If you recognize it, I probably don't own it. 40K belongs to Games Workshop. And GOT belongs to HBO and George RR Martin.
Here are some important stuff.
"Speech"
'Thoughts'
~"AI"~
*Sound Effects*
POV/Location/Time Change.
The Fangs of the Pups
289 AC, Winterfell
The morning sky over Winterfell was a tapestry of swirling clouds, and the air was thick with anticipation. Leman stood at the window of his chambers, staring out over the courtyard as men prepared for war. The ravens from the south had arrived with dark news—Balon Greyjoy, the fool, had proclaimed himself King of the Ironborn and had begun a rebellion. His early victory at Lannisport was little more than a lucky strike, and though his raiders had hit Sea Dragon Point, Leman knew it wouldn't make a difference in the long run. The Ironborn had sealed their fate, and the North would answer the call.
But that wasn't what thrilled him most. The thought of battle—his first real taste of war—sent a surge of excitement coursing through him. He had trained relentlessly, honing his skills with sword and axe. He was ready, or so he believed. His father had called the banners of the North, and soon men would march to put an end to this rebellion. Leman was determined to be among them.
At breakfast that morning, the hall had been filled with the low hum of conversation. Men discussed war strategies, supplies, and the speed at which the army would move south. Leman had waited until his father finished eating, his heart pounding with each passing moment.
"Father," he began cautiously, trying to keep his voice steady, "I want to fight. Let me ride with you to the Iron Islands. I've trained for this."
Ned Stark looked up from his meal, his expression calm but firm. "You are too young, Leman."
"I'm ready," Leman pressed, frustration creeping into his voice. "I've trained harder than anyone. I've bested men twice my age in the yard. I'm ready for this."
Eddard sighed, setting his cup down and meeting his son's determined gaze. "You may be skilled, but battle is not a game. It's not the same as sparring in the yard or hunting in the forest. War changes men, Leman. And you are not ready to face that."
"I can handle it," Leman argued, his fists clenching at his sides.
"No," Eddard said firmly. "You will remain here. Winterfell needs to be defended. You can serve your family by watching over your mother and sisters."
Leman's heart sank, anger and disappointment bubbling inside him. His father's word was final, but it didn't sit right with him. He couldn't stand the thought of being left behind, of missing the chance to prove himself in battle. He was no longer a boy, and the idea of staying home like a child gnawed at him.
Later that day, Leman brooded in his chambers. His mind raced with thoughts of the war ahead, of his father and the other men riding to glory while he remained behind. His reflection in the mirror showed the fierce determination in his eyes. He had to go—there was no other choice. If his father wouldn't allow it, he would find his own way.
He sat down at his desk, his hand trembling slightly as he wrote a quick letter:
"Mother, I know you and Father don't believe I'm ready, but I have to prove myself. Don't be angry. I'll fight well, and I'll make you proud. I'll return with victory."
He folded the letter and sealed it. Then he went to find Robb.
"Robb, I need you to do something for me," Leman said, finding his brother in the training yard.
"What is it?" Robb asked, sensing the seriousness in Leman's tone.
"I'm going," Leman said flatly. "I'm joining the men on the march to the Iron Islands."
Robb's eyes widened. "But Father said—"
"I know what he said," Leman interrupted. "But I can't stay here. I need to fight. You understand, don't you?"
Robb hesitated, then nodded. "I do."
"Good," Leman said, handing him the letter. "This is for Mother. Don't give it to her until I'm gone for 3 days."
"Leman…" Robb's voice faltered, his loyalty to his brother warring with his sense of duty. "Are you sure about this?"
"I'm sure," Leman said, his jaw set in determination. "I'm ready."
That night, while the castle was quiet and the men were preparing for their departure the next morning, Leman slipped out of Winterfell. He had planned this for days, watching the preparations, knowing exactly when the convoys would leave. He moved with practiced silence, sneaking down the narrow corridors and out into the courtyard, where the horses and supplies were being loaded. No one paid much attention to the young boy, thinking he was helping with the preparations as any Stark son would.
Leman found a place to hide in one of the supply wagons, nestling between barrels of provisions. He could hear the distant murmur of the soldiers as they finished their final checks. His heart raced, but it wasn't fear that gripped him—it was exhilaration.
When the convoy finally began to move out at dawn, Leman remained hidden, the wagon swaying gently as it rolled along the dirt road. He could hear the men talking above him, the clinking of swords and the creaking of leather armor as they rode. His father's voice occasionally drifted back from the head of the column, but Leman stayed silent.
He had done it. He was going to war. And no matter the consequences when his father discovered him, Leman knew that this was his moment to prove himself, to show that he was more than just a boy. He was a Stark of Winterfell, and he would face the battlefield, no matter what awaited him.
As they traveled further from Winterfell, Leman's thoughts flickered between excitement and apprehension. He knew his father would be furious, but by then, it would be too late to turn back. He had made his decision, and there was no going back now.
The howl of the North wind filled the air, and Leman couldn't help but grin to himself. The wolves were on the hunt, and he was among them, ready for whatever came next.
For three long days, Leman Stark had become a shadow within the convoy. He moved with practiced stealth, hiding among the barrels of provisions and keeping his head low whenever soldiers passed by. The thrill of being on the journey, so close to the march of men ready for battle, kept him alert. He ate what little food he had stored in his satchel and drank from the water skins packed for the soldiers. Each night, as the camp settled into sleep, he found a quiet corner near the supply wagons, wrapping himself in spare blankets to fend off the cold.
His disappearance had gone unnoticed back in Winterfell, thanks to Robb, who covered for him by telling anyone who asked that Leman was sulking in his room, frustrated by their father's refusal to let him join the march. Robb had kept his promise, though he feared for the moment their mother might press too hard on Leman's whereabouts. Still, the deception worked—for a while.
By the third day, the distance between the convoy and Winterfell had grown too vast for any riders sent back to quickly return. Leman felt emboldened by the success of his ruse, his confidence swelling as he stayed hidden among the soldiers, waiting for the moment he would prove himself in battle.
That morning, as the convoy moved through a forested path, the men preparing to set up camp before pushing deeper into the mountains, Leman's world came crashing down.
Eddard Stark, ever vigilant, had grown suspicious when one of the supply wagons seemed to be carrying a little less than it should. The rations hadn't depleted as fast as expected, and whispers of movement at night had reached his ears. Knowing his son's stubborn streak, a sinking feeling settled in his gut. It was too much of a coincidence. His sharp gaze swept the camp until he found the supply wagons, and with the precision of a man who knew the land and the people in his charge, he went searching.
When he finally found Leman, hidden between two barrels of salted meat, their eyes met. For a long moment, neither spoke. Leman's heart pounded in his chest. He knew the game was over. The stern look on his father's face made that all too clear.
"Out," Eddard said, his voice quiet but commanding, his rage palpable and leaking through.
