Chapter 1: The Unraveling
The outer walls of Pyke seemed rather brittle compared to Storm's End and Winterfell, as they crumbled with from the continued attack of catapults and mangonels. Eddard had thought that they would need to build up more siege equipment, raising trebuchets, towers, before they would ever commit to an assault.
But the walls of Pyke cracked and collapsed, sending defenders tumbling to their deaths.
The first man through the breach was surely a mad drunk, waving around a sword dripping in green viscous flames. That man would have been Robert wielding war-hammer, had Eddard not convinced his friend to hold back.
But Robert was insistent on taking part in the battle, so Eddard led the second wave forward composed primarily of his own retinue and men from around Winterfell. The king had raged to join the front rank, but Eddard steeled himself and convinced him to bring up the rear with the Kingsguard.
Ice in hand, Eddard cut through the Ironborn, his men advancing in disciplined formation behind him as they pushed toward the stone bridge leading to the Great Keep. The defenders, nearly overwhelmed by the first wave, fell back in disarray when they spotted the second. It seemed that the Greyjoys did not have much time to prepare.
Then a figure stepped forward. Eddard recognized him at once: Marlon Greyjoy, the new heir after his brother's death at Seagard. They'd met him earlier that day in a parley, where Marlon spurned their offer of returning to the King's Peace.
Marlon lifted his two-handed axe and bellowed his challenge for all to know.
Some men of his retinue made to step forward and answer, but Eddard was faster, the weight of his father's sword feeling familiar after so many years of training with it.
The fight was unconventional. Marlon swung his axe wildly, while dodging Eddard's strikes with a clear wariness for the Valyrian steel blade. But Eddard had fought Arthur Dayne at that accursed tower, where he had also slain Ser Gerold Hightower in single combat. Marlon Greyjoy was no Kingsguard, though his ferocity made him rather dangerous.
Then— Eddard feinted, dodged Marlon's axe, and closed the distance.
To his credit, Marlon dropped the overextended axe and stabbed with a dagger—only for Ice to sever his head in one in the next moment.
A searing pain flared from his side where Marlon's dagger had lashed out. Gritting his teeth, Eddard pressed on toward the Ironborn's wavering shield wall, his men at his heels.
Ironborn jabbed at him with spears from behind their shields. Eddard carefully dodged the spear tips, before cutting through the wooden shafts with Ice. He then countered, darting forward to drive Ice through shield, armor, and flesh before retreating back to his men. Leaving holes for the defenders to plug as they continued falling back over the bridge.
He repeated this a few times, slaying a few of the bolder Ironmen standing within the front rank, so they could be replaced by less sure men from behind. It was a slow and meticulous process, as Eddard probed the enemy for any weakness.
The Ironborn retreated toward the Great Keep's gates, Eddard and his men stalking like wolves.
There—
A man stumbled. Eddard charged, clearing the short distance in a single breath. Ice flashed in a killing swing past the man's lowered shield. The Ironborn was dead before he even hit the ground. Before another could take his place, Ice arched again.
Eddard swung Ice in a wide, relentless arc. Where a normal greatsword might have just kept foes at bay, Ice cut through everything it touched—steel, gambeson, and bone parting like parchment. Taking another step forward, Eddard kept swinging Ice around and around as whoever could not retreat was simply torn apart.
The seemingly solid shield wall now had a wide breach.
His men needed no command. With a roar, they surged forward, weapons with maces and axes and swords.
"STARK!"
"WINTERFELL!"
They struck hard, and struck fast, widening the breach even further. Denying the Ironborn any chance to regroup.
This had been how Eddard had routed Rhaegar's line on the Trident. Greatswords would advance to shatter the pikes and spears, while probing the ranks for any weakness. Once a breach is made, a Mass of Northmen would surge forward and tear apart the enemy formation.
The Greyjoy men tried to close the gates, but by then, Eddard's men were already upon them. Order became chaos; retreat became rout.
Eddard had been expecting the castle to be held by seasoned warriors. But Pyke's garrison had been mediocre at best.
Eddard ignored the rather quick decent into looting, as he made his way up to the family wing of the Great Keep following directions from some of the Thralls he had freed.
At the corridor's end, a barred door. A single kick shattered it.
Inside, terrified women and children huddled together. Before them stood their last defender: a tall woman with silver hair and cold blue eyes, armored and gripping a long axe—Alannys Harlaw, Balon's Queen.
"My lady," Eddard gave the women a brief bow.
"Stark!" The woman spat. "You killed my son!"
"Aye." He saw no point in denial, the room had a window which overlooked the stone bridge. "In this war began by your husband."
"Damn you!" She trembled. "Damn Balon!"
"Now you've come to butcher the rest?" She asked him
The memory of the Iron Throne's steps flashed before him—small bodies wrapped in Lannister crimson.
"No harm will come to you," Eddard assured her. "I swear it! By the Gods of the Forests and Rivers and Mountains."
Alannys faltered, though her grip on the axe remained. Then she raised her axe in the air, a cold fire in her eyes. And Eddard thought that it might come to a fight after all, as the grieving mother before tried to take her vengeance from the enemy who had invaded her home.
