at the Stepstones. But others were there fighting as well. Brynden Tully, Lewyn Martell, Eddard Stark, and countless others whose names were lost to history."

In that moment Barristan looked upon the faces before him and saw the faces of those he'd shared the battlefield with during his youth. Faces of friends long gone and of those whose names he never learned. "It is any man's wish that his name be remembered through the ages, but when all is ash and bone, as the Stranger closes our eyes it is the cause which we serve that lives on. If today is to be our last, then so be it. But let the Warrior knew that as brave companions we followed his path in hopes of bringing a new dawn to Westeros. A Dragon's Dawn."

Inspired cheers echoed out as the commander of the Queensguard turned back to face the encroaching enemy fleet, his hand firmly gripping his sword. The Arbor fleet kept in tight formation as they adjusted their course at half-speed. As expected, half a dozen or so of the enemy's longships broke ranks at full speed, eager to take the glory of first blood. The drums of war could be heard as the two fleets neared each other Yet, even amidst the thundering noise an all too familiar whistle cut through the air.

"ARROWS," yelled one of the watchmen, with everyone taking cover from the light folly. Of the eight arrows that had reached the ship, only one landed a fatal blow, striking a sailor dead in his throat. His body tumbled over the vessel's railings and was lost to the depths below. Returning to their feet the men of house Redwyne took up their own bows and began raining arrows upon the enemy. The battle continued as such, until the first ship closed the distance between them, with grappling lines latching onto the pride of lord Redwyne's fleet. As the boarders hoisted themselves up, ser Barristan decisively called for drawn steel and lead the defense himself.

The ringing of steel and the battle cries of men echoed all around him. Old reflexes serving the knight well, as he sidestepped a Ironborn axe and slashing down at the man's exposed back. His opponent didn't even have time to cry out before a well-aimed thrust pierced the remnants of his armor and his lung. Ser Barristan cut down one adversary after another, yet the Ironborn persisted in their assault. Just the Queensguard led the defenders to push back the enemy, he suddenly felt the ship jerk beneath them, and his ears echoed with the sound of splintering wood.

Two of their adversaries were thrown overboard thanks to the blunt force of event. Sadly, a Redwyne had been thrown over as well. Turning to the port side, Barristan saw another ship had slammed against the hull of the Arbor Queen, one bearing the banner of house Drumm. Reavers leapt across the gap in scores and the defenders rushed to meet them. Amidst the fierce fighting, dying screams deafened the curses and taunts spat out from either side. It wasn't until a thunderous voice rose above all others and called out his name that ser Barristan awoke from his battle trance.

"SELMY," the voice thundered again. Amidst the crowded deck of foes stood Dunstan Drumm, a fiery rage in his eyes as he wielded the valyrian sword Red Rain, now carving a path towards him. Bracing himself, ser Barristan took in his old foe, the Ironborn lord and captain had greyed since they last met on Old Wyk, but the man's hatred for him hadn't diminished over the years. An Ironborn's pride could never stand living with the shame of being bested by a mainlander upon their own isle.

As they met in the center of the madness, lord Dunstan sneered at the slightly battered knight. "When word reached the isles that you had vanished, I feared that you were rotting in some ditch, or wheezing your final breath in some forgotten hold. But the fates have smiled on me at last. Now I can wash away the shame of my greatest defeat with your blood." The Queensguard was silent as he took his stance and awaited his opponent, he didn't wait long.

The Lord of Old Wyk's blows were fierce, able to rival those of a man half his age, forcing ser Barristan back. The experienced knight couldn't approach this foe in a normal fashion, he couldn't fully block the blows with his sword, nor could he rely on his armor to withstand the blade's edge, it was valyrian steel after all. It was commonly said if a man took a whetstone to valyrian steel, they'd need a new stone… and a new hand. Relying more on his footwork, the old knight backstepped and parried the slashes of lord Dunstan, yet with every sudden moment, Barristan felt his movements begin to slow.

He could feel his age creeping over him again. It was a cold-hard fact, that he simply couldn't endure the same rigors he had in his youth. Once he could have fought all day and into the night as was required of him. What strength he had left though, especially for prolonged battle was fleeting. But combat was more than strength; it was instinct, patience, the ability to gauge and predict your opponents moves. Lord Dunstan while fierce, lacked restraint, with every swing he committed everything he had. A mistake that left him open for a counter strike. By lacing his sword beneath Red Rain and rotating his stance, Barristan forced lord Dunstan to lurch forward. Allowing him to bring his sword in an upward sweep, cutting into the seafarer's calf and bringing him to his knees.

