Nort had lived all his life around horses: his earliest memory was serving in the stables of House Lorch alongside his father during the reign of Lord Larance Lorch. Soon after however, his heir Amory had come to power and thus their time of relative ease came to an end.
The new Lord Lorch was a brutal taskmaster, demanding only the best of service from his people, no matter whether such a demand was reasonable or not. His father had learned that the hard way. Whereas Nort himself had made himself useful by being able to get things…discreetly so to speak.
He was far from the most skilled or cunning thief that had ever graced the small area of the Goldthicket Road where House Lorch's Blackest Den resided. But the ones that were infamous or cleverer were dead if they had not gone elsewhere by now: the victory of being unimportant as his father might've said. After all, a mouse need not be the fastest of his brethren, only faster than the one which the cat has for supper.
It had been during the tournament at Lannisport he'd made himself useful to the king's household. First to the kitchen staff and then as a free agent to the more powerful around King's Landing. He was never sure if it was Lord Varys, Lord Baelish or one of the royals themselves that he did his errands for.
But he found that the clink of silver stags proved a handy answer whenever questions of that nature began to bubble to the surface of his mind.
It had been a good existence, even managing to net him a gold dragon or two when he saved up enough. And then the king had decided to go north to Winterfell. One of his regulars came to him with a request of services. He was going to follow the train and wait for further instructions.
Thus he had trudged through the sun then the rain then the muck then finally the cold before at last reaching Winterfell. The castle was so squat and ugly and limited compared to the red keep where he'd lived for several years now. But it was where he had to be to await further instructions. Whilst so many of his fellows invaded the kitchens and barracks and brothel of Winterfell, Nott spent his time in the stables: getting the steeds used to his presence. One of the most useful ways to be sure no one was aware of his presence being to attune himself to the animals they looked to for signs of unusual life. Between the kennels and the stables he had the animals far more used to him than they were anyone else among the royal party.
The time passed by, the only bit of interest being a moment when one of the pages tried to keep a strange wooden box on his person. Nort waited until he was unaware before stealing the box away; trying to see what it might contain. His disappointment was acute when he realized it was naught but a strange cylinder containing a glass to look through. It had been interesting for moments when he found out how far he could see with it but after it was worthless. Perhaps he could trade it to one of the other servents for a favor or some coin. In any case, the wooden container had burned quite well when he offered it to one of the campfires that occupied the tents decorating the area of Wintertown. Nothing of greater note came until one of the Stark children fell from the burned-out tower. It was the fifth day following the fall that he was graced with the presence of Prince Joffrey himself accompanied by his loyal bodyguard Sandor Clegane.
The prince was jovial, looking down upon Nort for being around the horses so often. He demanded to know if Nort was as much a cutpurse as he seemed. Nort only answered that he was whatever the Prince should like him to be. Prince Joffrey's chest puffed proudly as he exclaimed: "This is the proper respect shown dog! This is what a prince deserves!"
His grin grew larger, a glint of violence in his gaze as he offered a beautifully crafted dagger whose handle was black leather surrounding a pale white material that blossomed outward to form a strange crossguard for the sheathed blade. A brief pull to glimpse the steel beneath the smooth black sheath and Nort could immediately tell this was no ordinary dagger. The ripples and waves in the steel that made it almost mesmerizing to see
"I can't stand the wailing and mourning of these women. My insolent uncle insisted I ought to offer my sympathies." He said, growing visibly more agitated and angry as he recounted Lord Tyrion's words. He took a few deeper breaths to calm himself and then his grin became all teeth even as his eyes glimmered with barely restrained bloodlust.
"So let them have an occasion I can truly offer my sympathies for. Stain those mangy furs upon the boys' bed with his blood and return to me for a more handsome reward once you're done." He drew out a small bag of coins and carelessly tossed them at Nort's feet before he turned away.
Without any further thought or consideration for Nort, he strode off: his rich red cloak rippling behind him as the Hound turned to follow without so much as a word.
Nort looked down at the dagger again, unsure as to whether he could do this. When he opened the sack, his eyes widened as he took in the equivalent of at least four or five jobs for his other employers in king's landing inside that the prince had promised could be even greater should he succeed.
