"The camp's nearly set up, my prince," Edric murmured.
"Good," Daemon replied. "We'll reach Last Hearth on the morrow. I need you to check on...are you alright? Edric?"
"Hmm?" Edric asked, shaking his head and looking over at him. "Sorry, my prince, what was that?"
"I didn't think we had ale supplies left," Daemon said dryly.
"I don't think we do," Edric muttered, reddening slightly. "I'm sorry, my prince, I was just a little distracted."
"Thinking about the battles to come?" Daemon asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"Aye," Edric nodded, and Daemon kept his face blank as he realized that his squire had just lied to him.
"If something's bothering you, you can tell me," the prince prodded.
"I know, and I'm grateful, but I'm alright, really," Edric insisted. "What did you need me to do?"
"Check with Red Worm to see what supplies we're going to need to replenish tomorrow," Daemon replied.
"I will," Edric nodded, leaving.
Daemon watched him go and furrowed his brow in confusion before sighing. He wouldn't expect the young man to be that bothered by the coming battles with the wildlings, given that he was a veteran of more than a few of them by now. His being concerned would have made far more sense if he had known what else was out there. That was something that the prince himself was still struggling to wrap his head around.
"Are you willing to talk about it?" Dacey asked quietly as she cornered him late into the evening. "You might have hidden it well through the day, but I know something was wrong this morning. You looked scared, Daemon, more scared than you looked when we faced down that twelve-foot-tall monstrosity."
Looking around to make sure that Asha and Helga weren't nearby, Daemon whispered, "Not here."
Leading her to his tent, he brought her inside and scratched at his beard as he tried to figure out how to even begin to describe what he'd seen.
"If I'm to explain any of what's had me so rattled today, first you need to know something about me," Daemon began, reaching out to Ghost to get the direwolf to join them.
Being open with Arianne and his other lovers about what he could do had made him more comfortable with doing so, at least with those he trusted well, and he did trust Dacey.
"Gods, I'll never get used to how big you are!" she exclaimed as the giant wolf poked his big head in the tent.
"Not the first time I've heard you say that," Daemon quipped.
"Oh, fuck off," Dacey chuckled.
"Ghost is here for a reason," Daemon murmured, beckoning him in. "I have the ability to look through his eyes."
"What?" Dacey asked.
"It's called warging and…" Daemon went to explain.
"I know what it bloody is," Dacey interrupted him. "People have claimed that we Mormonts can skinchange into bears for ages. You mean to tell me that you can actually do it?"
Daemon sat down and closed his eyes before moving into Ghost's mind. Looking at Dacey through the wolf's crimson eyes, he made him stand up on his hind legs and start dancing around in a decidedly uncanine way. It was his favorite way to prove his point, and it worked just as well that time. She looked down at him with wide eyes before turning to his still-seated form. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, hoping that she wasn't about to react poorly.
"How...how long have you been able to do that?" Dacey stammered.
"Not that long," Daemon replied, standing up. "I found myself staring through Ghost's eyes as I slept while sailing to Slaver's Bay after my last time in the North. It took me a while to figure out what I was actually doing and much longer to learn how to actually control it, but eventually I managed."
"I can't imagine how useful that is," Dacey laughed lightly. "The big lug's a stealthy cunt in general, despite his size, and no one would ever suspect an animal of actually spying on them."
"Ghost's not the one I use for spying," Daemon murmured, earning himself another surprised look from his old lover. "There are two others I can see through the eyes of, an eagle named Brynden and a lemur back in Dorne named Maegor."
Dacey snorted at the name before snapping her fingers and saying, "You can check in on your son!"
"I have frequently over the past couple weeks," Daemon smiled. "Most of the time I've spent warging, though, has been spent in Brynden's mind, keeping an eye on the Wildlings."
"This is brilliant!" Dacey exclaimed. "You can scout better than any of us could ever hope to have. What are you going to tell the others? We might not be southerners, but many among us would balk at the idea of magic like this, and the Manderlys would strongly object."
"I have Unsullied in Eastmarch," Daemon replied. "It won't be out of the question for some of them to have scouted out the enemy position."
"So are their numbers as vast as Estermont claims?" Dacey asked. "Is that why you seem so tense?"
"No, and no," Daemon replied. "Their numbers are significant, and the Night Watch is going to get fucked like a halfpenny whore if we don't aid them, but they're not as numerous as he claimed, nor are they the greatest threat up there."
"What?" Dacey asked.
"As I flew about the far north earlier, I got a good look at the Wildlings' camp, but then some of them noticed Brynden, and I flew off much further north," Daemon replied. "What I found there I'm unsure of how to even describe."
"Don't tell me there actually are giant ice spiders," Dacey quipped, frowning when Daemon's lips didn't even quirk. "Oh fuck, Daemon, tell me there are no ice spiders!"
"Not that I saw," Daemon grumbled, "but there were walking corpses and beings with skin like ice and blue eyes that glowed with malevolence."
"The...Others?" Dacey asked, feeling her heart rate spike. "You're not having me on."
"I wish that I was," Daemon said dryly. "It's impossible; it should be impossible, anyway. The Others are a myth, a story told to frighten children. Old Nan used to speak of them, but...I know what I saw, and the damn thing nearly killed me."
"What?" Dacey asked.
"It lobbed a spear of ice at Brynden," Daemon replied.
"What would happen if he...died while you were in there?" Dacey asked.
"I don't know," Daemon replied. "I warged into a rat in Meereen...it's a long story, and when he died, I felt terrible pain, but I wasn't in his mind at the time, and I don't know what would have happened. Back to the point at hand, I think the Others might be the reason that this wildling invasion is happening at all."
"You think they're fleeing from them," Dacey mused. "You're not thinking of treating with them, are you?"
"No," Daemon replied. "None of the Northern lords would believe this, and I couldn't justify even speaking to the Wildlings without convincing them of what's out there. I can't imagine that you don't have doubt."