But the fight was not over. With a defiant cry lord Dunstan swung his sword in such fury and desperation it would have cut him in half if he hadn't leapt back in time. Cautiously approaching his wounded, but still dangerous foe, the knight prepared to finish him off. True to the Ironborn way lord Dunstan did not beg, or surrender. No, all he had to offer was a string of curses as he tried to rise to his feet again.

AS his sword rose in hand, Barristan was suddenly thrown with great force away from the Thunderer's as he crashed against the hard deck of the ship, the lord commander saw a massive, axe-wielding, man stood between him and lord Dunstan, while two others took hold of their lord captain and began dragging him away. Much to the man's contempt as he bellowed and cursed at them. "LEAVE ME! LEAVE ME, YOU DOGS!"

The behemoth then moved to finished what his lord could not, axe raised over his head before being brought down. In a moment surging strength the older knight rolled away as the head of the axe buried itself into the deck's wooden planks. Barely rising to his feet in time, Barristan was assaulted by a barraged of powerful blows from the sullen raider. Several of which landed their targets, but not quite penetrating his armor. Still the blunt force of them all took their toll on Barristan. He needed to end this fight quickly if he was to have any strength left to lead the queen's navy.

Sadly, that opportunity came in the form of a young lad joining the fray by slashing the Ironborn's arm open. The boy's bravado was punished as their opponent, seemingly unbothered by the pain, slit open his guts with one swing of his axe, before burying it into the lad's skull. Seizing the moment, Barristan drove his sword into the man's side with all the strength he could muster, until the edge pierced through to the other side. His adversary cried out before striking a dire blow with his fist, knocking him back to the railing. Before Barristan could recover a massive hand took hold of throat.

Desperately trying to free himself from the iron grip, Barristan pulled at the fingers curled around his neck, but to no avail. As his lungs began to cry out for air and the world dimmed, he tried one last desperate ploy to reach his dirk. Even with his clouded vision he could still the determination in his enemy's eyes. Not to achieve victory, but to see the man who killed him perish as well. As the grip tightened, a great heaviness took hold over ser Barristan, his vision grew distant. It seemed to be the end… until a voice whispered to him.

'You swore an oath, Ser Barristan of house Selmy,' echoed the voice, its familiar, unyielding tone taking him back to Stepstones, where he had the honor of meeting the man to whom it belonged to. The man who draped the white cloak over his shoulder in the proudest moment of his life. Out of the corner of his eye, Barristan saw a singular light amidst the growing darkness, seemingly emanating off the figure standing before him. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, and Lord Commander of King Jaehaerys the Second's Kingsguard.

Stunned to see the shade of his former mentor and brother-in-arms, ser Barristan feared that this was indeed the end, and his late predecessor had come claim his soul. But such fears were proven false as the specter gave his order, 'Uphold your oath. Ser Barristan.' The way the vision spoke to him, it was as if the white-bearded knight in its sway was no more than green boy attending his first sparring lesson. Proving true to the memory of the legendary figure, who had been stern, yet fair in every order he'd given.

Just as quickly as the visage appeared, it began to fade, its last words echoing within ser Barristan's being, given new agency to his struggle. Pushing back against his assailant, the Queensguard reached forward and pressed his gloved hand into the man's eye. While lacking the force needed to gouge out the raider's eye, it provided the distraction he needed to reach his true quarry, the dirk tied to his belt. Amidst the low growls and suppressed cries of pain, the Ironborn failed to notice Barristan's fingers take hold of the dagger, drawing it from its sheath, before bringing it to his throat. A sharp cry turned to a gurgled sputter as blood trickled out of the man's mouth and the wound just below it. For a moment his grip tightened around Barristan's neck, before it became laxed. What strength the raider had left faded as the light in his eyes began to dim. Until at last, the warrior fell dead to the deck floor.

Gasping at his returning breath ser Barristan hooked his arm around the railing to keep himself from falling to his knees and looked towards his surroundings. The men of house Redwyne had repelled their attackers, just as the other ships had done, with only a few Ironborn remaining to carry on their doomed assault. Yet, even when they fell, there were no cries of victory, like ser Barristan they could see the next wave of longships fast approaching. The majority of the Iron Fleet was now bearing down on them, all manned to the gills with fresh warriors with a thirst for blood.