The moment passed, and Lady Alannys stepped back, lowering her axe.
Eddard left her there as he made his way back out. Already there some men who were making their way to the upper floors for more looting. Leaving behind thirty men from his retinue to guard the room, Eddard made his way back down to the lower levels trying to restore order.
"Ned!" Robert found him, grinning wildly, his warhammer crusted with blood. "That was a damned fine fight!"
"The castle is yours, your grace." Eddard said warily. "You must call for them to spare those who surrender."
Robert nodded, still grinning. "Where were you, just now?"
"Securing Lady Greyjoy and her children." Eddard scrunched up his face slightly. "I left men there to defend her."
"Seven hells, Ned," Robert grumbled. "You think I'd harm them? Six years, and you still—"
"How could I not?" Eddard retorted. Every time he looked at his wife, every time he looked at his children. When Sansa was born, when Arya— The ghosts of Elia and her children lingered in every shadow.
Jaime Lannister's voice cut in. "You're wounded, Stark."
Eddard blinked, glancing down, Eddard realized that some of the blood on his surcoat was his own. The liquid seeped from Marlon's dagger strike. With the veil of battle fury having worn off, Eddard finally registered that he felt much pain from the wound.
"Found a gap in the armor," he muttered. "Shallow, but bleeding."
"It is bleeding wound, Ned." Robert said with a frown. "Go back to the camp and find a Maester."
"Balon—" Eddard tried.
"I will deal with him," Robert was having none of it. "To the maester, Ned."
A command from the King was given, and Eddard could only obey.
Eddard never remembered the aftermath of battles, and Pyke was no different than all his others. He must have made his way out of the castle the same way he had entered, passing by the scores of dead and wounded of both sides. Some fallen by his own hand, their lifeblood running on the ground.
He couldn't recall making it back to his tent or if he even had the presence of mine to summon a Maester or if it was one of his guards who did so.
Rodrik Cassel entered his tent a few (Hours? Days?) later informing him that the war was over.
Balon Greyjoy was executed, along with many other Lords and captains who started the war.
Young Theon Greyjoy was made the ward of Stannis Baratheon, while his mother the Lady Greyjoy will rule the Islands as regent alongside her brother, Rodrik Harlaw.
It was a much harsher verdict that what Eddard would have wanted, as Balon had bent the knee to Robert after the battle. Admittedly after his armies and fleets had been utterly defeated, but still.
There was nothing to be done about it now.
Robert invited him to a grand tourney in Lannisport which Eddard was thankfully able to decline rather quickly.
"My wife is with child again," He explained, as he had gotten word of such in Seaguard. "I must be with her."
Robert looked astonished. "Would this be your third with Cat?"
"My fourth," Eddard hummed. "My third was born just before this war started."
Arya, with her Stark coloring and features, wolf's blood clear in her veins as she kept the whole castle awake with her howls.
Robert laughed, clapping him on the shoulder and giving him congratulations.
The trip from Pyke back to Seaguard was pure misery, as the wound by his side got more and more painful.
Seaguard's Maester inspected it, only to assure him that it will heal in time.
It did not.
After three days on the road, Eddard developed a fever and had to be tied to his horse.
He barely remembered the rest of the journey back to Winterfell.
Days and weeks passed, but Eddard could barely make out the passing of time from the fog that descended on his mind.
He kept having strange, vivid dreams.
Of his father and brother and mother.
Of people he was sure he had long forgotten the face of, but who now haunted him while awake or while he slept.
His mind finally cleared when he entered Winterfell and saw his wife waiting for him with a belly that was only now beginning to round.
Eddard did not know what came over him when he lifted his wife into the air and spun her around, kissing her all the while for everyone to see. But he was so happy to see her, despite only a few moons of separation.
Robb, Jon and Sansa shrieked in joy when he did the same with them.
It had been so many years—
Years?
How could that be?
It only took a day for the fog to return again, as Eddard soon found himself bedridden by the orders of his own Maester.
The wound had not festered, as Luwin had originally feared.
But there was something wrong with Eddard and the Maester could not even guess as to what.
The world descended into sweat and fire, as all Eddard could see were dreams.
So many, many dreams. Fleeting one that he forgot whenever he woke.
But he did not let the fog consume him.
He still had a duty to his wife and children.
Servants and guards were both alarmed as Eddard slowly made his way to the Great Hall, clutching onto Ice as if a cane to support himself and refusing help from anyone.
This was his duty; he had to do this. He could not die and leave his wife alone with an underaged heir.
He could see the Lords Hornwood and Cerwyn in the great hall, along with their wives. While the brothers Galbert and Robett Glover were also present and waiting for him. Besides them stood Ser Wylis Manderly, along with some of Eddard's Flint cousins who had been serving in his retinue on Pyke.
He did not think they would arrive so quickly, since it had only been a few days since Eddard summoned them. (Days? Weeks?)
