Disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF or GOT.
AN-1: One of the things that came to me at the start, before even deciding upon the other major details of the story, was the scene in this chapter. Hope you like it, and I wrote it well enough for you to imagine every moment of it.
AN-2: I have a P*T*R*N, which you can join to read the NEXT SEVEN CHAPTER RIGHT NOW, just follow the link on the profile.
AN-3: A very big thanks to Gladiusx and Lordlexx for their invaluable help in the editing and plot they provide me with! Also, Gladiusx has written an extremely good ASOIAF fic, Shrouded Destiny and you guys should check that one out.
"Winterfell is yours, your Grace." She heard her Uncle say as the whole courtyard knelt to Robert Baratheon. She watched from her perch on the stable as the King of the Seven Kingdoms dismounted from his black warhorse…a wooden platform being placed beside the animal to help the fat man land on his feet properly. This…This was the Demon of the Trident? The man who was supposedly the Warrior reborn, and the greatest fighter in the history of Seven Realms according to the songs? This was the man to whom her father lost?
"Even Bran could take him on right now and probably win," she muttered, watching him and her Uncle laugh as they hugged each other, and everyone stood up. Behind them, the rest of the King's party entered, and at the head of it were four old men, and each one of them couldn't have been more different than the last. First was the Lord Hand Jon Arryn from the Vale, and despite the number of furs upon him, Visenya could tell how frail the man actually was.
A couple of feet to his right was the grey-haired, equally frail form of Hoster Tully, the father of the Lady on Winterfell looking upon the people before him with what seemed to be smugness. The Trout of the Tullys was sewn upon the saddle he sat upon, and Visenya once again cursed the Conquerors for raising them to their station. Couldn't they have gone with someone else, like the Blackwoods?
The next moment, the courtyard quietened down immediately as a positive giant of a man entered upon a brown warhorse, not even a speck of his body unarmored due to the segmented plate armor covering him. A menacing helm sat upon his head, and on his chest the three-headed dog gleamed, making her clench her fist in anger. It took every ounce of willpower and mental strength she had to not freeze the Mountain's fingers off before burning his eyeballs out of his head—and even then, she was distinctly aware of the ice that was melting around her fingers.
Her eyes returned back to the men who had first entered as one of them got down from his horse. His thinned, greying hair still held some of that golden lustre from the man's youth, and ice around her hands melted even faster as she saw Tywin Lannister for the first time. He was tall, taller than every Great Lord that was standing around him, and moreover, he stood proud. His eyes looked down on everyone around him, his cloak dyed as close to red and gold as it could get as he laid a hand upon his sword's golden hilt.
She didn't even glance at the last Great Lord, having no interest in looking at Mace Tyrell when she could glare daggers at Tywin and the men bearing the Lion of the Lannisters. A wheelhouse came in next, and she gaped at the sheer…gold upon it. On the white wood, the red banner with that garishly bright gold lion seemed like a crime for anyone's eyes, and Visenya winced as she caught a few angry looks shared between the people of the North.
It was public knowledge from the Neck to the Last Hearth that there was no relaxation in the taxes for the North on account of the harsh land, or the permanent snow—or even the fact that it was her Uncle who had put the current King's fat ass on the Throne. Deciding to move away lest she actually burn something out of the anger mounting within her mind, Visenya gave one last glare at Robert and his party before she walked inside the Keep.
Where the fuck was her brother when she needed him to vent some anger?
"Fucking Hells Ned," his goodson and the King of the Seven Kingdoms—and the man he hated the most after Aerys and Jon Arryn whispered as they came upon the famed Weirwood of Winterfell. The stark white snow and the blood red leaves captured his attention first, and Tywin had to suppress a shudder at the sight of the laughing face carved into the bark of the ancient tree. There was a godswood in Casterly Rock too, from the days when it had been the home to First Men, but now it was a dead, twisted thing—a relic of ages long gone, its roots filling out the Stone Garden completely and choking out all other growth. Five and fifty namedays he had lived, and seen all kinds of sights. From the pale, bloated corpses of the Reynes and the Tarbecks to the butchery his dogs had performed upon Rhaegar's wife and children, but yet, the haunting face of the Weirwood unsettled him in ways that nothing in the past had done.
Of course, that was before he saw the sight that had made Robert gasp so. On the low bone-white branches and amidst the red leaves, six bodies hanged. Six headless bodies, Tywin amended his statement as he looked closely at the dead Ironborn, their bodies skewered upon the Weirwoods branches. His eyes flicked over their bodies, taking in the missing limbs and bloodless leaves and wood. Just what had come over the Sta-
"By the Father!" The old fossil gasped next, stumbling backwards in shock as his trembling finger pointed at the roots of the Weirwood. "What in the name of the Seven is that Ned?!"
