This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
Barrowton
The Old Shipwright
"Father, you must wake up! They're coming!"
Brandon Stark flinched awake at his daughter's urgent voice. He had learned to trust Berena's words like they were divine mandates, and considering her recently discovered powers, they might as well be.
It felt like only minutes ago when he laid down to sleep, yet he forced his exhausted body to climb from the cot and groggily steadied himself with his daughter's help — sleeping in full armor was tiring yet well worth it when the men needed to fight at a moment's notice. At first, the men grumbled, yet when his prudence proved vital to beat back the reavers time and again, they finally relented. Within a few heartbeats, he was awake and quickly roused the rest of the men sleeping in the castle's great hall. Hungry-looking men met his gaze before stoically marching out of the hall; it had been some time since they ate meat — the last horses had been cooked half a moon prior, and rats were too scarce to feed a garrison.
When Barbrey the Widow ran off at the first sign of the Ironborn invasion, chaos reigned in the ancient town. Damon Dustin, the next in line to the Dustin lands, had feuded with Barbrey Ryswell for a long time; the childless widow had tried to marry his widower father to solidify their claim, yet Errold Dustin refused. Why would he marry again when it would threaten his son Damon's inheritance?
Undaunted, the ambitious woman tried to set the young Damon with another Ryswell maiden, a close cousin, yet once more, she had been rebuffed. Brandon glanced at his daughter and the rest of the women helping the men secure their arms and armor; he could not help but chuckle inwardly at his daughter's choice of lover. Who would have thought that the troublemaker who nearly set fire to his shipyard and had his hide tanned by first him, then his father, would grow to be such a dreamer to choose a shipwright's daughter over a noblewoman?
Brandon might be a Stark in name and blood–the son of Artos the Implacable–yet he held no lands and bore no titles. Even Berena's mother was but the daughter of a shipwright, the same one he apprenticed to and eventually inherited his shipyard after marrying Serena.
Damon was the hope of the Barrow Knights. When he declared his intentions to ride south to join the newly declared King Robb in defiance of Barbrey's commands, thousands of volunteers flocked to him, yet he only picked the finest warriors before riding off. At first, they were all happy for him and wished him good fortune, and as the moons went by with word coming of victories and endless loot from the Westerlands, more men sold their plows and valuables to buy arms and horses and rode south to fight for king, glory, and wealth.
But then the Ironborn attacked, and the chaos that followed Barbrey Dustin's departure nearly tore the city apart as the invading army marched to their gates. Countless smallfolk flocked from the hinterlands carrying what little belongings they could grab and bringing word of the Ironborn atrocities upon their homes and those who failed to escape.
Within a single moon, the city's population swelled from twenty thousand to over double that, far more than its food supplies could provide. Despite Barrowton's importance as a refuge for many during winter, it was still more crowded than any time Brandon remembered. Still, hardly a tenth of its residents were fighting men; many of the vaunted Barrow Knights were either with Damon or stuck in their holdfasts and estates, with no commander in Barrowton to rally them for war.
Barrowton needed a leader, and against his wishes, the men of Barrowton nominated him for the daunting and equally thankless position. Brandon might have no lands or titles, yet he was still a Stark born and raised in Winterfell. He was trained by the finest warriors, by his father, who served as a master-at-arms in Winterfell, taught by a maester, and for a few years, was even the heir to Winterfell. Edwyle Stark had spent years childless and took him and his twin brother Benjen under his wing for a time and taught them how to rule and lead men until Rickard Stark was born. Like all second, third, and fourth sons of the North, his future would either be the Night's Watch or selling his sword in Essos.
Brandon did not mind joining the Black Brothers, yet his uncle Rodrik convinced him and his brother to join him in Essos as sellswords, along with other noble sons of the North, such as his friend Errold Dustin. It was there that Brandon gained a love for sailing and shipbuilding, while Benjen fell more in line with the merchants, scholars, and traders. When they returned to the North following the Nine Penny Kings war, he desired nothing more than a peaceful life, even feuding with his brother over his lack of ambition.
"We would be unmatched, brother! With my connections and your expertise in ships and sailing, we could rival the Sea Snake and redo his voyages, earning riches beyond words!" Benjen had promised him the world, yet Brandon would not have it; he did not want the world. Essos had jaded him too much, and he wanted to be as far away from that land filled with savages, slave-peddlers, and greedy magisters as possible.
Barrowton promised him the peace he desired, his friend Errold helping in securing that. For many years, he enjoyed peace, even when Brandon the younger was fostered here, Brandon, now called the elder, had built a rapport with the heir of Winterfell.
While his wife struggled to give him a child for a long time, she eventually gave him his dear Berena. Sadly, his wife Serena perished to a sudden chill that struck the city a couple of years ago, along with many notables in the city, such as his old friend Errold Dustin, men who could have taken command and fought against the invaders. It was a miracle that Brandon, now in his seventies, had survived the sickness that struck the city, yet many people much younger than him perished. Now, he who loathed war, death, and killing was forced to partake in such matters again because of his skill.