"It's incredibly difficult to believe," Dacey admitted, "but I know you, Daemon, and I know you wouldn't just make this up. I also happen to believe that you're not mad."
"Well, thank you for that," Daemon snorted before scowling. "The only way that I could convince the others would be if I were to somehow procure one of these walking corpses, and that would require traveling north of the Wall and capturing one."
"Which would be possibly the most idiotic thing I've ever heard of," Dacey said sharply.
"It would be mindbogglingly stupid, I'm aware," Daemon replied dryly. "Without proof, though, even suggesting that we try to find common ground with the Wildlings would be enough to spark revolt. They've been raping and pillaging the North for eight thousand years, and we've been killing them on sight for just as long. There's an ocean of bad blood between us, and frankly, I think I'd have an easier time negotiating a permanent truce between the Brackens and the Blackwoods than I would getting our peoples to avoid killing each other for more than five minutes."
"So the plan is unchanged," Dacey sighed, looking relieved. "The question is, do you think that we'll be able to reach the Wall in time, based on where they are, or should we go with Mother's plan to have the Night's Watch pull back and burn everything between it and Last Hearth?"
"I don't think we'll reach them in time, but there's another problem," Daemon hissed. "I once read an account from a maester who had found multiple references in texts written in the Old Tongue to something called the Horn of Winter, also called Joramun's horn. If blown, if it could apparently bring down the Wall."
"Bring down the…" Dacey balked.
"It was mere myth, he was sure, but when I spied on the Wildlings earlier, one of them said that they had that very horn," Daemon interrupted her, watching her go pale. "Mance Rayder told him that it is their last resort."
"B...but that...if they're fleeing from the Others, then they need the Wall," Dacey stammered. "Why in the world would they…"
"They wouldn't," Daemon interrupted her. "Rayder sounded incredibly reluctant to even discuss the idea, but if they were completely doomed, caught between two forces intent on destroying them...spite can be a powerful motivator."
"Fuck," Dacey breathed, "and none of the lords are going to believe any of this."
"Oh, I'm sure some of them will believe some of it, and a few might believe me outright, but not enough would, and the last thing we need while already outnumbered is division in our ranks," Daemon scowled. "There is one option I can think of, but I don't like it and it's what I've been struggling with all day."
"What is it?" Dacey asked.
"It occurred to me that there's no one in the Night's Watch that either of us care about even a little bit," Daemon murmured. "Your uncle is dead, mine is presumed dead, and Maester Aemon's in King's Landing."
"You would sacrifice them," Dacey breathed.
"Until I can get the horn away from them, I need the Wildlings to believe that everything's going swimmingly for them," Daemon explained. "If they hit the Wall in force, they are going to win the day and destroy the Night's Watch. If the Night's Watch flees south, carrying out your mother's plan, they'll starve and be in as dire a position as they are now, but if they crush their hated foe and take the meager resources that they have…"
"They'll be jubilant, but still need to move south," Dacey mused, scratching her scalp as she thought. "The resources required to sustain fifteen hundred men will not feed tens of thousands."
"If we can then deceive them into thinking that our numbers are worse than they are while they're already riding the high of such a crushing victory, we can take them down and secure the horn," Daemon continued. "Then, with them dealt with, we can think about how to handle the remaining threats to the north of us. To pull this off, though, I am going to need to deceive Estermont into thinking that reinforcements are on the way and so consign more than a thousand men to death."
"Fuck," Dacey muttered.
"My uncle would hate the idea on principle, as would my cousin, and Ser Barristan would bristle at the dishonor of it," Daemon sighed, "but the choice is ultimately mine. Father gave me his full authority in this matter, and so it falls to me."
"No wonder you're so tense," Dacey mumbled, walking around him and resting her hands on his shoulders. She started digging her thumbs into his muscles, and he groaned in pleasure. "Why come to me?"
"You're the only one I know well enough to ask who I know won't think it outright unconscionable," Daemon replied.
If they were there, he'd have turned to Obara and Nymeria for much the same reason.
"It's a shite thing to do, but the vast majority of the men up there are shite too," Dacey said after taking a moment to think about it. "Mother used to share some of the details from Uncle Jeor's letters. He turned to the Watch, thinking that he could do more good there than on Bear Island once he felt that Cousin Jorah was old enough to take his place. That didn't turn out so well, and neither did the Night's Watch, really. He rose through the ranks and remained convinced through to his last letter that it was still a much-needed institution that could be improved, but he was frequently frustrated with it."
"Alas, my family really ruined them," Daemon chuckled. "Conquering Westeros reduced the number of wars fought on the continent, and wars were a big source of manpower for the Night's Watch. At least a third of the cunts up there now are probably rebels who joined with Robert Baratheon."
"The lack of resources and the fact that he was surrounded mostly by rapers, and murderers were common complaints," Dacey sighed. "There are some good men there who joined out of a naive belief that they'd be doing something good and noble with their lives by doing so, but they're not the majority."
"Most men crave power; none truly crave what comes with it," Daemon muttered, scratching at his beard. "I cannot risk allowing the Wall to fall, nor can I negotiate with the Wildlings. I really only have the one acceptable option."
"Then do it," Dacey whispered. "Our people are at risk here, and nothing matters more than that. The men of the watch also took an oath to protect the lands south of the Wall with their lives until their last breath."
"I'll write to Estermont," Daemon sighed. "If I include enough specifics about our numbers and plans, it won't be too suspicious when I end it by saying to burn the damn letter. I will ask him to focus on the giants and mammoths in particular. We'd all prefer that they not be with the Wildlings when they reach us."
"Fucking giants too?" Dacey asked incredulously. "Do you miss politicking in King's Landing yet?"
"Not even a little," Daemon muttered, making her snort.
He shook his head at the memory and made his way towards his tent. He hadn't had much time to check on the Wildlings over the past couple days, as he was nearly done carefully moving the bombs to a spot he'd chosen that no man could hope to climb to. The spot was closer to the army of the dead, which he'd spied on from a far greater distance in the weeks since Brynden was nearly killed.