Leman, defeated but still proud, crawled out from the wagon and stood before his father. He tried to speak, to explain himself, but the words wouldn't come. His father's silence was worse than any scolding could have been.
"You defied me," Eddard said finally, his voice thick with disappointment. "You deliberately disobeyed my orders. You know the dangers of war, and yet you followed us into it, knowing full well what could happen."
"I—Father, I had to," Leman said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm ready. I've trained, I've—"
"Trained? And what do you know of war?" Eddard's tone sharpened. "You're barely Eight years old, Leman! You think swinging a sword in the yard prepares you for the chaos of battle? The blood, the death? War is not a place for children!"
Leman's face flushed, anger and frustration bubbling up. "I'm not a child! I'm a Stark, just like Robb, just like you! I won't sit idly by in Winterfell while everyone else fights. I'm strong. I'm ready."
Eddard sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't angry, not truly—he was worried. Worried for his son, for his safety, and for the hard lessons that the boy would eventually have to learn, whether he wanted to or not. But Leman's determination, his raw defiance, was hard to ignore. The boy had always been wild at heart, more feral than his brother Robb, but with a mind as sharp as his axes.
"You think this is about strength?" Eddard said softly, kneeling so that he was at eye level with his son. "War isn't about how strong you are. It's about surviving. And sometimes, the strongest men don't come back."
Leman swallowed hard, but his resolve didn't falter. "I'll do whatever it takes. Just let me come. I'll follow your orders. I'll stay out of the fighting if you want me to. Just don't send me back."
Eddard studied his son's face for a long time. He could see the boy's stubborn pride, but also the fierce desire to prove himself. The child wanted to be a man too soon. But Eddard knew the harsh reality of war would do that on its own, sooner than Leman realized.
After a long, heavy silence, Eddard relented with a nod. "You'll stay. But you'll watch, Leman. You'll stay in the back with the supply train, and you will not raise a sword or axe, no matter what happens."
Leman's face lit up with a mix of relief and excitement. "I swear it, Father. I won't interfere."
"You better keep your word Leman, Because if you don't, Even the gods won't save you from me," Eddard warned, his voice stern. "This isn't a game. I'll be watching you."
Leman nodded eagerly, his mind racing with the possibilities ahead. He had been given a chance, even if only to watch, and that was enough. He wouldn't waste it.
As the convoy continued onward, Leman rode quietly among the supply wagons, still filled with anticipation, though tempered now by the weight of his father's words. He couldn't shake the image of battle that filled his mind, of men clashing swords, of victory and glory. But the sobering reality of his father's warning settled like a stone in his chest.
Back in Winterfell, Catelyn Stark had grown increasingly uneasy over the last few days. Leman's absence from the family meals and his failure to appear in the training yard, where he normally spent most of his time, gnawed at her. Robb had been her source of reassurance, explaining that Leman was brooding in his chambers, upset over their father's refusal to let him join the convoy to quell the Greyjoy Rebellion. But as the days dragged on, her motherly instincts whispered that something was terribly wrong.
On the fourth day, her patience snapped.
She stormed through the halls of Winterfell, the cold stone walls echoing with her footsteps. Robb had been avoiding her all morning, and that only fueled her growing sense of dread. When she finally reached Leman's chambers, her heart pounded in her chest as she threw open the door.
The room was empty. Not just of Leman, but of any signs that he had been there recently. His bed was neatly made, the window slightly ajar, and his favorite cloak—the one he always wore—was missing. Catelyn's breath caught in her throat. She turned slowly, scanning the room as panic rose in her chest. Then, her eyes fell on a small folded parchment left on his desk.
Her hands trembled as she snatched it up and read the hastily scrawled words:
Mother, Father—I'm sorry, but I had to go. I'll prove myself, I swear it. Please don't be angry at Robb. This was my choice. Tell Sansa and Arya I'll be back soon, with stories to tell.*
The letter fell from her fingers, drifting to the floor like a weightless thing. But Catelyn felt the world crash around her. A fierce scream of anguish and frustration tore from her lips, startling the nearby servants. She staggered back, her heart hammering in her chest. The fear, the worry, the utter helplessness flooded her mind as she realized her worst nightmare had come true—Leman had gone to war, without permission, and without protection.
Rage followed swiftly on the heels of her despair.
Her hands clenched into fists as she stormed down the corridors in search of Robb. The truth, long concealed, now unraveled in her mind. Robb had known. He had covered for his brother. He had lied to her, his own mother, and allowed Leman to embark on a dangerous journey that no boy his age should have faced.
When she finally found Robb in the great hall, the boy barely had time to react before Catelyn descended on him like a force of nature.
"You knew!" she cried, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and fear. "You knew, and you said nothing!"
Robb, who had been trying to avoid her gaze for days, finally looked up, guilt etched into his features. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but no words came. He had nothing to say that could make this better.
"I-I'm sorry, Mother," he finally stammered, his voice small. "He made me promise. I didn't want him to go, but—"
"But you let him!" she roared, her hands trembling as they balled into fists. "You let your brother—your *little* brother—sneak off to war, and you thought that was the right thing to do? Robb, do you have any idea what could happen to him out there?"
Tears filled her eyes, but they were fueled by fear rather than sorrow. "He's just a boy! He has no place on the battlefield!"
Robb's face flushed, his own eyes glistening with shame. "He's... I... I thought..."
"You thought what?" Catelyn's voice cracked, her anger giving way to despair. "That he'd be safe? That he wouldn't be hurt? That he wouldn't see things no boy should ever see? Gods, Robb, this isn't some game. This is war. Men die. Boys die."
Robb couldn't hold back the tears any longer. They spilled down his cheeks, and he looked down at the floor, unable to meet his mother's furious gaze. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. "I'm so sorry, Mother."
Catelyn stared at him, her heart torn between her love for her children and the crushing fear for their safety. Her hands, which had been shaking with rage, now fell to her sides in defeat.
"Sorry won't bring him back if something happens to him," she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "And if something does, I'll never forgive you, Robb. I'll never forgive myself."
For a long, agonizing moment, there was silence between them, the weight of the situation settling heavily on both their shoulders. Then, with a sigh that seemed to drain the last of her strength, Catelyn straightened, her eyes hardening once more.
"You're confined to your chambers," she said, her voice cold. "For a week, at least. You'll not leave them until I say so. And if I hear one whisper that you've disobeyed me again, I'll make sure it's longer."
Robb nodded miserably, wiping at his eyes as he turned and walked toward the stairs, his feet heavy with guilt.
Catelyn watched him go, her heart aching. She wanted to pull him into her arms and tell him it would be all right, but she couldn't. Not now. Not when the fear for Leman had consumed her so completely.