The gods loved their ironies, and now, Brandon found himself commanding a force of four thousand ill-trained and ill-equipped militia, barely a fifth of them knights or men-at-arms. Four thousand against five times as many reavers, all determined and better equipped.
Nevertheless, Bran knew his duty, and he would not allow the reaving scum to harm his home or his daughter. He had warned the men that they would grow to hate him as he used those couple of moons until the Ironborn arrived to turn this peasant militia into a proper fighting force. Thankfully, many of them were hunters and woodsmen, and the old Dustin lords had continued a tradition of training with the bow and spear for centuries; every peasant was required to attend weekly archery and formation training sessions with a constable as part of their tax. That left him to figure out a method to overcome the Ironborn's heavy armor.
As he left Barrow Hall, he glanced at the dark skies above them — it was still at least another hour until dawn, yet the clouds blocked any light from the stars or the moon. He could not see anything in the Barrow River leading to the city and emptying into the nearby lake.
"Berena, who's attacking? Is it that damned squid Greyjoy again?"
Barrow Hall was built on the Great Barrow, the only hill within thirty miles, giving him a great vantage point over the windswept plains of the Barrow Lands and the nearby lake and its river. He could see the lights of Goldgrass, the Stout castle in the distance, taken by Victarion Greyjoy and used as his base — the foolish Stout Lord had refused his suggestion to relocate to the city. He and his meager men still bloodied the Reavers enough that when Victarion arrived two moons ago, he could not attack for a sennight until his men stormed the modest keep and put everyone to the sword.
Brandon saw no activity beyond the walls, meaning the Ironborn were not trying a night assault. After the third time they were repulsed, the reavers finally gave up on attacking at night. Fighting in the dark was always risky, and while Barrowton was almost entirely built from wood, including the castle, its walls were still strong. Yet wooden walls were still weak to fire and blades, and they could not be too tall either, but Barrowton did not need high stone walls to weather the countless sieges it endured throughout history.
The city's deep and wide moat turned it into an island that protected it from any invasion. Most of the preparations for the siege involved expanding the moat and connecting it to the river; while the city did not have many warriors, thousands of people were still ready and willing to help in any way they could—digging was a simple matter even a child could contribute to.
Time and again, the Ironborn tried to cross it on pontoons carrying ladders and grappling hooks, yet every time, they were repulsed by a hail of rocks and arrows. If it had not been for the dwindling supplies inside the town, Brandon would have claimed they could weather the siege indefinitely, but it was not easy feeding fifty thousand mouths when the city was not prepared for a siege. Worse, the Ironborn had prevented the farmers from gathering their harvests, which had now fallen to the enemy's hands. Several times, the reavers had taunted them with fresh loaves of bread and roasted meat stolen from the ranches and granaries of the smallfolk, while the residents of the city were forced to ration as much as they could as they began eating mice and rodents. Even the cats and dogs looked hungry, and Brandon knew that if the siege was not lifted soon, they would soon end up in the cooking pots.
There was only so much fish one could catch from the river, and even then, the bounty from the Barrow River was dwindling by the day. It was a miracle the Ironborn did not have any siege engineers with them, though perhaps it had more to do with the lack of forests for a hundred miles. The vast plains around Barrowton provided excellent pastures but were scarce in woodlands and farmlands.
"Berena?" Bran found his daughter with her eyes closed, standing upright as if in a trance, before opening them with a gasp.
"The river! They will attack by boats."
"Understood, stay safe inside the castle. Men, with me!" Brandon did not hesitate as he strung his bow, shouldered his quiver, and used his spiked club as a walking stick as he led the men down the Great Barrow, all the while grabbing any defender and sending others to wake the rest.
"To arms! To arms! We are under attack by the river!"
Within a few minutes, the one hundred men who followed him from the castle swelled to a thousand, and it wasn't long until they were on the walls overlooking the harbor, yet there were no enemies in sight.
"Stark! Have you finally gone mad at your age? There's no one here!"
Bran glanced at the speaker, Cregard, master of the smithing guild in Barrowton and the castle's smith. Before the siege, they hardly interacted with each other, but after fighting side by side for the past few moons and the contribution the man made when he introduced that new weapon, Bran considered him a capable, if obstinate, leader.
"Keep your eyes peeled, men! The gods have warned us that an attack shall come from the river."
Several men gripped their spiked clubs tightly, muttering prayers to the gods of the river and the land. Others whispered about the Stark Witch, yet none questioned him once he invoked the gods. It still felt queer to hear the men calling his daughter a witch with such reverence, and it was stranger still for her to be called a Stark.
"How will they overcome the river chains?"
A long and massive chain blocked the Barrow River at its narrowest point, nearly a dozen miles south of the city. Bran had sent two hundred men to garrison the two holdfasts where the chains were connected. They did not receive any warnings from them, but it was not like they had any ravens; the foolish widow had distrusted Maesters so much that the raven flock had not been cared for properly, and many of them had gone feral. If Barrowton needed a maester's service, they would go to Goldgrass. But with the castle's fall, Barrowton was completely in the dark.