That was when he heard it, a trilogy of shrill screeches from above. Breaking through the clouds like terrible birds of prey, Daenerys and her dragons descended upon the Ironborn, Diving low with such speed, their enemies hadn't the time to comprehend the doom that fell upon them. Leading down the center was Daenerys upon the back of Drogon, while Rhaegal and Viserion swept in from the sides, setting dozens of ships ablaze in their ferocious assault. Even at this distance Barristan could feel the heat of the dragon fire as the sea boiled and men screamed for any god's mercy.

As the Dragon loyalists cheered at the sight of the once seemingly invincible Iron Fleet being reduced to blackened cinders, before being claimed by the sea one by one, Ser Barristan noticed a singular ship pressing forward into the madness. The Silence. Unbothered by the incineration of his people, or the inferno that rendered the very waves into mist, Euron sailed his galley into the very center of it all. The madman had seemingly sealed his own fate in the lord commander's eyes. Afterall, her Grace's device had indeed worked. By baiting the Ironborn to press their numerical advantage, the Iron Fleet was left open for her swift counterattack. Any conventional admiral would turn the remainder of their fleet about and retreat to the Shield Islands or raise the white flag and surrender. However, Euron Greyjoy was far from conventional.

Whatever lingering fears or doubts ser Barristan still had appeared to be moments away from being erased from the world, as Viserion drew near the enemy flagship with Drogon not far behind. That was when he heard it, the thundering horn call that silenced all else. Even at this distance, the sound pained the old knight's ears, he could only imagine how deafening it was aboard the Silence itself. But the true horror of it all was witnessing the effect it had on all three dragons. Their once fluid movements were now erratic, pained, as they thrashed about in the air.

Not even Rhaegal, who was furthest away from it all, was immune. How he screamed as he tried to keep to the air. Spewing fire in every direction amidst his thrashing, no longer able to distinguish between friend and foe. So careless in his fiery outburst, the emerald beast set one of Arbor fleet aflame… along with its entire crew. That was when he saw the men panic, with some calling to flee while others began to take aim at Rhaegal with their longbows.

"NO!" declared ser Barristan, knocking one lad aside, before grabbing another. "Do not provoke him, or less he'll turn his fire on us!" Evan as he bellowed his orders, the lad in hand struggled against ser Barristan, the grip of fear stripping all reason from his mind. Fighting to regain control of the ship and those around him, the lord commander rallied lord Paxter and the officers to waylay the madness. It was only when Rhaegal fled from their midst, heading to parts unknown, that the revered knight was able to pacify some of the panic.

However, the composure he so desperately tried to restore was nearly shattered at the sound something incredibly large crashing into the sea. Heart filled with dread, ser Barristan fought his way through the onlooking crewmen. When he reached the bow of the ship, he dared to let out a sigh of relief at the sight of his queen still with her dragon. Yet, even from this distance he could tell her efforts where hard pressed. It was then the revered knight noticed that Daenerys was trying urge Drogon onward even amidst the horn's resounding call. Lowering his gaze ser Barristan saw what made the Dragon Queen so desperate… Viserion.

Thrashing about in the boiling sea, the cream-colored beast struggled to stay above the water, enduring the brunt of the damned horn's power. Bursts of fire erupted from his massive maw, making the sea boil and heavy mist rise above his great form. A sharp chill ran down ser Barristan's spine at what he saw next, four gallies, including the Silence, positioning themselves around the most amiable of Deanery's children.

His first instinct was to order the ship to press on at full speed, in hopes of saving Viserion, but as he looked about the naval battlefield, he saw that it couldn't be done. Even if they managed to maneuver around the fiery debris in time, they would still have to face the remainder of the enemy fleet, which still outnumbered theirs five to one. As they stood there and watched as the Ironborn began firing harpoons into the foundering dragon, their very souls were torn to shreds by its agonizing screams.

Enraged by his clutch mates suffering, Drogon unleashed a fiery blast from above, bathing the closest ship in flames. Men leapt screaming into the cold, unforgiving sea as their flesh melted from their bones and their armor fused to their bodies. Although Drogon and Daenerys' attempt to save Viserion was fierce, it was tragically cut short by a second blast from the horn. This time threatening to throw Daenerys from her saddle as her winged mount contorted beneath her.