~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~
Ravens had been exchanged, carrying the grim news of war and rebellion that swept through the North like a chill wind. Eddard Stark had done his best to console Catelyn through his letters, each word a careful attempt to assuage her fears and soothe her anger. He promised her, again and again, that he would keep Leman safe and far from the fighting.
Catelyn's replies had been fraught with emotion—her frustration boiling over as she detailed her worries for their youngest son. "When he returns, I will see to it that he understands the gravity of his actions," she had vowed, her words filled with the fierce protectiveness of a mother's heart. Eddard could feel her anxiety weighing heavily on him, even from afar.
The journey to Seagard took several weeks, the convoy traveling through the rugged terrain of the North. The roads were rough, winding through forests where the trees loomed like ancient sentinels, and across hills that rolled like waves frozen in time. Each night, they set up camp under the vast, star-studded sky, and every morning, Eddard would rise early, ensuring Leman was close by as they prepared to move on.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Leman remained upbeat and full of energy, eager to learn and absorb everything around him. Eddard was impressed by his son's enthusiasm, though a thread of concern tugged at his heart. Leman was still so young, and while his spirit burned bright, the world was far more dangerous than he realized.
As they approached Moat Cailin, the ancient fortress guarding the northern reaches of the Riverlands, Eddard knew they would need to procure leather armor for Leman. He wanted his son to be equipped with something that would provide at least a semblance of protection, even if Leman was only there to observe.
When they arrived at Moat Cailin, the fortress stood stoic and imposing, its walls weathered yet strong, a testament to the resilience of the North. Eddard greeted Lord Manderly, who was preparing supplies for the journey south. "We'll need leather armor for my boy," Eddard said, motioning to Leman, who stood nearby, wide-eyed and taking in every detail.
Lord Manderly clapped Eddard on the shoulder, his voice booming. "Aye, Ned! A boy needs armor if he's going to be amidst such fierce men. Come, let us see what we have."
The armory was filled with the scent of tanned leather and oil, and Leman's eyes sparkled as he explored the racks of armor. He ran his fingers over the supple hides, imagining himself on the battlefield, sword raised and heart pounding.
Eventually, Lord Manderly produced a set of leather armor tailored for Leman's size, the dark leather reinforced with metal studs that gleamed under the torchlight. "This should do nicely for a young lad looking to make a name for himself," Lord Manderly said with a grin.
Eddard Stark felt more worry than pride as he watched Leman don the armor. The leather was supple and well-crafted, hugging his son's small frame and offering a semblance of protection. But beneath the armor, Eddard sensed a naiveté in Leman, a reckless eagerness that made his heart ache.
Lord Manderly, attempting to lighten the mood, chuckled heartily as he slapped Eddard on the back. "By the old gods, Ned, your boy is looking exactly like a young you! A fine warrior in the making!"
Eddard managed a faint smile, but it did little to ease the knot of anxiety in his stomach. "He looks like a boy playing dress-up, not a soldier ready for battle," he said, his tone more serious than Manderly's jests.
"Ah, let him have his moment, Ned. He's full of fire! No point fretting over spilt milk." Manderly replied, his jovial tone fading slightly.
Eddard ruffled his son's hair, though a part of him remained uneasy. As they resumed their journey southward, the reality of their mission loomed large in Eddard's mind. He knew they were heading into a brewing storm, with Valon Greyjoy's rebellion stirring unrest among the Ironborn. While he wanted Leman to experience the world beyond Winterfell, he also wished to shield him from its darker truths, at least for a few more years.
Finally, they reached Seagard, the coastal stronghold where the lords of the North had gathered to strategize and plan their response to the rebellion. The salty breeze filled the air, a stark contrast to the crisp northern winds that had followed them. Eddard could see the hustle and bustle of preparations taking place—soldiers training, ships being readied, and plans being drawn up on parchment.
As they settled into their quarters, Eddard turned to Leman, whose enthusiasm had not dimmed despite the seriousness surrounding them. "You will stay close to me, Leman," Eddard instructed firmly. "There will be no fighting for you—not until you are older and more prepared for the realities of this world."
Leman nodded, though he could barely contain his excitement. "I understand, Father. I just want to learn!"
~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~
It had taken several days of sailing before the northern army, led by Eddard Stark, finally reached the Iron Islands. The sea was rough and unkind, but the soldiers of the North, hardened by their cold homeland, took it in stride. Their destination was the heart of Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, a rebellion that had dared to challenge the might of the Seven Kingdoms.
As the northern forces landed and set up camp, they joined the armies of the other kingdoms. The banners of the Reach, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands flapped in the wind alongside the Direwolf of Winterfell. But it was the mighty stag of House Baratheon that commanded the most attention. King Robert Baratheon himself had come to lead the fight, and though rumors abounded of his drunkenness and indulgence, none could question the strength of the army he led.
Eddard had prepared Leman for this moment, stressing the importance of staying close, watching, and learning. And yet, the reality of war loomed ever closer as they settled into camp, the boy taking in the sight of thousands of soldiers, the clash of metal as they trained, and the weight of the conflict they were about to face.
One afternoon, as the northern lords gathered in Robert's war tent, Eddard brought Leman along to meet the King. It was a scene of controlled chaos inside the tent—knights and commanders debating strategy over a large table strewn with maps. But Robert Baratheon sat at the head of it all, a flagon of wine in hand and a broad smile across his bearded face.
"Ned!" Robert bellowed as he caught sight of his old friend. The tent seemed to vibrate with the sheer volume of his voice. "Gods, it's good to see you here at my side again. Just like old times, eh?"
Eddard gave a small smile, his usual reserved demeanor intact. "Old times, indeed."
Robert's gaze shifted to the boy standing beside Ned, and he squinted, setting his drink down for a moment. "And who's this young wolf?"
"This is my son, Leman," Eddard said, resting a hand on Leman's shoulder. "He's here to learn, not to fight."
Robert leaned forward, studying the boy with the intensity of a man who had seen too many wars and too many dead men. After a pause, his face broke into a wide grin. "Leman, is it? A proper man already, even before you've grown into your armor." He gave a hearty laugh. "Takes after his father, that's for sure!"
Leman stood tall, his heart pounding with pride. Being praised by the King was no small thing, and though he could feel his father's hand tighten on his shoulder, a subtle reminder to stay humble, Leman couldn't help but smile.
"You've got courage, boy," Robert continued, now standing to his full height, towering over both Leman and Eddard. "More than most lads your age. Hell, more than most men! The North breeds them strong. Gods, if only my own son had half the spirit you do."
The King's expression shifted as he mentioned his son, his mood souring for a moment. He slammed his flagon on the table. "Joffrey. The boy's a prince, but he acts like a spoilt child, always prancing about, more concerned with his golden curls than learning how to swing a sword. If he had half your steel, lad, I could die a happy man." He groaned, then quickly waved the thought away. "Not that I'm planning on dying anytime soon. Plenty more battles left in me yet."