"I don't know, but we must assume the worst. My daughter has yet to prove us wrong. Douse your flames, douse all light, and keep quiet! I want the squids to fumble their way into the docks, but prepare fire arrows and covered braziers."
The men hurried to follow his command and within a few heartbeats, the southern part of the city was plunged into darkness. The fletchers of Barrowton had been busy fashioning special arrows with basket-like tips that could hold tarred tinder or other flammables. Soon, the men had arrows notched, waiting for the enemy to appear before lighting them.
It was sudden. Brandon would not have noticed the shift in the water if he was not looking for something queer, but when splashing came from the shore and an inhuman growling sound followed, he knew that something was wrong. The darkness in the harbor now worked against them, but several more splashes could be heard, causing the men to mutter and shift uncomfortably. Then, the clouds covering the full moon swept past, bringing moonlight down on the town and the river.
And a scene straight from the Seven Hells!
For a moment, everyone was stunned; even Brandon gawked at the scaly monstrosities that walked upright and froze at the sudden light. They came in different colors, but most were either a garish green or a pallid grey. The creatures had a fish-like head adorned by two large eyes, rows of sharp teeth, two holes for a nose, frills instead of hair, gills on the sides of their necks, webbed hands that clutched rusted spears, and clawed feet. For a few heartbeats, the men on the wall stared in shock just as the sea demons stared back, as if not comprehending they could see them. Suddenly, one of the men shouted, and loosed an arrow which promptly sank into a scaly neck as a fishman-beast dropped dead.
"Loose! Kill the monstrosities!"
Brandon drew his own bow just as the monsters screeched in an unholy tongue and sprinted towards the wall. His arrow flew true, and he dropped one before notching and drawing at another; all along the wall, the men did the same, but there were a lot of them, hundreds at least!
At about fifty feet from the walls, the monsters did something unexpected; they threw their spears.
Men screamed as the javelins struck true, dropping several archers, but Bran had eyes only for the monsters that went down on all fours, rushed to the walls…and scaled them with their sharp claws!
"Spears! Spears! Bring the fuckers down!"
Exchanging his bow for the spiked club that Cregard crafted, Brandon bashed one of the monsters on the head, cracking it like an egg; a terrible stench came from the demons, yet Brandon had smelled far worse in the gutters of Volantis. He stabbed another with the spiked part, easily overcoming the scales protecting its heart. The monster still thrashed angrily, showing great vitality. Yet another of his men bashed it over the head using the metal base of the spike, dropping it back down like a sack of turnips.
The weapon was made from a club that widened near the tip, where a metal spike akin to a boar spear was inserted by a tang. They did not yet have a name for it, but Bran could see the potential of such a weapon in a spearwall against heavily armored cavalry; against the Ironborn, it had proven precise and deadly, capable of finding the weak points of their armor.
All along the wall, men fought and grappled with the monsters, using whatever weapons at hand once the clubs proved unwieldy in close quarters; daggers, hatchets, and warpicks killed just as well as the finest Valyrian Steel.
Yet it appeared the sea demons' mad charge had exhausted them, for once they scaled the walls, they proved to be much weaker than humans. Tough as nails, as Bran discovered when he stabbed one through its eye only to struggle mightily until another soldier brought it down, yet with no skill or teamwork to speak of. After a few minutes of fighting, Brandon found a reprieve as he breathed heavily while the men finished off the last of the monsters; he was too old for this.
None of the men cheered as they recovered their breath, busy gawking at the strange monsters they slayed; the sea demons were savage, and their sharp claws had slayed at least a hundred of his men.
"There's more movement on the river!"
Brandon glanced at the sudden shout, causing his eyes to widen and his heart to drop to his stomach. All exhaustion disappeared as his blood roared to act.
Sails, Ironborn sails approached, which meant the chain was lost. He counted thirty ships approaching the harbor, and he wondered if the reaving scum had somehow colluded with the demons. Bran gritted his teeth for what he was about to order. This was no time to falter.
"Wait for the squids to land! Let them come to us and fill out the harbor."
Cregard looked at him then, bloodied and tired, yet silently asking him if he was sure. Brandon nodded. They had no choice. They had discussed the inevitability of an attack by river and had prepared accordingly. The livelihood of many of the residents of Barrowton relied on the harbor, shipyards, docks, and boats strewn all along the river.
Yet needs must.
Thousands of reavers roared in glee as they dashed past the empty warehouses and docks, carrying ladders and scaling ropes. Brandon noted that they were barely armored compared to the typical reaver under the Iron Captain's command, most likely sons of thralls given the chance to prove themselves by being the first over the walls. Armed with a shield in one hand and a spear or axe or sword in the other; more than a third were clad with half-helms and chainshirts, yet the rest were garbed in simple linen or leather. He lamented the need to use such a drastic method against the scum of the Ironborn, not even proper soldiers, yet as he glanced at the ships, a sardonic grin bloomed on his bearded face. Their real foe was there, lined on the decks of their longboats, their lobstered armors glinting in the moonlight. It would be a stretch, yet if the gods were with them, the wind would blow towards them, bringing fire and death upon them.