They seemed to have a startling intelligence to them, not the dead themselves, which appeared mindless, but the Others. Given what he's seen of them, it appeared that they raised corpses as their soldiers, and they were near enough to the Wildlings that they could have reached them before they drew as close to the wall as they were now, but they'd held back. Part of him feared they'd done so out of hope that the coming battle would end in the Wall's destruction, and if that was the case, then they were as smart as men, which was more than a little disconcerting.
"With the bombs in place, I'll be able to try reducing their numbers soon," he thought to himself, "but I can't focus on them until I have a more solid plan for the Wildlings."
Groaning, he tried to put his worries out of his mind, something made easier as he spotted Asha and Helga waiting for him in his tent.
"Ours was rather cold," Asha grinned, and he smiled.
"Come warm us up, Prince," Helga added.
"You'd dare command a prince?" Daemon asked.
"I think you know exactly how daring I can be," Helga purred, throwing off the heavy cloak of black bear fur she was wearing and revealing that she was entirely nude under it.
Daemon grinned and stepped inside, eager to focus on more pleasant things for a while. He'd had Dacey the night before, and she and Asha had been more than willing so far to trade nights back and forth so they could avoid ending up too sore while on the road. It was as close to a truce between them as he was likely to see, but he was more than happy to take what he could get on that front.
Asha threw off her own cloak, revealing that she was similarly undressed, and walked towards him. wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a searing, hot kiss, while Helga joined them and started kissing his neck. The three of them made short work of getting him undressed, and he went back and forth between them as they kissed, and he walked them towards his bedroll, which they had already unfurled.
"Fuck me, I don't care how many times I wrap my hands around this monster, I don't think I'll ever stop gawking at it," Helga purred, giving his cock a gentle little squeeze.
"I think you should get a closer look," Daemon rumbled, and he grinned as he watched her eyes darken with lust.
"You want me on my knees, do you?" Helga asked, biting her lower lip.
"It is where you look your best," Asha smirked, earning a mock glare from her lover.
Daemon lay down on the bedroll and beckoned Helga over with a curled finger. She followed eagerly and sank down to her knees in front of him before picking up his cock and giving the bulbous head a wet kiss. He hissed and then grinned as Asha settled next to him and captured his lips with her own.
"Mmm, that's it," Asha grinned, resting a hand on Helga's head. "Get him nice and slick for us."
Gaghk, gaghk, gaghk.
The sound of Helga taking his cock into her throat as she bobbed her head lower and lower on the shaft filled the tent, and Daemon groaned in pleasure. Asha kept her hand on her lover's head, pushing her down on his cock hard enough to be noticeable but not enough to actually make her gag. Helga's green eyes were locked on his, nearly black with desire and not looking at all bothered by Asha's actions.
"She's getting me slick for you, but who's going to get you wet for me?" Daemon asked, grinning at the dark-haired pirate.
"Just watching you two like this is helping, but I wouldn't say no if you had something...else in mind," Asha replied in kind.
"Sit on my face," Daemon commanded, and Asha shuddered.
"Fucking hells, I still can't believe you enjoy doing this so much," she whimpered, pushing him back and crawling into position.
Straddling his face, she grinned down at him and lowered her cunt onto his eager mouth, gasping the moment she felt his tongue start to explore her folds. Daemon grabbed two handfuls of her firm, taut arse to hold her steady, and she moaned in pleasure. Helga moved faster and faster but eased up on actually sucking on his cock, wanting to coat it with her saliva. Things grew sloppier and sloppier until even his balls grew wet, and then, without warning, she let his cock slip from her lips and crawled towards him.
"Fucking hells, you're good at that," Asha moaned. "If you were anyone else, I'd be tempted to take you back to Pyke and make you my personal cunt li...Helga?"
"Couldn't wait," Helga murmured, resting her head on Asha's shoulder as she nestled the head of his cock between her soaked folds. "I...oh fuck!"
Daemon groaned against Asha's cunt as he felt his shaft become enveloped by her lover's tight heat. She was very used to his size by now and sank down in one smooth motion, taking him to the hilt. Holding onto Asha for support, she started riding him hard and fast, gasping as she felt him hit a particularly sensitive spot inside her.
"I guess I can't...oh fuck, right there...blame you for that," Asha moaned as Daemon sucked her clit into his mouth.
"So fucking good!" Helga cried, bouncing on his cock with wild abandon.
Daemon started thrusting up into her in time with her bounces, pounding her dripping wet cunt hard, and wished that he could have watched her ride him, but his vision was obscured by Asha, which he didn't mind in the slightest. The dark-haired beauty was quivering on him, cleary nearing her orgasm, and he was eager to push her over the edge. Pulling her back a little, he flicked his tongue against her clit with rapid little strokes, grinning when she nearly screamed. Switching back and forth between licking and sucking on the taut, throbbing little nub, he kept his eyes locked onto her dark orbs. Her small breasts jiggled on her chest as she shook and shivered, a litany of curses spilling from her parted lips as the pressure inside her grew maddening.
"Don't stop, don't stop!" Asha cried, her thighs tightening around him as she soared towards her peak. "Fucking hells, I'm going to, go...GAH!"
She screamed as she came hard, gushing all over his face, and Daemon drank down her fluids happily, tightening his grip on her arse enough to leave marks. Helga, whose movements had begun to become erratic as her cries grew louder, still had the presence of mind to reach out and hold onto Asha, keeping her steady as she came.
"Fuck me, you're so big!" the redhead whimpered. "I've never felt this...ahhh...this full. I agree with Asha; I wish we could bring you with us. Keep you tied to a fucking bed and use you every...every NIGHT!"
He pushed Asha off of him gently, letting her fall onto her side as she panted for breath, and sat up, wrapping his arms around the writhing beauty cumming on his cock and holding her tight. He craned his head down and captured one of her nipples with his lips, making her gasp. Rolling them over, he kissed her deeply, and she moaned at the taste of Asha's cunt on his lips.