The other lords chuckled at Robert's bravado, but Leman could sense the weight of the King's words. Robert Baratheon was a man forged in fire and blood, and his disappointment in his own son was palpable, even in jest. The King's praise left Leman feeling both proud and anxious—proud to be recognized, but uneasy about what it meant to be compared to a prince.
Eddard, who had stood quietly during Robert's rambling, gave his friend a nod. "Leman is still young, Robert. There's time yet for him to grow into a proper man."
"Aye," Robert said, his mood shifting back to mirth as he clapped Leman on the back, nearly knocking the boy over with the force. "But he's got the heart of a wolf already. Keep your boy close, Ned. There's greatness in him. I can see it."
As the gathering broke up, Eddard led Leman out of the tent and into the cold evening air. The sound of the army's preparations for war surrounded them, and though Eddard's face remained stern, Leman could tell his father was deep in thought.
"Father?" Leman ventured. "King Robert thinks I'm ready. He said I'm strong enough to be a warrior."
Eddard paused, then looked down at his son with a serious gaze. "Robert is a man of war, Leman. He values strength and bravery above all. But there is more to being a Stark than swinging a sword or winning the praise of a king."
"I know that," Leman replied, his earlier excitement dimming. "But I want to prove myself. I want to be like you."
Eddard knelt down, bringing himself to Leman's level. "You will prove yourself, but not by rushing into battle. There are many ways to show strength, and some of them involve knowing when to stand back. You'll have your time, Leman, but this war is not yours to fight. Not yet."
Leman nodded, though his heart still ached for the thrill of battle that seemed to call to him from every corner of the camp. He wanted to be a part of it, to show his father and the world what he was capable of. But for now, he would have to wait, watch, and learn.
As they returned to their quarters, Leman couldn't help but glance back toward the King's tent, where Robert's laughter still echoed in the distance.
~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~
The battles had gone well. The king had sent Eddard and Ser Barristan to deal with Lord Drumm in Old Wyk while he himself went to the Pyke to deal with the Greyjoys.
The salty air of the Iron Islands was thick with tension and the scent of impending violence as the loyalist forces readied themselves for battle on Old Wyk. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a harsh light over the rugged landscape, revealing the rocky outcrops and the churn of waves crashing against the jagged shore. Leman stood atop a rack of supplies, his heart pounding in his chest as he surveyed the battlefield below.
The clamor of metal clashing against metal filled the air, mingling with the shouts of men as they prepared for the fight. Eddard Stark had positioned his men strategically, forming a shield wall that was a testament to the discipline of the North. The loyalists, a mix of men from the North and the Riverlands, held their ground, a line of resolute faces steeling themselves against the incoming tide of Ironborn fury.
Across the field, Leman could see the Ironborn, wild and fierce, charging toward them like a storm. They were a relentless tide, their battle cries rising above the din, filled with the ferocity of men who believed their right to raid and pillage was etched in the very bones of their ancestors. Clad in leather and chainmail, the Ironborn's faces were painted with the marks of their houses, their weapons glinting ominously in the sun.
Ned stood at the forefront, his voice cutting through the chaos as he rallied his men. "Hold the line! Do not falter!" he commanded, his voice steady and resolute. Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy, the renowned knight with a reputation as fierce as his blade, wielded his sword with grace and precision, directing the defense with a calm authority that inspired confidence in the hearts of the men around him.
As the Ironborn reached the shield wall, the clash was violent. Men collided, bodies crashing together as swords met shields with a resounding thud. Leman felt the adrenaline surge through him, every instinct in his body screaming for him to leap into the fray, to fight alongside his father and the valiant men of the North. But he remained rooted to the spot, eyes wide, watching the brutal reality of war unfold before him.
The Ironborn struck hard, using their sheer numbers to push against the shield wall, trying to break through. Leman could see a massive figure at the front, a burly warrior whose axe swung with lethal intent, cleaving through loyalist ranks. The man's war cry echoed, chilling Leman to the bone as he watched a loyalist soldier fall, blood spraying like a dark flower blooming in the dirt.
"Stand firm!" Ned shouted, his voice carrying over the din of battle as he swung his own sword, a gleaming ice-blue blade that seemed to hum with power. He cut through an Ironborn, his movements fluid and practiced. Leman could see the determination etched on his father's face, the weight of leadership resting heavily on his shoulders.
Ser Barristan moved with the precision of a master swordsman, dispatching enemies with swift, practiced strikes. His blade danced in the sunlight, a blur of steel as he parried an attack from an Ironborn and countered with a precise thrust that sent the man sprawling to the ground. "Push them back!" he roared, his voice commanding respect as he fought with the valor that had earned him a place among the legends of knighthood.
The tide of battle surged and ebbed like the waves of the sea, but the Ironborn fought with reckless abandon. Leman felt his heart race as he watched a loyalist soldier stagger backward, his shield shattered, blood pouring from a deep wound in his side. The young boy could hardly comprehend the brutality of it all, the raw savagery displayed by both sides. Each clash of swords was accompanied by screams—of pain, of rage, of fear. It was a cacophony of life and death.
Suddenly, the ground shook as a group of Ironborn broke through the lines, their ferocity momentarily overwhelming the loyalist defenders. Leman's breath caught in his throat as he saw his father caught in the melee, battling fiercely to keep the shield wall intact. The boy's eyes widened in horror as he watched one of the Ironborn warriors swing his axe toward Ned, but in a blur of motion, Barristan intervened, deflecting the blow and driving his sword deep into the assailant's chest.
But Leman's heart raced with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. He wanted to scream for his father, to rush down and fight, but he felt frozen in place, watching helplessly as the battle raged on. He could see the toll it was taking on the men fighting for their lives—the sweat pouring down their faces, the grim determination etched into every line of their bodies. And his blood was singing, nay Screaming at him to rush in, to wet his blade in blood, to claim his pound of flesh from the enemy. But his father's orders were absolute. So he stood his ground and watched from afar.
The Ironborn pressed on, their numbers seeming endless as they surged forward. Leman could see the desperate struggle of his father and Ser Barristan, who fought back-to-back, their swords a flurry of strikes against the tide of iron and fury. The clash of weapons rang in his ears, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch as he watched the chaos unfold.
Then, a deafening roar echoed through the battlefield. Leman's heart dropped as he turned to see a massive Ironborn warrior, a mountain of a man, charging toward his father. With a terrifying battle cry, he swung a broad sword, aiming for Ned's unprotected side. The boy's instincts kicked in, and without thinking, he leapt off the rack, determined to warn his father, even though he knew he was too far away to make it there on time. But before he could take a step, a figure burst forth from the chaos—Ser Barristan, like a guardian angel, intercepting the strike with a speed that seemed to defy belief.
The knight sidestepped the massive swing, pivoting on his heel, and drove his sword into the warrior's gut, thrusting upward with all his strength. The Ironborn collapsed, lifeless, as Barristan pulled his blade free with a grim expression, and in that instant, Leman felt a surge of relief.