"Fire arrows." The men lit their basket-tipped arrows. "Notch." A thousand lit arrows sprang to life all along the wall, causing the Ironborn to falter before sprinting the last few feet to the walls. "Draw, then loose at will!"
The skies lit up for a few heartbeats; the squids stared in fear that morphed into confusion as the arrows flew well over them before raining down on the harbor and buildings packed with straw, tar, and other flammables. At first, the arrows did naught but light the roofs on fire, and the reavers laughed as they missed them, but then, the wind picked up, and the flames seemed to gain a life of their own as a conflagration suddenly consumed the harbor.
The screams of men being roasted alive were almost as haunting as the sight of their figures struggling inside the inferno, with the men on the walls muttering prayers at the sudden smell of roasted meat. The flames spread all along the harbor, the wind buffeting it towards the river where it consumed the ships docked on the piers, causing many reavers to jump overboard and drown in the river from their heavy armor. Brandon watched coldly as the screams of the dying continued for a few more minutes before abruptly stopping, yet the flames continued to burn well into the morning. When the first lights of dawn came and illuminated the extent of the damage, he felt grief as his gaze fell on the burning husk of his shipyard; they may have wiped out the invaders, and the husks of their ships shall act as barriers for any future assaults, yet at what cost?
It was a miracle the wind was on their side and the flames did not turn against the town, yet that was only a matter of time. Then, something wet splattered against his helmet. Drops of water fell on him, and Brandon looked up at the heavens as a sudden downpour arrived. The gods were surely on their side, for within the hour, the flames were completely snuffed out, leaving behind nothing but death and destruction.
"Oi, Stark." He glanced at Cregard's grinning face, holding the severed arm of one of the monsters, "Do you think they taste like fish?"
Unbidden, Brandon barked in laughter, even as horn blasts came from the Ironborn's camp, clearly preparing another attack.
"They came from the sea, and my ma always said anything from the sea is edible."
The men chuckled as they tore apart the sea demons and roasted them on open flames while the rest of the garrison prepared for yet another assault from land. As Brandon bit hungrily into the roasted leg of the sea demon, he prayed that reinforcements would arrive soon. Even with the loss of three thousand men, Victarion Greyjoy vastly outnumbered them, and Barrowton's food supplies would not last a fortnight.
He grimaced as he swallowed the meat; it tasted like shit.
A*H*M
Riverrun
"King Robb, Riverrun is yours." His Uncle Edmure, along with his Lefford wife and the castle's residents, knelt.
Robb gazed at the scores of men and women kneeling for him on the cobbled grounds of Riverrun. It was late morning, yet the skies were overcast. He dismounted from his destrier and moved to the wheelhouse behind him to help Elaena out. The Blackfish and several of his lords and commanders followed behind. His pregnant lover had joined him when he rushed to the Riverlands when word of the disaster at Harrenhal reached him. It had taken him longer than he wished as he had to ride all the way from scouting Feastfires, yet after stopping in Ashemark to collect Elaena, he was finally back at his uncle's home.
"You may rise." Edmure stood, followed by the rest of the men; one, in particular, grabbed Robb's attention, for he looked more boy than man, yet something about him niggled Robb's senses. "This is my paramour, Lady Elaena of House Marbrand. She will be treated with the courtesy befitting of her station."
Many muttered at the borderline scandalous proclamation, yet Edmure did not even blink. "Of course, I shall have my wife escort her to the quarters across from yours." His uncle kissed Elaena's hand, "It is a pleasure to meet you again, Lady Marbrand."
"The pleasure is all mine, Lord Tully." Elaena replied happily before gasping, "I-I mean, my apologies, Lord Edmure, I did not think–"
Edmure grimaced heavily and Robb sighed inwardly, his lover was incredibly perceptive and intelligent, not to mention knowledgeable about many matters of magic and witchcraft — something that he never would have thought he would accept so easily, but the world had already gone mad and if Robb did not follow suit, he would risk falling behind. Yet sometimes, Elaena would unintentionally blurt out matters that she ought not to know or be simply discourteous to mention.
Such as eluding that Hoster Tully was already dead.
"I see that you still tend to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, Elaena." Alysanne Lefford chuckled as she embraced her fellow Westerlander Lady. "Come, let us get you settled, and let the men discuss their matters of war."
After waving away Elaena, Robb turned to his uncle. "I want to see my grandfather."
Edmure nodded and sent away the rest of the castle's denizens before leading them into the castle.
"How did Hoster pass?" Brynden Tully asked as they climbed the steps to the lord's quarters.
"In his sleep last night. We discovered his body this morning, and it's being prepared for the funeral." Edmure's voice was emotionless, yet Robb sensed grief and sadness hiding behind the veneer. His connection with Grey Wind had strengthened as the moons passed, and his instincts and ability to sense people's emotions had become more precise with time. "I am surprised you have already learned about it."