"More," she panted.
"No, you don't," Asha almost snarled. "You had your fun; now it's my turn."
"That sounds good to me," Daemon chuckled, pulling his cock from Helga's cunt, "but look how pink her little cunt looks. I think it could use some soothing."
"Not that...little now," Helga panted, giggling as she did so.
"You don't need to cloak what you want, Daemon," Asha smirked. "I've always adored the taste of her."
Crawling towards Helga and grinning as the redhead spread her legs wider, Asha wiggled her arse enticingly at Daemon and buried her face in her lover's ginger curls. Daemon felt his cock throb at the sight before him but held back for a moment.
"I will never tire of watching women enjoy each other," he thought to himself, stroking his cock slowly and gently.
"Ahh," Helga hissed. "Careful, I'm still sensitive."
"I can be gentle, Helga," Asha grinned. "You just rarely ever want me to be."
Daemon moved towards them and, fisting his cock, took a moment to line himself up with Asha's dripping quim before pushing forward. She parted for him easily and gasped as she felt him spread her inner walls wide. Helga pulled her face back to her cunt and winked at Daemon, who dug his fingers into the dark-haired woman's hips and grinned. Pushing forward gently, he sank inside her, inch by slow inch, until his hips were pressed against her arse.
"Fuck me!" she cried, the sound muffled by Helga's cunt, though he could hear her anyway.
Even if he hadn't, everything about her screamed the same thing just then, and he was more than happy to oblige her. Pulling most of his cock from her sweltering depths, he thrust back hard, making her cry out in pleasure.
"Just like that!" Asha moaned. "Fuck me hard. Seed me!"
"You know I will," Daemon whispered in her ear, making her shiver. "You're not leaving the North until you're swollen with my child."
"Fuck!" Asha whimpered.
"Are you going to put a babe in that Northerner too?" Helga asked.
"Dacey?" Jon asked. "No. That would be...complicated."
It wouldn't really be, as the Bear Islanders had less strict views of bastardy than even the Dornish. It was well-known that Alysane, unwed as she was, had already had two children and was carrying another one. Lady Maege named them Mormonts without hesitating, and any who questioned it could speak those questions to her mace. They were an insular community with few real ties to anything else beyond their abiding loyalty to House Stark, and what would cause significant scandal and disgrace in most of Westeros barely caused murmurs there.
"I'm not impregnating anyone without Arianne's word," he thought to himself simply. "I know how lucky I am, and I'm not about to fuck that up by being careless."
He'd ensure that his old lover drank moon tea when they got to Last Hearth, though he doubted that he'd need to even ask. The last thing she would have wanted just then was a child, with the state of the North and the threats they faced.
"Harder," Asha demanded, and he grinned.
Working himself up to a hard, fast pace, Daemon groaned as he felt her squeeze around him purposefully. She still didn't care for Dacey. and he wasn't shocked that hearing her mentioned made her want to distract him like this. By the look in Helga's eyes, she was also quite aware of what effect it would have, and soon enough she was throwing her head back and crying out in pleasure as Asha devoured her.
"Gods, you're so fucking tight," Daemon grunted as he picked up his pace further.
The sounds of her moans were muffled by Helga, but there was nothing muffling the sounds of his hips smacking against her arse. Taut and firm as it was, it didn't jiggle quite as much as some of his softer, curvier lovers' arses did when he took them on their hands and knees, but it still did some, and the sight was as mesmerizing as ever. She was so wet that her fluids dripped under them, and the squelching of her cunt added to the symphony of sex all around them.
"Yes, yes, yes!" Helga cried as she neared her peak. "Fuck me, I love how good you are at that."
Asha laughed, though her laughter devolved into a muffled scream as Daemon changed the angle of his thrusts slightly and struck something deep inside her that made her see stars. He grinned as he felt that deep spot give way for the head of his cock and continued thrusting at that angle.
"Fuck, right there!" Asha screamed, and Daemon pushed her back towards Helga's cunt.
"We don't want to make Helga feel neglected, do we?" he asked, grinning widely. "Make her cum, and I'll fuck you until you forget your own name."
"It's only four letters, so that might be a challenge," Helga chuckled.
"You know I can do it," Daemon rumbled.
Rather than reply, Asha dug her fingers into the redhead's thighs and started lapping at her clit, making her gasp.
"Oh gods, yes!" Helga cried, squeaking as Asha pushed three of her thin fingers inside her.
Daemon started fucking her again as she worked to reduce the other Iron Islander to a babbling wreck. Again and again he struck that deep spot inside her, and soon the tent was filled with the sounds of both of them moaning in pleasure. When he felt Asha start to flutter around him, he slowed down, wanting her to make Helga cum first, and from her frustrated growl, he figured that she knew what he wanted.
"Yes, yes!" Helga cried. "Just like that, don't stop, don't you fucking...YES!"
The second she started to cum, Daemon picked up his pace again, taking Asha hard and fast. She raised her head from between the redhead's thighs and started throwing her arse back against him in time with his thrusts, a series of wordless cries spilling from her lips.
"More, more, more, more!" Asha squealed.
Daemon knew she was close, possibly right on the edge, and that he was too. Reaching under her, he stroked her clit and leaned in, whispering, "Cum for me, and I'll fill you up. Cum for me, and I'll make you a mother."
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Asha shrieked as she came.
With a groan, Daemon joined her, letting go and painting her inner walls white with his seed. The two of them rode out the waves of pleasure, with Asha writhing and shaking under him as the two of them collapsed on the ground together. He rolled them onto their sides to keep from crushing her and watched Helga sit up, looking down at her lover with the softest expression he'd ever seen on her face.
"So which one of us is going to get food?" she asked.
"Did you two...bring more than your cloaks?" Daemon panted.
"Our things are piled up behind your chest there," Helga replied. "We're not stupid enough to walk about the camp nearly nude."
"I'll go," Daemon said, pulling his softening cock out of Asha and reaching for his discarded clothes.