"Stay where you are! Hold the Line!" Ser Barristan yelled, his voice firm as he caught sight of a few men faltering, eyes blazing with intensity. The knight turned back to the fight, and Leman hesitated, torn between the urge to help and the order to remain safe.
As the battle wore on, the loyalists began to push back, using the fervor of their numbers and the determination of their cause to regain lost ground. Leman watched as his father, covered in sweat and grime, led the charge, rallying his men with fervent cries of bravery and honor. The sight of his father fighting with such resolve stirred something deep within Leman—a burning desire to prove himself, to be a part of this world of warriors. And soon, the Gods answered.
There was a cry to his left, he turned and saw, almost a hundred Ironborn, being led by none other than Lord Drumm, attacking the supply token guard force left to defend the camp was doing all they could, but Leman could see the fear in their eyes as they struggled against the relentless tide of enemies. They were outnumbered, and their cries for help echoed across the field, but Leman knew his father and the loyalist forces were still a mile and a half away, too far to make a difference in time.
The cacophony of battle swirled around Leman as he surveyed the chaotic scene before him. His heart thundered in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins like wildfire. With a determined glint in his eye, he seized his twin axes, fastening his sword at his belt, readying himself for the fight that lay ahead. As he took his first step toward the fray, the battlefield seemed to fade away, focusing solely on the dire situation that awaited him.
"This is it," Leman thought, his blood singing with the thrill of battle. He had to help; he had to fight. With a deep breath, he surged forward, leaping from the rack of supplies, his boots thudding against the ground as he sprinted toward the chaos.
As he approached the fray, he could see Lord Drumm at the forefront, a towering figure with long, wild hair and a face that was a mask of fury and disdain. He wielded a Red sword, its blade glinting ominously in the sunlight. The Ironborn rallied around him, their savage shouts mingling with the clamor of steel. Leman's heart raced. This was the moment he had longed for, and he could not let it slip away.
Leman dashed into the fray, axes gripped tightly in his hands, his senses heightened. He ducked beneath the sweeping arcs of swords and axes, his movements fluid and instinctual. The chaos of battle surrounded him, but within it, he felt an unusual calm. With a fierce battle cry, he swung one of his axes at an advancing Ironborn, the blade biting deep into the man's shoulder. His other axe separating his head from his neck cleanly. He yanked his axe free with a grunt, using the momentum to pivot and strike another foe. The battle raged. He fell one more, then another and then another.
But as he fought, a powerful blow landed against his side, causing him to stagger back. A hulking Ironborn had managed to slip past the guards, delivering a brutal strike with a mace that sent pain radiating through Leman's body. He retaliated with his other axe, but in the fray, he lost his grip, the weapon flying from his hand and clattering against the ground far from reach. Quickly unsheathing his sword, Leman's heart raced as he locked eyes with Lord Drumm, the towering Ironborn lord who now focused his attention on him. Drumm's long hair whipped in the wind, and his face was a mask of scorn as he surveyed the battlefield, reveling in the chaos. He was a giant of a man, with arms thick as tree trunks and a Red blade that seemed to hum with menace. Leman, in contrast, felt small yet fierce, his resolve unwavering as he prepared to face the formidable foe.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat and blood, the sounds of battle crashing around them. Leman felt the weight of his father's expectations and the sharp sting of the recent pain from the blow he had received. As Drumm charged forward, a wicked grin spreading across his face, Leman instinctively fell into a defensive stance, gripping his sword tightly in one hand and his remaining axe in the other.
"Is this the best the North can muster?" Drumm bellowed, his voice booming across the field, filled with derision. "A boy playing soldier?"
"Not just a boy," Leman replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "I am a Stark, and I will not let you harm my people."
The moment the words left his mouth, Drumm lunged, swinging his massive sword with a speed that belied its size. Leman barely managed to duck under the blow, feeling the rush of wind as the blade sliced past him, narrowly missing his shoulder. The ground shook beneath him as the Ironborn lord's footfalls echoed in the chaos. "The Drowned God favors me today! I get to end one of the sons of the Northern Wretch Eddard!" Drumm loudly shouts
Leman countered silently, aiming his axe at Drumm's knee, hoping to bring the giant down to size. The blade connected with a solid thud, but Drumm barely faltered, his thick armor absorbing much of the blow. With a snarl, he pivoted, swinging his sword in a wide arc aimed at Leman's midsection.
The young Stark had no choice but to leap back, narrowly avoiding the deadly sweep. His heart raced, and sweat beaded on his brow. The sheer ferocity of the Ironborn lord was overwhelming, but Leman refused to back down. He was a Stark, and he had something to prove.
With newfound determination, Leman seized the moment. He charged again, closing the distance between them, swinging his axe at Drumm's side with all his might. This time, the blade connected, biting into the leather armor and drawing blood. Drumm grunted, surprise flashing across his face.
"Not bad, boy," he growled, a flicker of respect hidden beneath the rage. "But you'll have to do better than that!"
As the Ironborn lord retaliated, Leman ducked and dodged, using every ounce of agility he could muster. He could feel the ground vibrating underfoot with each of Drumm's powerful movements. Leman's breath came in sharp bursts, and he struggled to find a rhythm against such a relentless opponent. The world narrowed to the space between them, the chaos of the battle fading into a distant murmur.
Suddenly, Drumm lunged forward again, his sword raised high, seeking to cleave Leman in two. Time slowed as Leman's instincts kicked in; he dropped to one knee, the sword slicing over his head with a whistling sound. With the giant now off-balance, Leman seized the opportunity. He swung his axe upward, aiming for Drumm's wrist.
The axe struck true, severing the lord's hand in a spray of blood. Drumm howled in agony, stumbling back and clutching the bloody stump. But Leman didn't let up; he charged, sword drawn, determination igniting within him. He would not let this opportunity slip away.
The Ironborn lord, now enraged, retaliated with desperate fury. With one hand, he swung wildly, the remaining sword still a formidable weapon despite his injury. Leman danced back, evading the strikes with a speed that felt almost unnatural, the primal power surging through him igniting a fierce focus.
In the heat of the moment, Leman found himself being pressed towards the wooden crates of the supply convoy, his back against the rough timber. Panic surged for a brief moment, but the boy within him was quickly quelled. Drawing deep on that newfound strength, Leman leaped to the side, narrowly avoiding a downward slash aimed at his head.
"You think you can challenge me, whelp?" Lord Drumm mocked, his voice dripping with disdain. "You're just a boy playing soldier."
But Leman felt a fire igniting within him, fueled by the need to protect those around him. "You will pay for your arrogance, Drumm!" he yelled as he partied another strike, being pushed back all the same.