"I dreamt about it." Robb shrugged, not deigning to explain himself — his uncle nodded and let the matter drop. Within a few minutes, they were in the lord's quarters, where the maester, several acolytes, and silent sisters were cleaning Hoster Tully's body. Robb stared sadly at his grandfather's peaceful face, yet did not linger; he had a war to manage.
After paying their respects and learning the funeral would be at sunset, Robb led the way to the lord's solar where the young man he saw earlier waited with the rest of his lords. Many of the Northmen greeted the young man eagerly, though Robb felt confusion until he noticed the livery–a black lizard lion on a green field. The young Reed laid a large covered package on the ground as he bowed in greeting.
"King Robb, I am Jojen Reed. I am here on behalf of my Lord Father, Howland Reed, and your sister, the Princess Sansa."
Robb swallowed his surprise and schooled his face to observe dispassionately as Edmure directed the servants into setting up a war council; a long table was cleared with maps and reports spread on it while refreshments were ordered from the kitchens. "Jojen Reed had arrived last evening accompanied by a hundred of his father's men. He brings word from the North as well as the Twins."
He hid a grimace as his thoughts traveled to his surviving family. A sennight ago, in the Golden Tooth, he learned of the attack on Winterfell and his brother's death. Robb had raged against Theon's treachery and grieved for Bran's death, and it was only thanks to Elaena's soothing presence that he recovered swiftly. He had known that something was wrong when Grey Wind and his new pack began howling endlessly for hours on end. He tried to connect with the direwolf to see what was wrong, yet only felt grief and sadness; It was Elaena who explained to him after the Golden Tooth.
"Wolves are pack animals. If a member of the pack is slain, they will howl their grief to the heavens until another of their pack howled back, assuring them that the pack survives."
How Elaena would know about that, he did not know, and neither did she; all she knew was from dreams and combing over ancient tomes in High Valyrian. Nevertheless, Robb could not afford to grieve for Bran forever; at least Theon died a most gruesome death from what he heard.
"I am honored to have you here, Lord Jojen. What news do you bring from the North? How is my sister and her…husband?"
Many of his lords clamored angrily as they stood around a long table, some cursing the foreign sorcerer for dishonoring their princess — the Greatjon, in particular, looked quite miffed, as he no doubt had hopes of betrothing Sansa to his heir. Disregarding that the man had taken the young Westerling girl for a wife and already got her pregnant, thus making his heir's future more complicated, Robb himself was not at all amused by his sister's decision to wed her savior. He was grateful to this Perseus, yet Sansa should have known better than to allow some flight of fancy to overcome her wits. Rewarding the man with land, gold, and titles would have been far more agreeable, yet to wed him to a princess? One of only two that the Starks had?
It was only the fact the North was so far away and little news came due to Ironborn attacks that stopped him from marching back to give his sister a piece of his mind. At least, that was until Jojen smiled knowingly before going on a fantastical tale about the many achievements his new good-brother had accomplished. Robb had already learned of the liberation of Moat Cailin, yet he did not know the specifics. Jojen was all too eager to elucidate them on mad tales that came straight from the Age of Heroes. Calling a storm that broke the Ironmen's spirits, slaying sea monsters that plagued the Bite and Shivering Sea, discovering a plot by the Bolton Bastard and eliminating him, along with many other things.
Some of them Jojen should not have known since he left the North shortly after the liberation of Moat Cailin, yet Robb corroborated everything he said with scrolls and reports that Edmure provided. The last thing they heard from Sansa was her pregnancy, which gladdened Robb, and then left Karhold for Winterfell after mustering the eastern houses. The siege at Barrowton needed to be lifted, and the confirmation of Barbrey Dustin's flight from the city had affirmed his decision to declare her unfit to rule. With the unexpected death of Rickard Karstark, his troops were folded under the command of Damon Dustin, to whom Robb had entrusted the campaign in the Westerlands. Last he heard, they had besieged Kayce, the last major castle to be taken in the northern half of the Westerlands aside from the Rock, Feastfires, and Lannisport.
Jaime Lannister might have succeeded in drawing him away from the Westerlands, yet he was a fool if he believed that would stop him from plundering the kingdom from anything not nailed down — even then, some of the men had taken to looting even that. The Rock and Lannisport might be tough nuts to crack, yet time was on his side, and the lack of support from the hinterlands would soon affect them even if there were no active siege lines.
"King Robb. Princess Sansa had also entrusted me with delivering an important heirloom." Jojen untied the elongated fur wrap, showing everyone the great sword hidden underneath; Robb felt his heart thunder with excitement as he recognized Ice's hilt. Jojen kneeled before him and presented the blade, "Perseus had retrieved the blade from the Lannisters and used it under the auspiciousness of the Princess. Yet it is still the blade of the Starks, and now, it has returned to its rightful owner."
Robb's fingers clasped around the leather-wrapped hilt as an electric jolt ran down his spine.
Ice, the ancestral greatsword of House Stark, wielded only by the Kings of Winter and the Lords of Winterfell. And now it was his, further solidifying his status.
With a slight tug, the sword eagerly left its sheath, revealing dark dragonsteel with the faintest tint of blue, clashing with the dark smoky ripple in an eternal battle along its length. It looked just the same as his Father had used it. And now it belonged to Robb.