"For the best," Asha panted. "Doubt my legs would work...if the tent caught fire."
"You know I'd get you out," Helga smiled, and Asha chuckled, rolling onto her back and draping an arm across her forehead.
He was far from done with them, but fucking while hungry was never quite as fun.
Part of Edric wished that he'd just confided in the prince about what was bothering him, but that would have required him to have a better grasp of it. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't get the image of that bizarrely cute boy out of his mind, and it was driving him mad. It didn't help that he kept seeing him about the camp. One particular incident was burned into his brain and probably would be for all his days.
"Stupid, cuntish armor!" he heard Artos hiss under his breath as he passed by, and he chuckled.
Following the source of the boy's frustrated voice, he found him inside what had to be the smallest tent in their camp, struggling with surprisingly well-made armor. It appeared to be somewhat ill-fitting, though not so much so that it wouldn't be usable at all, but Artos clearly wasn't used to getting in and out of it, and one generally required help with such things anyway.
"Squires exist for a reason, you know," he piped up, earning a squeak from the boy that made him smile.
That smile quickly faded as Artos spun around, his weirdly hypnotic grey eyes glaring balefully at him. Edric felt his heart flutter and wondered not for the first time what was wrong with him.
"How long have you been there?!" Artos demanded.
"Not long," Edric replied, his eyes narrowing at the peasant boy's tone. "Even seasoned knights get help with their armor, you know."
"I just wanted to see how much I could do on my own," Artos grumbled.
"You've actually done surprisingly well," Edric complimented, looking him over.
His gambeson and coat of chainmail he'd put on with ease, but more impressive than that was how he'd managed to get the cuisses, greaves, and sabatons on. The right poleyn wasn't as well tied as the left one, but on the whole, he'd done better than he'd have expected a peasant to do. The cuirass was giving him trouble, but that was to be expected.
"Not well enough," Artos muttered under his breath.
"Like I say, there's a reason squires generally help their knights into their armor," Edric said soothingly. "Turn around, and I'll show you what I mean."
"That...ugh," Artos grunted as Edric spun him around and started adjusting the cuirass into place.
"Where did you get this anyway?" the squire asked.
"M...my father," Artos stuttered as Edric pulled the belts tight and buckled them. "A reward for some service or another; he never specified. He's gone now."
"I'm sorry," Edric murmured.
His father being given such armor was odd, but given how mismatched it seemed, it wasn't impossible per se. If it had been a proper suit of castle-forged steel, that would have been much more unbelievable, but as it was, he had to wonder if some degree of banditry had been involved. Given that the man was dead, though, it wasn't as though he was likely to get answers.
"That...does seem more secure," Artos admitted with obvious reluctance.
"From here we'd add the backplate and then move onto the pauldrons, vambraces, and gauntlets," Edric smiled. "You see why you need someone else?"
"Aye, I get it," Artos grumbled. "Thank you for your help."
"You're welcome," Edric nodded. "Before the battle's to come, I'll be helping Prince Daemon into his armor, but I should be able to help you."
"Why?" Artos asked, turning around and looking up at him suspiciously. "Why help me like this?"
As Edric stared down into the boy's eyes, he found himself wondering the same thing. They were standing so close to each other that he was able to spot a small twig in Artos' short hair, and without thinking, he reached out and grabbed it. The second they touched, he felt a spark and heard the younger boy's breath hitch.
"What are...oh," Artos went to complain only to go quiet as he spotted the twig.
"My lord," Black Flea called out as he joined them. "The prince wants a word."
"Of course," Edric nodded.
"I just don't get it," he thought to himself as he shook his head and tried to forget the memory.
Being Dornish, he was more familiar with the multifarious ways that people could find pleasure and passion than his more prudish counterparts usually were. He understood that some men preferred men to women, but he had never been one of them. Even before he learned what else his cock could be used for, he preferred to look at women. They were soft and often gentle, and even when they weren't, they could often make him smile with a simple glance. Men were harder and rougher, and prior to meeting Artos, there hadn't been a single one who did more to stir his loins than the average tree trunk.
"He is oddly pretty for a boy," he thought to himself. "He's short, slight, and doesn't look like he's ever shaved. Perhaps it's just that he's so unmasculine."
He shook his head and, noticing that the ink had finished drying, rolled up the list he'd jotted down after speaking to Red Worm, the Unsullied's quartermaster. Putting it in the small pouch he had strapped to his belt, he walked through the camp, intending to practice his swordplay a little before grabbing something to eat.
As he walked, he spotted the very boy he'd been fretting about walking towards the camp's perimeter with obvious purpose. He was dressed in his gambeson and chainmail, and Edric wondered if he had had the same idea. Following along, he smiled when he saw Artos draw his sword a little ways into the woods. Unlike his armor, which looked haphazardly cobbled together, the blade in his hand was well suited to him, being small and slender. As he ran through what were obviously familiar training drills, Edric furrowed his brow.
"You're good," he murmured, and Artos started before glaring at him. He glared at Edric often, and just how much he enjoyed that was but one of many things about the boy that confused him.
"You're too bloody sneaky," Artos muttered. "It's weird saying that instead of hearing it."
"Prince Daemon insists that I should aim to be virtually undetectable when possible," Edric replied. Artos laughed, almost seeming like the words were oddly familiar, and the heir of Starfall shook his head as he realized that he even liked his laugh. "Would you like to spar?"
"Why not?" Artos asked, taking his stance.
Skinner's heart hammered in his chest as he fled through the woods. It was just his luck to be able to actually get away from Castle Black and flee through the gift only to run into the entire Northern army. His luck had been terrible for a while now, ever since Ramsay Snow was killed by Prince Daemon. He had served Lord Roose for years when the man's bastard sought him out. Ramsay had been everything that his legitimate brother wasn't, and Skinner suspected strongly back then that his lord wished that the two could be switched.