"Turn back," whispered ser Barristan as his queen struggled to remain mounted. In that one moment everything he'd hoped for seemed lost, the restoration of the Targaryen dynasty, the Seven Kingdoms ruled by worthy monarch, and his last chance at redemption. Was this his curse; to outlive all those he was supposed to protect till his dying breath, to be forced to watch as another rightful ruler died before ever ascending the throne? Yet, by the Mother's mercy, the last Targaryen managed to stir Drogon away from the enemy flagship and guide him away from the horn's power.

Viserion was not so fortunate, as harpoons, lined with iron chains, buried their heads into his flesh. Winching him into place as they continued their barbarity, bolt after bolt. His cries now seemed like a desperate plea for aid, making it even more heart retching for the old knight, knowing its pleas would go unanswered. Not even the harden sailors and men at arms around were immune to the tormented cries, with most turning away to spare themselves from the horrid sight. Ser Barristan could not however, as tears trailed down his eyes at the majestic beast's torment.

It wasn't right for a wonder of the world, one than had returned from the stories of old, to meet such a cruel end. With his last cry, Viserion was given the mercy of death when a harpoon pierced his gaping jaw, jerking his head back before crashing beneath the waves. The remainder of the Arbor fleet retreated in good measure, with several of the larger galleys guarding their rear. An unnecessary measure, the Ironborn couldn't be bothered to pursue them.

---

Western coast of the Reach, Near the hour of the Wolf

The revelry around the campfires reviled any that were held in the great halls of the Isles, as his men feasted and drank their fill. Even Euron felt satisfied, for the moment at least, in what they had achieved. Not since the days of the Grey King had any islander claimed the glory of killing a dragon. The singers would forever immortalize their names as dragon slayers and Dragon's Bane. No doubt his fellow Ironborn believed that their deed today would forever surpass of those who were to come, but to Euron it foretold what lay ahead of him. The greater destiny that was always meant to be his since the day he envisioned it in his dreams. The gentle caress of his newest salt wife, Falia Flowers, shattered his moment of self-revelry. As the girl straddled herself on his lap, a faint smile tugged at his lip, a smile that belied the coldness of his eye.

Still, he couldn't deny the pleasure of her body on his, feeling a stirring within himself as she pressed her impressive bosom to his chest. It only grew as the girl lustfully whispered into his ear. "My King, my Dragon's Bane, claim the bounty of your mighty victory today."

The sight Gorold Goodbrother and lord Drum's sons approaching, stopped the Crow's Eye from doing just that. While lord Gorold had supported his claim to the Salt Throne over his niece, the old man had done nothing but whine about the Reach's vengeance, but what was to be expected from a man who spent over a decade stewing in his drafty keep. He like so many of his kinsman had forgotten what it truly was to live by 'the Old Way.' The Drum boys had been making noise as well; about their father's wound, losing Adnvik the Smiling, along with most of their ships in the battle, not that any of it mattered to him. He greeted them with false courtesy masked by the mirth of his victory. "My lords and captains, come join me and let us drink to our deeds and to the conquest of the Westeros."

The three men looked to each other before lord Gorold spoke, "Your Grace, with the Arbor Fleet in retreat should we not chart a course to Blackcrown, less they consolidate their defenses?"

Euron laughed at the notion, as well as the insulted look on Goodbrother's face. "What is Blackcrown to me? A pitiful keep upon a stony cliff, surrounded by fields of grass. No, at dawn we sail for a far greater prize… the Citadel." His declaration garnered the attention of the many gathered nearby.

"The Citadel," scoffed the elder of lord Drum's sons. "You would have us face the defenses of Oldtown, for a collection of musty tomes coveted by old men?" A few of raiders murmured amongst themselves, while their king began to fondle his salt wife's lower back untroubled by the questioning of his word.

"Oldtown's gold and women will be yours, as well as the blood of every man within its walls, but the true prize lies within the vaults of the Citadel. The relics power long forgotten by the very fools who claim to know more than any order living."

"What need do we have for these trinkets," interjected the younger of the two brothers, wearing the same vacant expression that plagued his father. "We have the horn. Its power brought the dragons to heel, just as you said it would. We should finish the dragon cunt before she recovers her strength and seeks to avenge her pet."