Yet, Robb now faced a dilemma; how could he complain about his sister's decision to marry some unknown foreign sorcerer when they had done so much for his kingdom? Such an obvious gift was meant to make denouncing or criticizing Sansa's choices so much harder. It was a cunning move from his sister, something he did not expect from the sweet girl whom he played Come to my Castle with a few years ago. He still did not know Sansa's motives and what she desired from the North; marrying a landless foreigner made it difficult to predict what ambitions drove her. A large part of him wanted to believe that his sweet Sansa was the same as he last saw her nearly two years ago, yet the South changed people.
He could not afford to return North, especially when the war shifted against him. The disaster at Harrenhal had crippled his army, and so far, they had only been able to rally two thousand of his troops, with the rest missing. There had been no word from his aunt in the Vale, and any raven sent returned without a reply. Uncle Edmure had sent more letters to other houses in the Vale, hoping for any information, but had received no replies yet.
Most importantly, they had no idea the whereabouts of his mother.
Robb had left five thousand lancers in the Westerlands supported by the same number of footmen from the Riverlands. Two thousand lancers accompanied him here, where he was met with the rest of the Stark foot, numbering three thousand men, joining the Riverlands army of fifteen thousand mustered by Riverrun, over a third of which was cavalry. There were still more troops garrisoned in the castles by the borders, yet Robb would not count on them in battle.
Twenty thousand men…it was not an insignificant number, yet Jaime Lannister alone commanded similar numbers at Harrenhal, though he completely lacked horses from what the reports said. Then, there was the combined Lannister and Reach army marching to King's Landing, thrice that many, and who knew how many men Stannis Baratheon truly had. The reports conflicted, ranging from a mere twenty thousand to an insane a hundred thousand men that would be impossible to feed. Robb needed more information, yet he could not ignore the plight of the North. Even if Sansa and her husband managed to dislodge the Ironborn, ruling the North was not a simple matter. Sansa was trained to manage a household but not a kingdom; Eddard Stark only trained Robb and–
An idea coalesced in his mind. Something that was unprecedented, yet Robb was a king. And royal orders were difficult to deny.
He sheathed Ice and handed it to Olyvar Frey to carry. The axe that Damon gifted him was now redundant, and just as he was growing to enjoy using it. He would need to train for the great sword to use Ice properly in battle; as for the axe, it would be strange if he returned it to Damon, an insult even. Perhaps he could save it as a gift. If all else fails, he could give it to Rickon, considering the last reports had Bran sending him to foster with the Norreys, who held a strong tradition in war-axes.
"You mentioned news from the Twins?"
"Aye, I passed by them on the way here, though I was not invited into the castle. Things seemed grim after the death of Stevron Frey." Jojen lowered his head apologetically to Olyvar. "Old Lord Walder had secluded himself in his quarters with his young wife and left the matters of who would be heir to the younger generation to decide. Many Freys were captured by the Lannisters outside Harrenhal, yet Lord Frey ransomed them swiftly along with their men, and they all returned to the Twins. Finally, the death of the wards in Winterfell had soured relations with Jammos and Merrett Frey; both demand recompense."
Robb sighed inwardly. It was a black day when he was forced to cross that thrice-damned bridge and got himself entangled with the Freys. Even his Uncle Edmure found himself at odds with Lame Lothar when the man demanded a share of the Golden Tooth for his children since he was married to a Lefford. That she was a cousin of the late Leo Lefford did not matter to him; their greed was unquenchable. Thankfully, Alysanne Lefford herself rebuked his demands, claiming the castle as her own by right of being her father's sole heir. Edmure's support to his wife was enough to quell any disgruntlement, for now, yet Robb was certain that if the balance of power shifted against the Starks, more trouble would arise from the Freys.
That would not do, especially when the Twins was the fastest way to the North from Riverrun, and most of the loot heading there passed through it. The Freys demanded picks of any loot passing through their bridge, which greatly soured relations with the other houses of the North; any who had entertained the idea of marrying one of their many shrews suddenly lost interest, even when they promised no tolls for those who married a Frey. Then, there was the slight issue of the late Roose Bolton's widow being pregnant, for her child would be the rightful heir to the Dreadfort. Sansa and Bran had annexed it in the name of the Starks, yet they did not know about Bolton's unborn heir; Robb wanted to tear at his hair as he tried to figure out a solution to this dilemma.
"My own brother perished protecting them, even though he was a cripple. If they wish for recompense, they are welcome to claim it from the Ironborn." To say that Robb was tired of anything Frey would be an understatement. So far, only his squire was tolerable, and he suspected that it had more to do with his position than anything. "Now, Lord Edmure. How fare Ser Forely Prestor and the rest of the prisoners?"
Edmure looked confused before rubbing a scar over his forearm, "Better than most prisoners. As you ordered, we treated them well enough."