Serving as one of Ramsay's boys was deeply enjoyable. The Bolton bastard always knew how to have the sort of fun that Skinner enjoyed, and he'd quickly become useful enough to him to be taken into his confidence. Ramsay enjoyed going out into the Bolton lands to find particularly unfortunate souls to indulge himself with and was never one to deny his loyal friends a share of the spoils. One particular day, they happened to venture just beyond the border into the personal fiefdom of the Starks, pursuing a particularly dimwitted merchant, and that's when everything went wrong.
Skinner swallowed thickly at the memory as he skirted around the army's camp, hoping to sneak past them and continue on downward. The prince, in his dark armor, atop his black charger, had come in like a beast from myth as the merchant cried out for help, taking Ramsay's head before he could even say who he was. Accompanied by Ser Barristan Selmy and a pair of other men-at-arms, he'd overwhelmed them instantly, and it had only been the fact that the Kingsguard had engaged and disarmed him that saved his life. The little keepsakes on his person, bits of flayed, tanned skin from his victims, had sealed his fate, and before he could even beg his lord for mercy, he'd been sent to the Wall.
"I need to get to White Harbor," he thought to himself. "With the North distracted, I can get on a ship and flee. The Riverlands, the Crownlands, fucking Essos, I don't care. Anything would be better than serving under that dumb cunt, Estermont, and being torn apart by Wildlings. If the northern army is here, then there's no way that they're going to reach the Wall in time. I knew he was fucking delusional."
The sound of blades clashing reached him, and Skinner dropped to his knees, his hand flying to his hilt as he looked around frantically. The sound was coming from a small clearing nearby, and as he crept along, he noticed that it was just two men. A closer look showed that one of them was little more than a boy and the other wasn't much older. The elder one's armor was well made, and the both of them looked too pampered to be anything but nobles.
"I wonder," he thought to himself, peering closer. "Spars can get heated, and the two of them killing each other might not seem too suspicious to the others if I smear blood on their blades. They likely both have something on them that could fetch me a handful of stags at least."
He grinned to himself and quietly drew his blade.
Arya thrust forward, feinting towards Edric's head only to pivot and stab towards his left shoulder, which he barely parried. He slashed low in response, forcing her to jump, and blocked her riposte with startling ease.
"Did your father train you?" he asked as she redirected his slash away harmlessly. "You're unusually skilled for someone who didn't grow up and train in a castle."
"How many people have you fought who didn't?" Arya asked, hoping to avoid needing to answer questions about her background just then.
"I fought plenty of Dothraki," Edric replied, and she grinned.
Arya had to admit that he was not bad company. When he came to her again after their first meeting, she thought for sure that he suspected something and was trying to investigate her, but she quickly realized that he just kind of liked her, or the boy she was pretending to be, anyway.
"What were they like?" she asked, sidestepping his next blow and forcing him to step back by thrusting her blade at his left leg.
"Monstrous," Edric replied, jumping back from her. "They inflicted pain and terror wherever they went in Essos for centuries. The prince did the entire continent a favor by destroying them."
The two of them circled each other, each one breathing heavily and happy for a moment's respite. Arya remembered him well from the only time they'd met prior. Sansa and her stupid friends had poked fun at her for weeks after his visit, and she'd hated him for a time. He called her pretty. Her. She'd thought for sure that he was insulting her somehow back then and had spent longer than she'd care to admit trying to figure out how. When she failed, she just grew confused and tried to put him out of her mind.
"If anything, he's the pretty one," she thought to herself, "with his stupid fair hair and his stupid purplish blue eyes."
"Do you need a break?" Edric asked. "Your face is rather red."
"No! I...get down!" she screamed as she saw a dark-clad man emerge from the bushes and swing at his head. He wore dark steel armor and a black fur coat, and she suspected he would have been nearly impossible to spot at night if not for his exposed face. He wore a bascinet of similarly dark steel, and if he'd ever had a camail to protect his face and throat, it had been lost at some point.
Edric ducked without hesitation and turned to engage his assailant, only to be caught by his mailed fist across his helmet. The heir of Starfall staggered back, his ears ringing from the strength of the punch, and their attacker shoved him, knocking him back into a tree. He turned then and barely reacted in time to block Arya's thrust as she stabbed towards his throat.
"Fuck," the man grunted, swinging down towards her.
She was wearing her gambeson and chainmail, with her helmet being the most solid piece of armor she'd bothered with for what she envisioned being a simple training exercise. She was better protected than she could have been, but not as well protected as she would have liked and knew that she could ill afford to get hit as the tall, brutish man tried to kill her. She feinted towards his groin and stabbed at his head as he sought to block her. He dodged in time to avoid getting skewered, but she felt her blade catch his jaw and grinned as she drew first blood.
"You'll never be as large or as strong as a man," Daemon had told her once, irritating her in the moment. "Luckily, you don't actually have to be. If you can't match a man's strength, then focus on speed and maneuverability. It takes barely any pressure to open a man's throat, Arya. Put a blade in his hand and even little Rickon could do it."
"Cunt," the man spat, swinging at her in a rage.
Arya stepped back, parrying the blow aside as she saw Edric stand back up.
"You'll never swing a warhammer around, cracking skulls and shattering ribs as you go," Daemon had reiterated in another lesson. "Your focus, should you ever find yourself in actual combat, will need to be speed and patience."
"Speed and patience?" she had asked, wondering how those went together.
"Every time I swing my blade, I expend a little energy," Daemon had explained. "If you learn to move as I'm teaching you, you'll ensure that every movement your opponent makes will tire them more than your countermoves will tire you. A tired opponent will make more mistakes than a fresh one, and one often only needs to capitalize on a single mistake to end a life."
The man brought his sword down towards her in a heavy arc. If Arya had tried to catch the chop outright, it might have broken her blade or forced it from her hand. Instead, she met it with a glancing blow of her own, knocking it just to the side and letting it fall next to her as she stepped closer to her foe. She twisted her wrist, her grip on the hilt tightening slightly as she moved to wield the blade's pommel instead, driving it into the man's mouth.