Leman felt a surge of panic—his back pressed against the wooden crates of the supply convoy, enemies closing in on all sides. But in that moment, something deep within him awoke, a primal instinct fueled by desperation. His breathing steadied, and clarity surged through his mind. He could sense the rhythm of battle, the ebb and flow, the openings amid the chaos, Drumm's movements seemed to slow down and he could read the path of the blade.
He felt the air shift as Drumm's sword sliced through the space where he had just stood. Using the momentum from his dodge, Leman spun around, bringing his sword down in a vicious arc aimed at Drumm's neck. The blade connected, but it was a struggle to penetrate the tough skin and armor of the towering lord. Drumm growled, anger burning in his eyes, and in a final surge of adrenaline, Leman swung with everything he had left.
The blade dug deeper this time, slicing through flesh and muscle with a final, sickening thud. Drumm's head fell to the side, lifeless eyes staring into the void, disbelief etched on his features. Leman stood panting over the fallen lord, the weight of what he had just done crashing over him in a wave.
But there was no time to waste, there was still a battle to be fought. He looks at his own sword chipped and broken, no longer fit for battle. He picked up the Red sword that Drumm had been using. Covered in blood he rushed back into the fray, his axe in one hand, the Red sword in another. The loyalist guards cheered as they noticed Drumm's corpse and began to fight back with renewed vigor.
With Drumm's body lying in the dirt, Leman felt a surge of adrenaline pumping through his veins. The battlefield was alive with chaos—the clash of metal, the cries of men, and the acrid scent of blood mingling with the salty sea air. He wiped the sweat from his brow, taking a moment to steady himself. The axe felt familiar in his grip, but it was the weight of Drumm's sword that now felt empowering, the red steel gleaming ominously in the dull light.
Rushing back into the fray, Leman's heart thudded against his ribcage like a war drum. He moved through the throng of loyalists and Ironborn with newfound ferocity, the sight of Drumm's lifeless form rallying his comrades. The men cheered as they caught sight of the boy wielding the fallen lord's weapon, and that cheer turned into a roar of defiance that echoed across the battlefield.
"Forward! For the North!" Leman shouted, his voice carrying over the din. The loyalists responded with fervor, pushing back against the oncoming tide of Ironborn. The sight of their fallen lord, vanquished by a boy, invigorated them. They fought harder, defending their homeland with a determination that matched the stormy skies above.
Leman found himself amidst the chaos, swinging the heavy sword with all his might. He parried a blow from an Ironborn with his axe, then countered with the sword, striking down another enemy soldier. But it was then that something shifted within him; a familiar warmth spread through his core, and the chaos around him began to unfold at a different pace.
Suddenly, the world slowed. The strikes of the Ironborn no longer felt frantic; he could see each swing of their weapons coming, the arcs they traced through the air like lines on a canvas. The glimmer of steel, the stench of sweat, and the furious shouts of men all blended into a symphony that Leman could now navigate with ease.
A hulking Ironborn charged him, a wild look in his eyes. Leman ducked under a wide swing of the man's axe, feeling the rush of air as it passed overhead. He retaliated quickly, his new sword cutting across the man's midsection, drawing a deep crimson line that sent him to the ground with a thud.
"Keep pushing!" he shouted to the loyalists, his own voice mingling with the battle cries. "They're breaking!"
As they advanced, Leman began to notice the Ironborn's formation splintering, their previously disciplined ranks dissolving into chaos. He caught sight of his father, Ned Stark, a towering figure leading a charge alongside Ser Barristan. The sight of his father fighting with honor stirred something deep within Leman—a pride that resonated in his core. He was not just a boy; he was a Stark, and this was his home.
But then, amidst the fight, a sudden scream pierced the air—a cry of pain that cut through the tumult. Leman turned to see one of the loyalist guards fall to a group of Ironborn, overwhelmed by their numbers. The boy's heart raced as he rushed toward the skirmish, ready to help.
With a swift motion, Leman swung his axe into the fray, felling one Ironborn and then another with the grace of a dancer amidst the storm. The red sword felt almost alive in his hands, singing through the air as he danced between attackers, dodging thrusts and returning them with deadly precision.
Just as he thought the tide was turning completely in their favor, Leman felt a sudden jolt of pain as an Ironborn managed to catch him with a glancing blow, his sword scraping across Leman's side. He stumbled but quickly regained his footing, the brief moment of pain igniting a fire within him.
With a fierce roar, Leman surged forward again, charging into the fray with renewed vigor. The world around him faded; all that existed were the sounds of battle, the clashing of metal, and the need to protect his own. He felt like a tempest, a force of nature, channeling the raw power that surged through his veins.
Every strike felt deliberate, every movement purposeful. Leman fought through the haze of battle, using the two weapons with fierce expertise. He parried a sword strike aimed at his neck and retaliated with a swift upward swing, catching the Ironborn off guard. The blade sliced through flesh with a satisfying ease, and the enemy fell, his body joining the growing pile of the slain.
With the loyalists rallying behind him, Leman led a final charge toward the remaining Ironborn, who were now panicking under the onslaught. The sight of their comrades falling around them, one after the other, shattered whatever resolve they had left.
"Forward!" Leman shouted, his voice fierce and commanding. "Show them the strength of the North!"
As they pushed onward, Leman's heart swelled with pride. He had risen to the challenge, fought alongside men who had once seemed so much older and more experienced. He was not merely a boy anymore; he was a warrior in his own right, carving his place into the legacy of House Stark.
With one final swing of Drumm's bloodied sword, he felled another Ironborn, and with that, the last remnants of resistance shattered. And it was at this moment that the loyalist forces led by his father arrived.
As Eddard Stark galloped into the clearing, panic gripped his heart. He had rushed there with a sense of dread, fearing the worst for his son. The sight that met his eyes was both alarming and awe-inspiring. There stood Leman, covered in a sheen of blood—his own and that of his enemies—axe in one hand and Drumm's sword, the famed "Red Rain" still clutched in the other. The Ironborn, once ferocious and relentless, were now fleeing the scene, their morale shattered.
"Leman!" Eddard called out, urgency threading through his voice as he leaped from his horse, striding toward his son. He reached Leman just as the last of the Ironborn retreated, a tidal wave of relief washing over him. Without hesitation, he enveloped Leman in a tight embrace, pulling him close.
"You're safe," he murmured, voice low with emotion. "Thank the gods you're safe."
Leman felt the strength of his father's arms around him, grounding him amid the chaos. But even in this moment of relief, he could feel Eddard's conflicting emotions—the pride battling with the anxiety of what had just transpired. "Father, I—" Leman began, but Eddard held him tighter, as if afraid to let go.
"Do not speak," Eddard said, pulling back slightly to look Leman in the eye. "You fought bravely today, son. But you should not have been here. This is not a place for boys."
"I couldn't just stand back," Leman insisted, his heart racing with adrenaline. "They were attacking the convoy. I had to help."