Ser Forely Prestor had given his uncle that scar on the battlements of the Golden Tooth. There were hundreds of prisoners taken from the many battles they faced; those that could be ransomed were already freed with an oath not to take up arms against them again, though it did not matter to Robb if they went against their vow — he would just have them killed or captured and ransomed once more. Yet there were many men-at-arms who were abandoned by their lieges and refused to pay ransom for them. Normally, the fate of such men would be execution, yet Robb had a better idea.
"Did the Prestors accept our demands for ransom for their knight?"
"No, they did not respond. I questioned Ser Forely and he seemed resigned. It appears he is not too popular with his House."
Robb felt pity for the knight; he had fought well on the Golden Tooth and yielded with grace when Edmure disarmed him. To be abandoned by his House so easily…
"Offer him the Black. If he accepts, he shall join as many of the prisoners abandoned by their lords and lead them to the Wall. They shall be led by a contingent of my personal troops…along with a message for the Lord Commander."
Robb grinned inwardly at the many confused faces that stared at him; sending common soldiers to the Wall was too expensive, yet they had all the gold they would need. Strangely, Jojen's eyes widened before he knowingly smirked as if he was privy to a jest.
"My King, may I ask what the message to Lord Commander Mormont would be about?" Lord Tytos Blackwood asked.
"An offer to exchange my brother, who had willingly joined the Watch for men and support. My brother Jon was trained in how to rule by my father as much as I did. I need someone I trust in the North."
More mutters, some of them confused, while a few of the Riverlords looked outraged. Marq Piper blurted out, just as Karyl Vance tried to silence him. "Isn't he a Snow?"
Robb stared coldly at the man until he lowered his eyes. "For now," he allowed, filling the hall with whispers. "Yet that is not relevant. I trust my brother with my life."
"Still, the vows of the Night Watch are for life." The Greatjon gently reminded, "I understand your trust in the lad, My King. I remember him from the last harvest feast — he looked the spitting image of your father with twice the broodiness. I believe you when you say he is as good as you claim, yet it does not change the fact he is a brother of the Night's Watch."
"Aye, vows were made, and they will be unmade by my decree," Robb declared, his voice full of steel. "Make no mistake, I want my brother back, and I will have him at any cost. Of course, I will not shortchange the Watch for naught. I am offering Lord Mormont hundreds of battle-hardened men. Gold, silver, armor, supplies…no cost is too high. By the end, Lord Commander Mormont will send off my brother personally, even if he was kicking and screaming."
His voice was firm and even though many of the lords were still reticent, they would still follow his command. Robb understood their hesitance; it was simply never done before, but so what? If he had to set such precedents then so be it, he needed Jon, and he needed him a year ago.
"Anything else I need to know? If not, then let's end this meeting and–"
A hurried knock and an acolyte peeked his head in, holding a raven scroll in his hand. Robb dearly wished he could have something to eat before going to sleep, yet as the saying went: Dark wings, Dark words.
"Begging your pardon, My King. A raven from Runestone."
Why would House Royce send a raven to them? Edmure accepted the scroll and read it, everyone in the room watched silently in anticipation. At first, he seemed shocked, but then he shook his head in denial, then sheer, unbridled rage caused his face to contort grotesquely as he clenched the small scroll tightly. Finally, he took a deep breath to calm himself, yet Robb could tell a cold fury had taken hold of him.
"What is it?"
"My sister, in all her wisdom, had declared for the Lannisters. She seeks to bring war to Stannis Baratheon in some inane belief that he plans to kidnap her son or other such madness."
"Madness!" Lord Blackwood echoed, face twisted with outrage. "Was she not the one who first accused the Lannisters of murdering Jon Arryn?! What foolish mummery is this?!"
"I suspect others are whispering in her ear." Edmure shook his head sadly. "Lord Royce writes of Petyr Baelish's arrival in the Eyrie. A day later, Lysa called the banners."
"And the Vale Lords? Are they so blindingly going to follow her commands?"
Edmure had no answer, and Robb felt a severe migraine forming. Things have suddenly become far more complicated. But this only steeled his resolve. He needed someone he could trust unconditionally that would back him no matter what. It would have to be an offer that even a belligerent, stubborn man like Jeor Mormont or any of the old greybeards manning the Wall could never refuse. If it were Jon, he would quickly prove himself, justifying any honors and duties Robb gave his brother.
At least there was a silver lining to the host of ill news that plagued Robb since returning to Riverrun. Two days after the council meeting, a small force led by an injured Robett Glover arrived, bringing word of the survival of the Northern army. Sure enough, over the following days, more and more Northmen arrived, battered and missing many of their arms and armor, but not broken.
However, it was a different matter that interested Robb more than anything.
"And you left my sister in the wilderness on a wild goose chase to rally my dispersed army?!" Robb growled at the bedridden Robbet Glover. The maester was busy fussing over his wounded arm — the wound was infected, and it seemed the only chance to save the man was to sever it. Yet Robb needed to learn about Arya before anything else.
"My deepest a-apologies, My King. But I had n-no choice." Robbet breathed harshly as an acolyte tied his left arm under the elbow, another prepared cup of milk of the poppy. "The Princess, she would not agree no matter what. We could not force her, she was our Princess! Not to mention her d-direwolf and the pack that followed her. If we dared force her, they would tear us apart."