"Ahh!" he screamed in pain as he felt his teeth crack, and he brought his knee into her stomach.
Even armored as she was, that still knocked the air out of her, and Arya staggered back, falling down as pain radiated through her. Her eyes widened in terror as she saw the man pull back his arm, preparing to try and run her through. Edric charged into him, knocking him to the ground to the left of her, and Arya didn't hesitate to roll over and stab her blade into his exposed throat.
"Don't even think about it," Edric hissed as he stomped on his sword arm, forcing him to let go of his weapon.
Arya winced as she stood up and pulled her blade free, watching blood spray out of the open wound. She breathed heavily, feeling faint, and she felt like she was going to be sick. Tearing frantically at her helmet, she feared that she was about to throw up in it when Edric raised her visor just in time. She puked all over the dying man, her stomach heaving as she emptied it completely.
"What the fuck?" she gasped as it ended, happily accepting Edric's wineskin as he handed it to her.
"You're not the first boy to empty your belly the first time you killed a man," he murmured soothingly.
"Did you?" Arya asked, furious at her own weakness.
"No, but my first kill came in the middle of a pitched battle, so I didn't have the luxury of thinking about it at all," Edric replied.
"Cunt also kneed me in the gut," Arya muttered. "Must have been that."
"Are you okay?" Edric asked.
"I'll be fine," Arya replied. "Who the fuck was he?"
"I have no idea," Edric replied. "I'm more concerned about how a strange armed man was able to get so close to our camp. Who knows what kind of trouble he could have caused? Lord Eddard and the prince will need to be informed."
"What?" Arya squeaked. "I need to go."
"Artos, you killed the man," Edric said incredulously. "You'll be commended for it. I'll likely earn my spurs soon, and the prince could take a second squire anyway. Given your skill, I think…"
"No!" Arya exclaimed. "Erm, I'm just a lowborn nobody. I've never met a lordling before you, much less royalty. I'm going to go sleep this off. Don't think I could keep food down just now."
Before he could say another word, she ran, leaving a very confused Dornishman in her wake.
"He just attacked you in the woods?" Daemon asked, having been summoned to look at the corpse after a pair of Unsullied helped him drag it to camp.
"I know this man," Ser Barristan murmured. "He's one of the ones we sent to the wall back when he used to hunt bandits to alleviate your boredom, my prince."
"I wasn't aware you left any alive," Robb chuckled.
"I had off days," Daemon quipped.
"A deserter," Ned said grimly. "I somehow doubt he's the only one loose in our lands just now."
"A mind-numbing show of stupidity coming so close to our camp," Robb chuckled.
"I doubt it was intentional," Daemon murmured. Turning to Edric, he asked, "Ned, what were you doing in the woods?"
"Sparring with one of the peasant conscripts," Edric replied. "He's actually the one who killed him."
"Where is he?" Ned asked.
"Went to sleep off the fight, my lord," Edric replied. "He'd clearly never killed before and also seemed oddly shy about meeting royalty."
"I was going to ask about the vomit," Daemon grimaced. "Burn him."
"Yes, my prince," Blue Worm nodded.
"Thank the gods we'll be reaching the castle tomorrow," Ned muttered, shaking his head.
As the others left for their tents, Edric turned to Daemon and blurted out, "Could we speak?"
Daemon turned to him and cocked an eyebrow, saying, "Certainly. Is something wrong?"
"I…" Edric went to say only to blush and look away.
"We can go to the end of the Unsullied area of the camp," Daemon murmured softly, concerned. "Even if any of them overhear us, you know they care about very little."
"Thank you," Edric sighed, following him.
The sun had set by then, and it was quite dark, but braziers were still lit all over the area, giving some illumination for the guards to see more clearly. Given the intrusion by the escaped man of the Night's Watch, they were particularly on edge. They passed a few Unsullied who were still awake, standing like sentinels as they watched for anything suspicious, and the two of them ducked into a supply tent.
"Alright, now what's bothering you?" Daemon asked quietly. "You've seemed unsettled all day and frankly for longer than that."
"You've been with many, many women over the years," Edric began.
"I have," Daemon murmured, wondering where he was going with this. Of all the things he'd expected to be bothering his squire, a woman wasn't one of them, considering how few of them there were around just then.
"Has your gaze ever turned to...someone who...wasn't a woman?" Edric asked, looking down.
"Oh, oh," Daemon choked, genuinely surprised. "Um, no, never. That's not something that I would ever be inter…"
"It's not you," Edric rushed out, and Daemon breathed a sigh of relief.
"It's that peasant, isn't it?" Daemon asked, realizing that would explain his squire spending time with a random northerner.
"Yes," Edric replied. "His name's Artos, and...I just don't understand it. I had more than a dozen Dothraki women back in Essos and more than a few women in King's Landing. I've never felt anything for...someone like this, and I…"
"Ned," Daemon cut him off. "Are you any less attracted to women now than you were before you met this Artos?"
"No," Edric replied. Lowering his voice even more, he added, "Nor am I any more attracted to men. It would honestly confuse me less if I were."
"When you wed down the line, will you be any less willing to do your duty and continue your line now than you were before?" Daemon asked.
"So long as she's pretty, no," Edric replied honestly.
"Then, does it really matter?" Daemon asked. "You can decide to discreetly indulge this sudden desire or not, but so long as it doesn't have a negative impact on the rest of your life, I'd advise against worrying about it too much."
"You really think so?" Edric asked.
"I'm not exactly the picture of normalcy, Ned," Daemon chuckled. Between the many, many women who warmed his bed and the fact that he was going to be siring his nieces and nephews on behalf of his brother, he wasn't really in any position to judge others. "What's this...Artos like? An odd name for one of the smallfolk."
"He's...a little younger than I am and small yet fierce," Edric replied. "The only sense I can make of what I feel is that he's actually rather feminine for a boy. He has short brown hair, really nice grey eyes, and such skill with a blade that I was actually thinking about suggesting that you test him out and see if you'd be willing to take him on as a second squire."