His eyes followed Arryn's finger, and Tywin blinked in surprise at the sight of the six heads lying side by side on the roots of the giant Weirwood. He had seen lopped-off heads before…but this was different from any beheading he had witnessed. The heads were planted neck first upon the roots, and somehow, the Weirwood had grown into them, bone-white, thin branches bursting out of the eyes and the ears with little red leaves upon them. And just like the branches above, the roots and the snow-white skin of the Ironborn were completely devoid of any blood spots.
"Those are the Ironborn Jon brought back from Harlaw Island as prisoners," Stark replied, and for the third time that day, he found himself surprised at the anger and the sheer satisfaction in the Quiet Wolf's voice, "Jon executed them on the eve of the Northern Lords arriving in Winterfell, and the next morning, they were like this."
"Bloody Hell Ned, your boy sure has the balls of the size of an auroch," Robert said, walking forwards to closely look at the six heads, "Well, bastards got what was coming to the-"
"We can't leave them like this!" Jon suddenly declared, turning around to look at them all before his eyes flicked towards the Lord of Winterfell next to him. "Ned, you cannot approve this act of senseless savagery. I taught you better than this. We should bury them in the ground as is the proper way instead of this unnatu-"
"Respectfully speaking, Lord Arryn, that is not happening." Stark once again spoke, dangerously leaning on the hilt of his ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Ice—just how stupid was Jon Arryn? To not only bring the High Septon to Winterfell, but actually suggest desecrating a tree sacred to the faith of the Old Gods?! This was the man handling the realm which was going to be his legacy?!
"What do you mean it is not happening?" Arryn growled sharply, pointing angrily at the corpses of the ironborn, "This is unnatural and unacceptable! Have you ever seen anyone's bodies so defiled, that too by a tree of all things?! Is this what I taught you all those years ago Ned? The Faith does not permit the desecration of the dead, and you can't let this tree of yours make a mockery of it by showing its wicked roots or whatever the fuck it is! Besides, the right to execute is held only by the Lords of the Realm. Your baseborn son should be punished for taking the King's justice into his own hands, to say nothing of the shitstorm he has created in the Iron Islands!"
"This is the North, Lord Hand!" Stark retorted just as frostily as the lands he ruled, and Tywin begrudgingly applauded the man for having fangs, instead of the meek, obedient dog that he had thought him to be. "The people here follow the Old Gods, the Lords here follow the Old Gods, and thus, they were executed in the way of the Old Gods. If any man harms even a single leaf on the Weirwood, I will gut him and hang his entrails upon it with their heads offered to the Gods."
"Stop this bickering at once," Robert thundered loudly, whirling around to glower at his Hand and his friend both as his blue eyes burned with fury. He walked up to them both, his growl rumbling through the silent whistling wind as he first looked at Jon Arryn. "No one will touch this Godswood, is that clear? I don't care that it looks unnatural or that these cunts belong in the ground, no one is going to move them or touch the tree in any way."
"But Rober-"
"I SAID I DON'T FUCKING CARE!" He roared, his face reddening rapidly as the famous Baratheon fury showed itself once again, and Tywin rolled his eyes quietly—maybe it wasn't such a bad idea that Arryn had been chosen as the Hand instead of him. At least he was mostly safe from Robert's idiocy and boar-headed shouts. "No one is going to touch that tree, and no one is going to raise a racket about it. And as for you," he continued, turning towards Stark as his face twisted into a frown, "Jon is right about your bastard breaking the law. We will meet him in the solar tonight before the feast, and then decide what to do with him."
"Jon had my permission to act as their Executioner. I am the Lord Paramount of the North and the Lord of Winterfell, and this was perfectly within my rights. There will be no punishment for him, since there has been no crime, My King." Stark retorted briskly, his face tightening at the mention of a possible punishment. Deciding to take a look at the other people who had entered the Godswood with them to see their reactions, Tywin turned to his left. Mace was looking uncomfortably at the branches that had grown through the heads of the Ironborn, and beside him, his heir Garlan Tyrell stood tall and firm, a smirk of satisfaction on his face. While the Ironborn had much less contact with the Reach considering they were on the opposite side of the continent, the Squids had never lost an opportunity to harass the trading vessels or the seaside villages in the East.