Robb had already learned about his sister's exploits and how she survived for so long. Not to mention rescuing so many from Harrenhal; miraculous would be an understatement. Yet, judging by their newly awakened powers of skinchanging, Robb could tell how his sister did it.
He left Robbet Glover to the maester, the sound of pained groans coming from the room as he walked away. The man did well retreating with his forces in an orderly manner and would need to be rewarded. A thousand swords he brought back from Harrenhal, far better than Robb expected.
Still, he prayed for his sister's soul. Robb shuddered to think what he would do if Arya was hurt in any way, especially not after the hope that was consuming him after learning of her survival. He fought the urge to gather his lancers and ride out and drag her here regardless, and instead, he returned to his quarters.
Elaena waited for him there, and he always felt soothed by her pleasant touch and soft words.
A*H*M
A few miles outside of Winterfell
"There it is, Percy. My home."
Sansa felt indescribable joy as their retinue climbed a hill, and Winterfell greeted them in all its glory. They had stopped the wheelhouse on the side of the road for her to gaze upon her beautiful home, and the rest of her friends joined her. Percy dismounted Blackjack to join her as the rest of their small army continued towards the ancient castle.
After finishing in Karhold, they loaded their army on the fleet, and Percy used his powers to soar through the Shivering Sea with an impossible speed. Normally, from Karhold to White Harbor, a ship would need a fortnight at the very least, yet Percy managed to lead the fleet of nearly a hundred ships to the Manderly city in only five days. It would take two days for the army to disembark and join the rest of the forces waiting outside Moat Cailin and march north and west to Barrowton, but they did not wait for them to finish. Their flagship, The Silver Lady, continued sailing up the White Knife with a dozen other ships all the way to Castle Cerwyn. Sailing against the current should have been impossible unless they had the wind on their side and teams of oarsmen.
Yet that hardly mattered to the Demigod of the Sea, and in only two days, their small fleet was docked in several river ports near Cerwyn and Winterfell all along the Wolf's Fang river that joined the White Knife. Then, they marched to Winterfell, and two thousand men joined them as her personal retinue. It was too much, or as Percy called it, overkill, yet after what the people of Winterfell and its lands had suffered, they needed to see a Stark in Winterfell. Having a few thousand swords at hand also sent a message that all would be well.
"It's beautiful. Pretty large, too." Percy hugged her sideways just as the rest of the girls joined her, including her new addition, Alys Karstark. "Of course, I already saw it before, but I will admit that seeing it in person gives a different vibe to it."
Sansa tittered at yet another strange word, though she could guess its meaning. "Alright then, let's hurry onto the castle and set our affairs. Poor Maester Luwin is anxiously waiting for someone to take command."
An hour later, they rode past the abandoned Wintertown, through the double gates, the inner gate, before finally stopping outside the Great Keep. People cheered at the sight of the Stark banner all along the way, yet Sansa could sense a subdued air about them. Once the wheelhouse stopped in the courtyard and she exited, she found several men kneeling before her. She only recognized Luwin, looking older and thinner than she remembered, and held onto Percy's hand tightly.
"Princess Sansa, Winterfell is yours."
"Rise," The men stood, and she noted the livery on some of their tabards: Forest Clansmen. "May I present my Lord Husband, Perseus."
Luwin stared unblinkingly at Percy for a long moment, causing him to shift awkwardly before the maester's eyes widened.
"It is you! You were the ghost that protected us!"
Percy grimaced. "Not a ghost, my good man. It was a bit too late to save the little lord, though. I'm sure you did a great job keeping the castle together all those weeks."
Nevertheless, Percy's acknowledgment of Luwin's claims had the residents kneel even lower in the courtyard as they looked in awe at their savior.
"Thank you, My Lord. But I did not do anything — it was all Prince Bran."
"Indeed, Bran did his duty as the Stark in Winterfell, and I shall do mine." Sansa chimed in. "Henceforth, I shall remain here with two thousand leal men to protect the castle and our lands from raiders or reavers."
The courtyard erupted into cheers and applause, and the relief of the household and the refugees was plain to see on the gaunt faces of the crowd. Sansa, however, had only one thought in her mind as she turned to the direwolf coming from the Godswood, one eye blue and the other yellow.
"Bran!"
Brandon "The Elder" Stark is a canon character but GRRM never mentioned what happened to him. I hinted his existence in Sansa's pov when she mentioned visiting his brother Benjen before his death in White Harbor (Chapter 11 if you would like a refresher).
The Spiked Club is the mighty Goedendag that became famous after the Battle of the Golden Spurs.
Sea demons from the Sunset Sea? They can swim in fresh water?! Oh my!
We got the much-awaited Robb POV, but I did not finish all I wanted to write for him. Another POV is in the works for him which will finish everything (I hope) on his side.
If you would like to support me, or read five chapters ahead (total of twenty across all of my stories), join me on my Patr(eo)n under the same penname.