"I know," Eddard admitted, his expression softening. "And in doing so, you saved lives. I am grateful for that. I am proud of you son! Beyond proud!" He gestured to the loyalist guards gathering around them, awe etched on their faces as they whispered among themselves. "But I don't want to lose you, Leman."
At that moment, Ser Barristan Selmy arrived, his steely demeanor momentarily giving way to admiration as he took in the sight of the young Stark. "You fought valiantly, young Leman," he said, his voice booming with respect. "Not many could stand against Lord Drumm and survive. Your courage will be remembered."
Leman's cheeks flushed at the praise, but he felt the weight of his actions settling heavily on his shoulders. "I had to protect them," he replied, glancing toward the guards who had defended the convoy. They were now gathering around, their faces a mix of exhaustion and gratitude.
One of the guards, his armor dented and bloodied, leaning on his spear, stepped forward, his voice hoarse but filled with reverence. "It was Lord Leman who defeated Lord Drumm, my lord," he said, nodding toward the fallen body. "He struck him down with his own sword, and then he fought off more than a dozen Ironborn single-handedly."
Gasps of disbelief rippled through the onlookers, and Eddard looked back at Leman, astonishment mixing with pride. "Is this true?" he asked, a hint of disbelief in his tone.
Leman nodded, feeling the rush of battle still coursing through his veins. "They attacked the supply lines, and I couldn't let them overrun us," he explained. "I took Drumm by surprise. He… he was big, but I could see the way he moved. I had to do something."
"And you did it well," Eddard affirmed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "You fought like a true Stark today."
Leman's heart swelled with pride, yet he felt the gravity of the situation settling in. The realization of what he had done—killing a man, fighting in a real battle—washed over him, and he looked down at the bloodied sword in his hands. The weight of the weapon felt heavier now, and he could feel his blood singing. This is what he was born for. This was his calling.
As the loyalist forces began to rally around Eddard, Leman felt a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation. The chaotic energy of battle still coursed through him, but the adrenaline that had fueled his movements was now giving way to overpowering tiredness. He could feel the weight of his weapons, strong he may be, he was still barely Eight namedays old.
Then, breaking through the haze of his thoughts, a cheer began. It was slow at first, a tentative murmur rising from the ranks of the loyalist guards who had witnessed the skirmish. But it quickly gathered momentum, growing louder and more fervent, echoing across the battlefield like a battle cry.
"LEMAN! LEMAN! LEMAN!"
The chant spread like wildfire, and Leman's heart swelled with a mix of pride and disbelief. Faces once drawn with tension now shone with admiration and respect. Soldiers raised their weapons in salute, while others thumped their chests, their cheers ringing out across the field. Eddard stood at his side, his stern countenance cracking into a smile, his blue eyes sparkling with a combination of pride and astonishment.
"Look at what you've done, my son," Eddard said, his voice filled with a mix of awe and fatherly pride. "You have earned their respect today."
Leman could hardly comprehend the magnitude of the moment. He felt overwhelmed by the attention and the roar of his name; it was beyond exhilarating.
"LEMAN! LEMAN! LEMAN!" the men continued to chant, their voices rising higher as they began to clap him on the back and shoulder, their camaraderie palpable. Each thump felt like a hammer driving the weight of his actions deeper into his chest, and he could not help but feel a part of him wanting to retreat from it all.
But instead of fading into the background, something stirred within him. He thought of his brothers, of Robb and Jon, and the endless training they had undergone. He thought of the stories of the Starks—of valor and honor, of fighting for those who could not fight for themselves. A surge of determination coursed through him. He could be a Stark, just as much as any of them, and today he had fought for their legacy.
"Thank you," he called out, his voice rising above the cheers, and the throng quieted for a moment to hear him speak. "We fought together today! It was not just my strength, but ours together! We will fight again, and we will win!"
His words ignited a new fervor among the men, their cheers rising again in volume, the sense of unity and purpose enveloping him. They were warriors bound together by honor, and Leman felt a warmth spread through him as he embraced this newfound identity. He was one of them.
Just then, Ser Barristan stepped forward, his presence commanding attention. "Well spoken, young Stark," he said, his voice steady and proud. "You have shown courage that many older men lack. Today you have not only defended this convoy but have also inspired them all to stand tall in the face of adversity. Look at the faces of these men you have saved today. You have done your father and your family proud."
The men erupted into another round of cheers, and Leman felt his heart swell with pride, even as he remained aware of the grim realities of war. He was still just a boy, thrust into a world where the stakes were high and the cost of failure could be immense.
As the din began to settle, Eddard turned to Leman, the warmth of his embrace still fresh in his mind. "Remember this moment, Leman," he said earnestly, his expression serious but filled with pride. "Remember what got you here. Honor it by continuing to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves."
The remainder of the war unfolded swiftly, its momentum built on the back of the decisive actions at Old Wyk. The Ironborn, despite their fierce reputation, found themselves outmatched by the disciplined ranks of the loyalists, united under the banners of House Stark and King Robert Baratheon. As the loyalist forces swept through the Iron Islands, Leman's initial taste of battle became a distant memory, overshadowed by the growing distance between himself and the brutalities of war.
After Old Wyk, there were a few skirmishes, but none bore the ferocity of that first encounter. Eddard Stark, ever the strategist, prioritized the safety of his men and sought to minimize unnecessary bloodshed. His leadership was calm and deliberate, guiding the loyalist forces as they dismantled the Ironborn's defenses with methodical precision. Leman accompanied his father and Ser Barristan on various maneuvers, always keeping close to the heart of the action, yet the thrill of battle remained just out of reach.
The few battles that did occur were swift and brutal, characterized by the clash of steel and the shouts of men that echoed across the cold, windswept islands. Leman observed with a mixture of excitement and frustration, longing to be in the fray once more, but steadfast in his promise to his father. He trained with the guards and practiced his techniques, honing his skills in the evenings under the fading light. He would practice the fluid movements of his axes, the red edge of his new sword glinting in the dying sun, his heart still racing from the memory of his earlier triumph.
But as the days turned into weeks, the reality of their campaign settled in. With each passing day, the Ironborn's resistance crumbled further, their once-feared defiance replaced by despair. The loyalist forces pushed forward, their resolve unwavering, and soon it became clear that the conflict was nearing its conclusion.
Leman stood among the ranks, eyes trained on his father as he conferred with King Robert and Ser Barristan. The mood was tense, yet a sense of relief hung in the air as they discussed the terms of surrender and the future of the Iron Islands. Leman could see the weariness etched into the faces of the soldiers, the toll of war weighing heavily upon them. Each man carried the ghosts of those lost to battle, memories that lingered like shadows.
When the time came for a final parley, Eddard and Robert rode out to meet the remaining Ironborn leaders. They laid down the terms of surrender, a combination of mercy and justice meant to stabilize the islands and ensure that peace would reign once more. Leman watched from a distance, the sun casting long shadows across the battlefield, a feeling of bittersweet anticipation filling his chest. He knew that the fighting was nearly over, and with it, his chance for further glory.