He looked next at Hoster Tully, and almost rolled his eyes at the glare the dying man was leveling at his goodson and the tree behind him. The man was a fool, a jumped-up simpleton whose only saving grace was his title and his two, admittedly, beautiful daughters who had wed Great Lords. He had known the Tullys to be a fervent devotee of the Seven, and it came as no surprise to him that the aged Lord was angered by practically everything around him. Stark's bastard was currently the talk of the crowd in the North, and even in the large southern party that had rode up to Winterfell, he had quickly became an obsession of everyone. And that had rankled the Riverlord something fierce. Even now, after entering the castle his grandson was supposed to rule one day, the litany of insults seemingly hadn't stopped for the man.
Hoster had seen the way the Northern men and women had whispered about Jon Snow, praising him and his sister, and Tywin had no doubt that the Trout was incensed by this. Of course, the fact that the Heir of the North looked almost completely southern was also an amusing fact—especially since it was known that his bastard brother, who had already carved his name in the books and songs, looked almost completely like Eddard Stark.
If it weren't for the six dead Ironborn, and the frantic letter Pycelle had penned him moons ago, Tywin wouldn't have believed even a single word of this fantastical tale. And then, there was the matter of the gift and monetary compensation Harlaw was giving to the Mormonts and the Starks both. Money didn't interest him at all. Harlaw could give the entire wealth he owned to the North for all he cared, but the gift? The gift concerned him very much, because he had an idea of what it was, and he knew who had owned it last.
Nightfall, the Valyrian steel sword owned by the Harlaws, and its last wielder had been Harras Harlaw. A disgusting, weak man who had not possessed even a smidgen of talent that Jaime had, and had died in the attack led by Jon Snow. The boy had obviously taken the longsword with him, and Tywin had brought cartloads full of Dragons and trinkets just for this purpose. And if money won't make the bastard give up the sword, then a squireship with Jaime and a marriage between the monster and his sister might do the trick. Maybe a landed knightship under his purview, with whores and wines aplenty after that—it was all that a bastard could want, especially when it seemed like this one actually had some brains, courage, and skill, which would be wasted away in this frozen wasteland.
Tobho Mott would easily rework the sword into something Jaime would want, and the smith had always claimed to be able to tint Valyrian steel according to the customer's wishes. Tywin walked out of the Godswood silently as the others exited, following after them quietly with his mind fixed upon the image he saw every day in his solar.
A golden lion with rubies for its eyes with its mouth open in a ferocious roar, its mane leading down to a jeweled crossguard with claws extending out at the sides. And from there, a gold tinted blade would emerge, the signature ripples of the Valyrian steel tinged in crimson, with the words of their House etched into the metal. Jaime would wield the sword,and become the Lord of the Westerlands—he would find a way to get his only son out of that cloak—and then his children would rule after him, wielding the new Brightroar and keeping the Lannister name on the top of the whole Continent.
Howland had always been a quiet man, as his upbringing and the innate requirement of living in the Neck demanded of every crannogman. That, along with their smaller stature had always made others underestimate them and think of them as children playing at adults—never mind the fact that most of those adults wouldn't be able to walk ten paces in their home without becoming a snack of one animal or the other.
Even now, as he stood by the walls of the Godswood, none gave him more than a cursory glance. He glared at the back of the Baratheon King, his fingers tightening upon his trident before he walked inside the Godswood. He sighed heavily as the calming presence of the Old Gods washed over his mind briefly, the Greenseeing blood inside him singing at the harmony it felt in the presence of a Weirwood—and that too one as old and important as this one.
Walking forwards towards the black pool that lay at the foot of the Heart Tree, Howland removed his cloak and knelt by it, his trident laying by his side on the snow. He stared at the frozen heads of the Ironborn, before he looked at the crimson sap dripping down the eyes of the face of the Weirwood, its mouth stretched into a wide grin. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply and reached out with his senses, letting the silence of the Godswood and the coldness of the land seep into him completely.
The Weirwood's face had changed completely from the last time he had knelt before it, and with the blood of the Marsh Kings inside him, Reed could feel the change in the Godswood around him too. Six-and-ten years ago, the Heart Tree had wept tears of blood down its bark, and the whole Godswood had been silent with sadness as it had wept and mourned the loss of lives in the war. But now? Now it buzzed with glee and anticipation, its eyes brimming with overflowing joy and satisfaction as it took the blood of the Ironborn Jo-Daeron had executed upon its roots.
A small measure of payment for all the suffering the reavers had caused over their existence to the North and the world as a whole.
He still remembered every vivid detail of how it happened. Every word, every movement made by Daeron had burned itself into his mind. Reaching out towards the nearest root, Howland looked into the eyes of the Weirwood and let the memory flow to the forefront of his thoughts, losing himself to the same feeling that had roared out from his heart that eve. His Greenseer blood acted instantly, the magic of his ancestors manifesting within him faster and more powerfully than it ever had in his life—though, given that it had happened only once before, that wasn't saying much.