The heightened guard activity had Nort hesitating to leave even as the royal party departed alongside the Lord of Winterfell and a good part of his household. Because the hounds and the horses were so used to Nort, nobody else thought to question his presence when he tended to them and looked after them. And some time later he was as much a part of the background as others who had lived here all their lives.
Another victory of being unimportant.
It was then on a moonless night when he was sure of the patrol routes that he decided he was going to do it. Their guard was down, this was his chance. He'd saddled one of the horses that had taken to him best, so that it might be ready to help him bolt once he was done.
He crept his way toward the boy's room, but soon found the silence and the darkness of the castle imposing; shaking his nerves as he tried to push himself further.
In a sudden burst of inspiration, he thought to try and distract everyone with something very loud and very dangerous. He made his way to the library, figuring that there was plenty to burn there and trying to put it out would surely clear a great deal of his path to the chamber where the sick boy was being kept.
All it took was simply creeping in, putting the torch to a few of the back stacks and then tossing it toward a couple more of them before quickly shutting the door behind him and bolting. He'd needed to move into a few abandoned rooms when he thought he heard boots coming but overall managed to make quick time toward the tower the sick boy was being kept. As the orange glow started to entering through the few windows he made his way past, Nort felt a coiling in his gut now that his time of action was almost at hand.
Could he do it? Could he murder a small boy even on the orders of the crown prince?
His feet had taken him too far now, he found himself before the door. He drew a single deep breath before clowly pushing the door open with his shoulder even as his right hand drew the dagger from its sheath in a reverse grip. His fingers reflexively tightened as he made his way fully into the room. The boy was apparently fully under the covers, not even his head visible beyond the covers. Nort moved closer to the foot of the bed, raising his blade to shoulder height when it happened.
Something sharp and fast cut into the back of his left leg deep enough that he suddenly couldn't support his weight on the leg. Before he'd even had a chance to process that, the same sharpness returned to the back of his right leg, causing him to collapse unceremoniously just as the pain started.
Upon his initial fall, the blad had been driven about half an inch into the stone floor. As he accidentally pulled it out, it fell from his hand as he tried to clutch the back of his legs: screaming shrilly at the worst pain he'd yet felt in his life even as a boot came to meet his face twice before he lost awareness.
He didn't know how long he was out for or where he was when he came to. But the rough bed of straw and the manacles around his wrists was a good indication it wasn't anywhere he wanted to be. He could barely stand to twitch his legs before the roaring pain came back and he collapsed on his back trying to ignore the throbbing in the back of his knees that felt like the lower half of his legs were dangling threads from a worn tapestry.
It was difficult to tell the passage of time in the cold dark with only the flickering light of a torch across from him occasionally punctuated by a guard coming to bring a small cup of water and a crust of bread.
He didn't bother trying to beg them to let him out, his only solace being that they hadn't yet killed him yet. He wasn't sure when it was when at last someone came to do more than give him water and bread.
There were four of them: two guards who immediately unlocked his shackles only to drag him between them even as he groaned in the agony his wrapped but otherwise untreated legs gave him from the sharp movements.
The other two were an older man whose hair was white as snow and whose sideburns were thick and bushy as many men's whole beards. And nearby, glowering with the rage only a highborn with a grudge can muster, was the heir: Robb Stark. He'd never seen the oldest Stark more than once or twice briefly as he made his way through the training yard, but he well knew his looks from the conversatiosn about the cookfires the other attendants had when discussing the ruling family of Winterfell.
But now he looked at Nort as though he intended to kill him where he sat. Most likely he did.
He was taken from his cell to a slightly larger area. Nearby there was a metal basin that appeared to have cold water in it. Near the chair they strapped him to was a square wooden table; stained and old. As the older man placed several blades upon the table, the heir to Winterfell's eyes remained fixed upon Nort.
Had he been in any other situation, Nort's instinct would've been to lower his head and look away, try to shrink in on himself to become less vislble. But as his wrists were bound to the arms of the chair and his feet still barely responsive, he opted to look down at his own lap.