As the Ironborn leaders accepted the terms, a sigh of relief swept through the loyalist ranks. Cheers erupted, echoing off the rocky shores, yet Leman felt a pang of disappointment. He longed for the thrill of battle, the camaraderie forged in the heat of conflict, and the sense of purpose that came with defending those who could not defend themselves. But he understood that this was not the end; it was merely a new beginning.
With the war officially concluded, the loyalist forces prepared to return home. Eddard gathered his men, and the atmosphere shifted from that of a battlefield to one of hope and restoration. Leman felt a sense of pride swell within him, but also a tinge of regret for the battles he had missed.
The journey back to Winterfell was filled with laughter and relief, the men sharing tales of their exploits and the bonds formed in the heat of conflict. Leman rode alongside his father, who frequently glanced at him with an expression that oscillated between pride and concern.
"Your actions at Old Wyk will be spoken of for years to come, my son," Eddard remarked, his voice low yet full of warmth. "You showed courage beyond your years."
"Thank you, father. But I am sorry for not keeping my word to you." Leman admitted, the truth escaping him before he could think twice. "I wanted to protect our people. And I got too hotheaded."
After weeks of travel, the towering walls of Winterfell finally loomed into view, their ancient stones a comforting reminder of home. Leman felt a mix of excitement and trepidation as they rode through the gates, the familiar sights and sounds washing over him like a wave. He was eager to reunite with his mother, Robb, Sansa, Arya, and even Jon, to share stories and laughter as they returned to their lives in the North.
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Meanwhile at Winterfell,
The weight of responsibility bore heavily on Robb Stark's shoulders. With his father, Eddard Stark, away at war, and his brother sneaking away to the same, Robb had seized the opportunity to protect their ancestral home from an insidious threat that had lurked in the shadows for far too long. He and Leman had recognized the presence of spies among them long ago, well Leman had noticed first and alerted him to it and since then he couldn't help but notice all the signs—honorless traitors posing as loyal servants, men who feigned trust while plotting in the dark.
Robb had meticulously planned for months, carefully observing the behaviors of those around him. Whispers in the hallways, furtive glances exchanged between familiar faces, and secretive meetings in the dead of night had all pointed to a web of betrayal woven throughout Winterfell. Determined to cleanse his home of these treacherous elements, Robb summoned Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, and a trusted group of loyal guards.
"Ser Rodrik," Robb said, his voice steady but intense, "we have a task before us that requires both subtlety and resolve. I need you to identify and capture the spies among us. We must act without alerting the others. They must not know we are onto them."
Ser Rodrik nodded, his expression grave. "Understood, my lord. We'll move carefully. I will handpick men who can be trusted to carry out this task without raising suspicion."
For the next five weeks, the operation unfolded like a shadowy dance. Each day, the guards quietly watched the suspected spies, gathering evidence of their treachery. They observed meetings and recorded conversations, piecing together the connections that tied these honorless men to a larger plot against House Stark.
The plan was executed with surgical precision. A few spies were apprehended under the guise of simple investigations—discrepancies in their accounts of their duties or suspicious behaviors during patrols. They were swiftly removed from Winterfell and sent to a secluded ruin not far from the castle, where they could be imprisoned without anyone suspecting the true reason for their disappearance.
As the weeks went by, the tension in Winterfell began to ease. Robb could feel the change in the air; the once palpable sense of distrust slowly dissipated. However, he remained vigilant, knowing that the true work was still ahead.
On a crisp morning, five weeks after the operation began, Robb decided it was time to finalize the task. He had received word from Ser Rodrik that they had successfully captured thirty-two spies, a number that shocked him but also filled him with a grim sense of satisfaction. Each traitor was a threat to their family, and now they were confined in a forgotten ruin, stripped of their power to do harm.
Robb mounted his horse, a sturdy chestnut stallion named Dancer. The wind whipped through his hair as he trotted out of Winterfell's gates, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and resolve. He rode toward the old ruin, a crumbling structure hidden deep within the woods—a place where the walls whispered of ancient secrets and long-forgotten battles.
The path wound through the trees, and as he rode, Robb thought of the men they had captured. Each of them had betrayed his family, and he felt the weight of that betrayal acutely. Yet, he also felt a sense of pride in what he had accomplished; he had acted decisively, protecting the Stark legacy from those who sought to undermine it.
Upon reaching the ruin, he dismounted and approached the entrance, where Ser Rodrik stood waiting, flanked by a few guards. The atmosphere was tense, charged with the unspoken consequences of their actions.
"Robb," Ser Rodrik greeted him, his voice low. "All thirty-two are secured within. We've taken precautions to ensure no one can escape. They're being held in the lower chambers."
Robb nodded, his expression firm. "Good. They will answer for their treachery. We must ensure that this threat is extinguished completely."
Together, they descended into the dimly lit interior of the ruin, the air thick with the musty scent of damp stone. The guards illuminated the path with torches, their flickering flames casting eerie shadows on the walls.
As they reached the lower chambers, Robb's resolve solidified. Inside, the captured spies were confined to cells, their expressions a mix of confusion, anger, and fear. Some were pacing their small spaces, while others sat sulking, the reality of their capture sinking in.
Robb stepped forward, his voice steady and commanding. "You thought you could betray House Stark and go unpunished. The wolf watches. Now it's time to pay."
A murmur of discontent and fear rippled through the prisoners, but Robb's gaze was unwavering. He would not allow fear or doubt to shake his determination. "You will remain here until I decide your fate. The North remembers, and so will I."
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A/N
Here's another chapter done. it was mostly completed from before and needed a last few bits. The pups do have fangs, as one can see. Leman being Leman is a beast. and now he finally has a decent blade! The Red Rain! The next chapter is coming, quickly too as that one already has a large part already completed, and the one after that too. Unfortunately, I still haven't decided on the update schedule so there's that. As for Robb being so smart, well let's just say being a brother to a primarch reborn has its benefits. He has his own gifts which will be explored later, as I said in the description, this will be slightly AU as Leman rubs off more and more on his family.
Now the dilemma I am stuck with is whether to introduce other primarchs into the story or not. This story is about leman and the effects he will have on the world. Putting in another primarch, while good for conflict will also lessen the impact of Leman being Leman. So I'm leaning towards not introducing other primarchs into the story and maybe making another story later where I throw them in individually, Jagatai as a Dothraki, Dorn in... well Dorne, Lion as a Lannister, Robute as a Tyrell or Riverlander, Fulgrim in Braavos, Angron in Volantis, Vulkan in the summer islands, Sanguinius... well drop him anywhere, he's gonna win anyway. etc tec.
give your thoughts in the reviews.
and Have a great day!