And then, his eyes went white as he lost himself to the memories of that evening.
This was the first time since the end of the Rebellion that each and every Lord from the Neck to the Wall was gathered in Winterfell, each of them as grim-faced and angry as they had been then. The dying rays of sun filtered through the blood-red canopy above them, and snow crunched beneath Howland's feet as he walked towards the stone-faced Warden of the North. He had arrived just this morning, and Eddard had been too drunk and tired along with the other Lords out in the Wolfswood to meet him then.
He blinked in surprise as he saw the man, the unsure yet wrathful boy who had taken up the mantle of the Warden of the North nowhere to be found. Instead, what stood in front of the Heart Tree, with his hands upon an ice blue greatsword and a large bear skin cloak over his shoulders was a man grown and bloodied. His stone grey eyes stared out at the dozens of men and women gathered before him, and besides him, his family stood.
Catelyn Tully and Sansa Stark both stood with their hands clasped in front of them, their fiery red hair done in Southern curls. Beside them stood their future Liege Lord, Robb Stark the First of his name. He was a man grown now, his auburn hair short and his blue eyes striking. The lad was taller and more built than Eddard had been at six-and-ten, but his mind was not even close to what a ruler should be. His longtime friendship with the Greyjoy hostage had angered many a Lord currently in attendance, and apparently, Catelyn Stark wanted a southern match for both of her eldest. If the word was to be believed, she was thinking of the Tyrell Heiress or the daughter of Robert Baratheon.
Of course, she was also not fond of the fact that Lyanna's children—the bastards of her husband according to the world—were currently the favorites across the whole gathering. Mugs of ale and chants of praise were being raised in the name of Jon Snow, who mounted an attack on Harlaw Island along with the Mormonts and slaughtered dozens of Ironborn.
Similarly, the Winter Rose of the North was also being praised for being the epitome of what a Northern woman was. Fearless, powerful and absolutely dangerous. She had gouged out the eyes of Harras Harlaw and smashed his balls in before burning him alive, and that was all after she had been unfed for four days straight.
He had not seen either of them yet, but he had a feeling that he was about to soon. He was just about to head forwards to ask Eddard about them when the muttering and talking of everyone around him slowly quietened down. Curious as to why Jon Umber of all things was quiet without someone shouting over him, Howland turned in the direction the large man was looking at, and his breath left his chest at the sight of the subjects of his thoughts walking into the clearing.
Jon Snow was a man grown, that was his first thought as he saw the hidden Targaryen Prince for the first time ever since he and Eddard had parted ways in the Neck. He was tall, taller than Robb by a good three inches or so, and his shoulders were broad and powerful. Dark hair flowed down to his neck, and his face leaned more toward his mother than what Rhaegar Targaryen had looked like. And then his eyes dropped down to what the bo-man was dragging behind him, the rattling of chains and muffled grunts grabbing his attention.
An Ironborn mumbled incoherently, his wrists bound in cuffs that were connected to the chain in Daeron's hand. Even from this distance, Howland could see the blood on his wrists, and the gauntness of his pale and dirty face. Daeron literally dragged his face through dirt and snow, his face devoid of any emotions. Behind him, Visenya walked in next, and Howland thanked the Old Gods profusely for the silver hair and purple eyes the Daynes had shown in their bloodline.
The girl was almost as tall as her brother, and her gait was a far cry from what he had seen of Sansa Stark. The girl was sure of herself, of her strength and power and she walked with pride. She too had a prisoner of her own, and this one was a little more lucid than the last, his eyes flitting around fearfully as he looked from one wrathful face to the next, the stump of his arm dragging through the snow behind him as Visenya pulled him by his remaining arm alone.
After them came the Mormonts; Maege, her heiress Dacey and her second eldest—Alysane if he remembered correctly—bringing in four Ironborn more.
"Men and women of the North," Ed-no, Lord Stark began the next moment, pulling their attention towards himself, his voice loud and firm in a way Reed had never imagined the Quiet Wolf to be. The gathering quietened immediately, everyone's eyes on the Lord of Winterfell as the prisoners were dragged to his feet, right by the sprawling roots of the Heart Tree, "By now, you all must know about what has happened on Bear Island. For those who don't: my daughter, Lyanna Snow was kidnapped by Harras Harlaw along with eighteen other women of Bear Island. In response, my son Jon, led an attack on Harlaw Island with the help of Maege's men, and brought her back, along with the women who had been taken. He and his company defeated every Ironborn in their way, and burned Harlaw Island down on their way to the Ten Towers. At the same time, Lyanna freed herself from her bonds and killed Harras Harlaw before starting the fight inside the Keep."