"A suggestion you're making for entirely impersonal reasons, I'm sure," Daemon quipped, and Edric blushed.
"He actually is rather good," he insisted, "and I don't think he has any family left."
"I suppose I could evaluate his skills," Daemon murmured. "Um, one bit of advice that I'd be remiss not to offer is that it's really not possible to use too much oil when you…"
"I learned that with the Dothraki," Edric cut him off, and Daemon nodded. "Thank you, my prince, for listening."
"Like I say, so long as you're discreet about certain things, even in Dorne, I wouldn't worry too much about what your desires mean," Daemon said, patting his shoulder. "I'll see you in the morning."
Edric nodded, and Daemon left, eager to return to Asha and Helga, whose sleeping forms he'd been sandwiched between when he was disturbed.
Last Hearth wasn't the grandest or most spectacular castle in Westeros, but any castle was better than an army camp in the middle of the bloody North, so as it came into view, the men pushed harder to reach it, and it wasn't even midday before they managed it. Daemon had been there only once before, when he accompanied his uncle on a visit, and he had to admit that there was a certain rustic charm to the fortress. Far more interesting was the large forest that surrounded it. It didn't come close to the Wolfswood, of course, but it was thick, lush, and teeming with game.
"My Lord," Mors Umber greeted his nephew.
"Uncle," Jon nodded. "Has there been word from Castle Black?"
"Nothing that differs from what we'd already seen," Mors replied. "There is an urgent letter for you, Lord Eddard, that came just this morning."
"I see," Ned nodded, accepting the sealed letter from the older man.
Mors was as huge as any Umber and aged, with a thick white beard and greatly receded hair. He'd lost an eye long before Daemon ever met him and kept either a white patch over it or a rounded chunk of dragonglass in the socket. He'd elected for the latter that morning, and the black orb shone with the light of the bright sun. He heard his uncle's breath hitch and looked over, his brow furrowing in concern as he saw the man pale instantly.
"Make use of my solar, Ned," Jon offered, realizing immediately that the news hadn't been good. "Uncle Mors, show him to it. Uncle Hothar, make sure that the army is settled in where we can and taken care of."
"Yes, my Lord," Hothar, Mors' brother and the co-castallan of Last Hearth nodded.
"Robb, Daemon, with me," Ned commanded, following after Mors.
"Father's what's…" Robb went to ask.
"Not here," Ned hissed.
Now Daemon was truly worried. His uncle, for as long as he'd known him, had been the picture of stoic calm. He'd pissed the man off more than once as a boy, as had all of his cousins at one point or another, and yet he'd never seen him so disturbed. Mors led them to a small, sparsely decorated room that seemed to fit what he knew of the Greatjon well enough, and Ned barely thanked him before closing the door.
"Father, what in the world is happening?" Robb asked. "That was the seal of Winterfell, yes?"
"I…" Ned stammered, running a hand through his beard. "Arya's gone missing."
"What?!" Robb exclaimed, grabbing the letter. As he read it, he slapped a hand over his mouth and breathed, "Oh gods."
"What happened?" Daemon asked, a sense of dread overtaking him at the thought of his favorite cousin being in danger.
"She didn't go to Bear Island with the Mormont party," Ned replied. "Catelyn's hysterical, as you can imagine, and we don't have all the details yet, but we do know that Alysane Mormont was given a letter, apparently written in my hand, with my seal, saying that I'd changed my mind about sending her. All we know is that she's not in Winterfell, and she's not on Bear Island."
"Could the wildlings have…" Robb went to ask, sounding nauseous.
"Who among the Wildlings could read or write?" Daemon asked, incredulously.
"Their supposed king was once a man of the Night's Watch," Ned pointed out, his grey eyes wide with fear. "Gods, if they have her…"
That didn't make any sense to Daemon. It had been a couple days since he had last spied on the wildlings, but nothing about what he had seen of them suggested that they had the faintest inkling that they were about to get as big of a bargaining chip as this. Having Arya would give them a real way to force his uncle to negotiate and he'd have expected Mance and the other more prominent ones to be at least a little less grim than they were if such a thing were a possibility for them. At the very least, the really boisterous one, Tormund, should have said something, surely.
"We have to...what do we do?" Robb asked.
"Wait, wait, wait," Daemon muttered, his mind racing as he recalled the last time he saw Arya.
"I spent enough time in these halls to know she's hiding something," Ser Barristan commented once she was out of earshot.
"She's doing something she shouldn't be, I'm sure," Daemon chuckled. "Whatever it is, she'll be on her way to Bear Island; come by this time tomorrow, and whatever trouble she makes there, she'll be safe at least."
"Yes, when has a child of House Stark ever caused dangerous trouble on Bear Island?" Ser Barristan asked dryly, making him snort.
She had looked like she was up to something, and Daemon had thought that her acceptance of going to Bear Island when she so desperately wanted to join the fight seemed to be a little too easily gained. That memory led to a far more recent one, and the prince slapped a hand over his mouth to hide his relieved smile as one particular possibility occurred to him.
"He's...a little younger than I am and small yet fierce," Edric replied. "The only sense I can make of what I feel is that he's actually rather feminine for a boy. He has short brown hair, really nice grey eyes, and such skill with a blade that I was actually thinking about suggesting that you test him out and see if you'd be willing to take him on as a second squire."
"Oh, fucking hells," he groaned, doing his best to push his entire face into his palm.
"What is it?" Ned asked, furrowing his brow in confusion as he saw the tension leave his nephew's form.
"I think I might know where she is," Daemon muttered, shaking his head.
"What?" Ned asked, a hint of hope in his eyes. "Where?"
"Just outside the walls of this very keep," Daemon sighed.
"What?!" Ned and Robb exclaimed in unison.
Daemon sighed again and, as he prepared to explain just where he thought Arya was and why, he tried not to consider the fact that he'd very likely given his squire advice last night about how to bugger her.