As the older man finished placing the blades on the table, Nort noticed the knife he'd been given by the prince placed with them.
"Why did you try to kill my brother?" Came the question from the still glaring heir to Winterfell.
Nort kept his silence, not looking to the heir to winterfell. A hand grabbed his jaw and brought him up to look directly into Robb Stark's blazing blue eyes.
"He was a young boy! What right did you have to try to steal his life?!" He demanded.
Nort knew what was to come. Perhaps others who were braver than him might have spat in that lordling face. But Nort had always gotten by exactly because he was not brave, because he chose to scatter and flee to the shadows rather than stand proud and tall in the light.
Up until now it had made him less a target, less a potential threat.
"M'lord." The older man rumbled, gently prying the heir's hand off of Nort's face.
He then leaned down until he was face to face with Nort. His brown eyes were hard and unflinching as he forced Nort's eyes to remain locked with his own.
"We know you came for young Bran." He stated, no hint of question or confusion in his tone.
"We know you were wielding this." He continued, picking up the strange dagger with his left hand even as he continued staring into Nort's eyes.
"This is Valyrian Steel." He said, drawing the blade from its sheath. Nort's eyes widened, unable to believe he'd possessed so valuable a thing. Every thief and cutpurse worth their coin knew that such a thing was nearly priceless in the sum you could obtain for it. In the back of his mind he wondered if it might've been better to simply try and leave and sell the dagger to live a good life somewhere else.
The older man brought the point of the blade forward until it was resting on Nort's face just underneath his left eye. The former crownlander couldn't help but have his eyes riveted on the point as though he could keep it away by sheer force of will, his breaths coming more rapidly.
"You see how sharp it is don't you?" The older man remarked softly, holding the blade steady even as Nort became very aware that his more rapid breathing was drawing his cheek and the bottom of his eye closer and closer to the point.
"When you fell in the room you intended to murder little lord Bran, that blade pierced the stone of the castle floor. Yet I imagine you can still feel how sharp it is, can't you?" The man continued, countenance darkening as he went on.
"I tell you this so you understand what it'll mean when I say we'll be using this knife on you until you tell us who filled your purse so you would spill Stark blood." He hissed, getting close and tapping the blade on Nort's cheek just beneath his eye, splitting the skin slightly enough that a drop of blood welled from it.
That proved to be the final straw for Nort. He'd been petrified to the point he'd felt unable to speak. But now when his own life and body was on the line, he shrieked what he could to get them to stop before they began.
"I can't refuse the crown!" He shouted, trying to get away from the knife as the older man moved back slightly from the thrashing of his torso that couldn't move due to his arms being firmly tied and his legs still unable to leverage any of the desperate force he was trying to exert.
"The crown prince hisself came, he gave the coin and the knife! What else was I to do?!" He wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks and stinging as it ran over the cut on his face.
"When the crown tells you, you do it! We all serve the crown!" He cried out desperately, now hunched over in the chair as snot started to bubble from his nose.
"What was I to do?!" He blubbered piteously. He didn't even pay any mind to the muttering of the guards nearby even as the older man gripped his hair and brought up Nort's red rimmed eyes to meet his own unforgiving brown.
"And why in the seven hells should we believe the prince hired the like of you?" He growled.
"He said he couldn't stand the wailing of the women! Hated that his uncle had pushed him to see the boy!" Nort frantically added, the pain in his hair barely registering under the threat of the knife still held in the grey whiskered man's right hand.
"Please, please I beg you ser!" He sobbed again, closing his eyes even as the older man let go of his hair with a sound of disgust.
There was shuffling as the guards unstrapped his arms even as the older warrior warned him they were sending him back to his cell. And they'd be back to see if he preferred to lose his head on the chopping block or lose his freedom at the wall.
Nort continued softly sobbing to himself as they threw him onto the straw mattress, bitterly wishing he had the sense to stay in King's Landing and simply stayed where he knew.
A/N: Serious inspiration sap post show ending for reasons I think we can all guess. Next chapter ought to be up sometime next week.