"We met soon after," Lyanna began next, coming to a stop beside her brother as she nodded at the Ironborn at their feet, "then we defeated these cunts, and found the women that had been kidnapped alongside me. After freeing them, we looked for Rodrik Harlaw, and found him in his chambers. His sisters, one of whom is Balon Greyjoy's wife, were also present there, and we took them hostage with us. Once we reached the mainland, we sent letters out to you all, and the King's court in the South, telling you all about the events that happened, and invited you all to witness the first Blood Offering in nearly three centuries!"
Cheers rang out amongst the gathered Lords after a moment of heavy silence, and Howland looked at Eddard with new respect in his eyes. Blood Offering was a serious thing, done by executing enemies on the roots of a Heart Tree as an offering to the Old Gods. The blood spilled on the Weirwood would be absorbed by the Heart Tree, and if new branches came out from the spot where the blood touched it, then it was said the Gods had accepted the offering, and blessed the man and his clan.
For victory in the war to come.
This was a declaration of war with the Iron Islands. With this, Eddard Stark had officially removed any chance for peace that the Lord Hand might have tried. By the Gods, the next few days and moons were going to be absolutely…he didn't have any words for it. A Great House was going to end, and even if the other Kingdoms somehow didn't come to fight the Iron Islanders, the North was going to do it by itself.
And kill every Ironborn down to the last man and boy.
Screams and cheers rose up from the gathered Lords and Ladies, and shouts of "Kill the Ironborn!" and "For the Starks!" rang out in the Godswood. And then, the sound of a sword being unsheathed pierced through the noise. Howland gasped at the sight of the Valryian steel in Jon's hands, realising it must be the sword Harras Harlaw had owned. Nightfall, the Valyrian longsword of House Harlaw.
He walked behind the first prisoner, and before Howland could wonder about just how the man wasn't screaming or begging for mercy, Jon put his foot on the back of his head and pushed him down. His face came to rest against the snow-covered root of the Weirwood, and everyone stopped breathing for a moment as he raised his arm. In the silence of the Godswood, the blades' descent rang out as sharply as a wolf's howl splitting a full moon's night. It passed through the neck swiftly, and as Jon brought the sword back up to his shoulder, he knelt down and grabbed the head by the hair.
He raised it into the air, blood dripping down from the neck as the headless body slumped forwards upon the roots, blood spurting out of the stump and painting the white roots crimson. Jon grinned ferally, and placed the bleeding head on the root by his feet, and the whole gathering roared with approval. Swords were unsheathed and raised into the air as Visenya pushed forward the next Ironborn. Everyone hungered for blood in that moment, excitement and anger flowing through each of them at the sight of the Blood Offering being performed.
Nightfall descended once again, and blood spurted upon the snow as the body rolled to the ground, while Jon once again raised the head, a splatter of red painting the face carved upon the tree. "This is what awaits every Ironborn!" He shouted, slamming it down on the root and pointing Nightfall to the west, from where the sun's dying rays barely illuminated his face, "Come next year, there shan't be any Ironborn man living to plague our lands once again! To raid and reave upon our shores in the name of their pathetic Iron Price! They will all die! Upon their barren, rocky lands they shall die, and they shall die by the might of the North!"
"By the North!" Everyone echoed, and Howland raised his three-pronged spear, shouting with the others as Nightfall once again descended…and the Weirwood began to weep.
"I was waiting for you to show up, Lord Reed," the voice that had just made the declaration of war in his memories spoke up from behind him, and Howland gasped as he flailed around at the sudden noise. A firm hand grabbed his cloak from behind, saved his nose from getting flattened by the ground, his face but a few inches from meeting it, "Huh? Guess you were sleeping in that posture."
"I wa-was just in a trance," he mumbled as Jo-Daeron pulled him up to his feet effortlessly. He turned around to look at the six-and-ten namedays old boy, now a man-grown, and Howland felt his eyes water a little. Being the son of his only friend aside, he had taken care of Daeron and Visenya for moons as he and Eddard had journeyed North from Prince's Pass. Before holding Jojen and Meera, he had held the twins, and in a way he had loved and accepted them as his own children too. "By the Gods, look at you." he whispered, hands rising up to Daeron's shoulders as he gave the young man a once over, "You have grown well. I still remember the day when I first saw you in Dorne in your father's arm-"
"After you and my father's party killed Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent," Jon interrupted with a smile, his own coming up to rest on his shoulder, and Howland blanched with shock and horror at the sudden words, "Oh sorry, was I not supposed to know that?"