Many voices muttered their agreement with the younger Drum's proposal, this time stirring Euron's attention and ire. Pushing Falia aside, despite her minor protest, he rose to his feet, smiling as he walked towards Donnel Drumm. This was not the smile he wore when he sought to charm others, no, it was cold, sinister, and unfeeling. Had he removed his patch, revealing his 'black eye,' the King of Salt and Rock believed the boy standing in front of him would have pissed himself. Even as a boy the look of his malformed eye had chilled the blood of those under its gaze, his family had been no different.

'As they should, for when men look upon it their death was on its way,' Euron thought menacing to himself as the boy shrank back into himself. His elder brother looked worried as well.

Unsure whether to stand aside or try and intercede on the fool's behalf, he turned to Gorold for support, but found none. "Your grace, forgive him. His head is in his drink, Donnel did not mean to question your decisions, he only meant that with the horn to safeguard us against the dragons, your victory is already assured."

"No, it isn't," Euron bluntly replied, shocking the Drumm boys. Turning towards the rest, he spoke in a king's voice so all could hear. "My brother Balon, the Twice Crowned, sought to take the North with strength of arms and the Iron Price. Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen Square, even Winterfell were his within a fortnight. Our people's greatest triumph since the days of house Hoare, until the Northerners took them back one by one. Do you know why my brother failed where Aegon the Conqueror succeeded?"

Searching for the answer among his men, Euron, unsurprisingly, found only the ignorant looks of men who never considered anything beyond their predictable ways. That's why they were sheep desperate for his guidance. "It wasn't strength of arms that allowed the Targaryen's to conquer all of Westeros, it was dragons and dragons are beasts of magic." That was a truth even his people could understand, the magic in their Valyrian blood had allowed Aegon's descendants to rule the continent for three centuries, while his ancestors scrouged on the shit-stained rocks they called home.

That is why he would succeed where his predecessors failed. He would use the dark powers that most feared or dismissed as old wives' tales. "You all saw how the dragons reeled at the horns call, but it did not bind them to my will as it should have. Its power has not fully awakened yet, nor will it without its counterpart. Only when both are in my possession will we be able to take the dragons from the Targaryen girl. Only then will I be able to take her to my bed and assure our dominance for the next thousand years!"

`A sharp cheer roared around him at the prospect, which only subsided as four of his 'pets' approached, carrying a large cauldron filled to the brim with a dark substance. With shaved heads and blue lips, the Warlocks of Qarth easily stood out amidst the warriors and seafarers. He still remembered the look of fear in their eyes as he slaughtered one of them for raising his voice to him. The rest learned to curb their tongues when their new master forced them to eat the flesh of their dead cohort. Placing the cauldron before him, the Warlocks silently backed away allowing Euron the sole pleasure of gazing into it.

Dragon's blood, collected from the corpse he had his men drag to shore. How it hissed and boiled even after leaving the veins of the beast. Reaching into the cauldron, the Crow's eye felt the blistering pain ruin up his torso as his fingers dipped into the thick liquid. With his own blood now mingled with it, Euron drew an ancient glyph from the ruins of Asshai onto his forehead. Feeling his entire body shudder in pain, he basked in its ecstasy. Not even the profound cheers of his ignorant followers could rouse him from this trance. For in it, he could only hear the prophecy of his own ascension.

And the skies shall be set aflame,

The land will be that of ice,

While the seas boil in blood,

To be made anew in the image of the God risen from man.

---

At long last, I've finished chapter 9. Again, profound apologies for its prolonged delay. Two months of overtime at work really drain the creative battery. Still here we are. While I did intend to include the Battle of the Twins in this chapter, but it simply wouldn't fit, especially since I wanted to get this out as soon as possible.

So quick summary, I think that after years of being surrounded by liars and opportunists who at varying points where responsible for the deaths of her family has made Sansa a little paranoid, thus she makes her decision to withhold the letter from Jon. This will have repercussions later, brought on by you know who. Jon met Mya's ex and he is not impressed, plus he must deal with the struggle between getting vengeance and being practical.

As for Barristan, I wanted to demonstrate that while still formidable he's not invincible. As a side note, I truly believe that Barristan looked up to Gerold Hightower, just as Jaime, Ned, Robert, all of Westeros really, looked up to him. Regarding the battle, I really to give Daenerys an ego check, seriously every time she was in trouble the dragons pulled her out of the fire (ha-ha). Sadly, that meant Viserion had to die, he was the least prominent dragon in my eyes. Oh and special thanks to Knighthunter911700 for making me aware of Euron eldritch god motivations.

Like always please Review, that is the only way I can improve any shortcomings. Again, thanks for your patience.