Eddard did not dare to look at his wife and children, lest he loses concentration. The grey granite wolf throne of the Winter Kings had not been a seat that Eddard had ever dared to claim. It was his father's seat, and it ought to have been Brandon's after him. But such reluctance would only be seen as weakness, and so Eddard sat the throne of his ancestors.
He felt a strange bit of power from the throne but ignored it for the task ahead of him.
"All of you…" He started and immediately had to take deep breaths to center himself. "Stand here today as witness to what may be my last will."
There was alarm and disquieted whispers from the slowly building crowd.
"My lord!" Luwin came up beside him, distressed. "You should not be—"
"Quill and parchment, Maester." Eddard ordered softly, as he looked the older man in the eye.
Eddard closed his eyes for a moment, trying to stop his heavy breathing.
"I, Eddard son of Rickard, son of Edwyle, of House Stark. Magnar Arfi, by right of inheritance through ten and four hundred generations, from the line of Brandon the Builder—"
Where was this coming from? It was in the Old Tongue, meaning the Lord Heir. But he did not recall the title from any of his lessons and could hardly comprehend why he had spoken it.
"Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North. Do hereby declare, being still sound of mind, the following: If in the event of my demise, all of my lands and titles are hereby to pass unto my son and heir, Robb Stark. With the exception of those monies and lands set aside for dowry and allowance unto my other children. As the heir is not yet of age to inherit, I hereby appoint two regents to rule in his name. My beloved wife, Catelyn, Lady of Winterfell. And my maternal aunt, Branda Stark, Dowager Lady of Amberly."
His aunt would serve as a good advisor to his wife, as well as ensuring that the regency does not seem like a Tully take over to his vassals.
Maester Luwin brought over the document, and Eddard quickly signed before watching it go around the room to be signed by every highborn witness.
Let this be enough.
While in bed the next day, the fog in his mind came back twice as strong as before.
And Eddard surrendered himself to it, hoping to finally rest.
But there was no rest afterwards.
His dreams returned, and this time they were not so fleeting.
At first, Eddard thought it a great blessing.
The fog had dragged him under, but now—now he saw them.
Robb, no longer the small boy of seven who had clung to his leg when he rode off to war, but tall and strong, his auburn hair gleaming like Catelyn's in the torchlight. He wore a crown of bronze and iron, his blue eyes fierce with command. My son, Ned thought, his chest swelling with pride. A king.
Jon, a shy and quiet boy no longer, as he wielded a magical blade to slay monsters of legend. His nephew was fierce and brave, leading the Night's Watch into battle and fighting with his men in the front. As courageous and strong as his mother had been.
Sansa, no longer the toddling girl who barely reached his knee, but a woman grown, her Tully-red hair cascading like a river down her back. She wore a gown of silver and blue, her embroidery needle flashing as she worked. So, like her mother, Ned marveled.
Arya, no longer the babe, but a lean, wild thing, her dark hair cropped short, a sword in her hand. She moved like water, like wind—like a wolf. So much like her aunt.
And someone else, Bran, he instinctively knew. A child not yet born, and who he might never get to meet. Running around Winterfell with a direwolf pup following after him.
For a moment, Ned's heart soared. They live. They thrive.
Then the visions twisted.
Robb—his boy, his heir. His crown was no longer bronze and iron, but red. Blood dripped from its points, running down his brow. His blue eyes were wide, his mouth open in a silent scream as a knife slid between his ribs as men laughed and drank. A feast. A slaughter. His son's body, mutilated, his direwolf's head sewn onto his shoulders.
Eddard tried to scream, but no sound came.
"The King in the North!" they cheered, as his son's body hit the floor.
Eddard tried to lunge forward, but he could not move or interfere.
The scene shifted.
Sansa's blue and silver gown was torn. Her hands trembled as the man with the mockingbird traced a finger down her cheek, his voice a serpent's whisper. "You're safe with me, sweetling."
Her eyes were hollow, cold as Lyanna's had been.
No. No. No.
Eddard wanted it to stop, but he could not even close his eyes to it.
Arya, his baby. Killed and thrown into a canal. Utterly forgotten to the world.
Please stop!
Then Bran, his child yet to be born. Sat in a cavern of roots, his legs withered, his eyes wrong. Eyes now red in color and staring into nothing.
No. No, no, no—
The world twisted, and suddenly, Eddard stood atop a tower taller than all the world bellow it. Not Rhaegar's tower in the Red Mountains, but something older, something wrong. The stones pulsed like flesh beneath his feet. The sky was a sickly green, swirling with shapes that hurt to look at.
And before him—perched on the parapet—was the crow.
Not a bird. Not truly.
It was too large, its feathers glistening like oil, its beak curved like a dagger. And its eyes, three eyes, red as blood—watched him with something like amusement.
"Eddard Stark," it croaked, its voice the sound of rusted hinges. "How good of you to finally join me. I have been trying to call you hear for some time now."
The fog, Eddard quickly realized. But tongue was heavy in his mouth. He could not speak.
The crow tilted its head. "You are dying. That foolish Kraken coated his blade in red weirwood sap, believing it to be merely poisonous."
"A foolish notion, but it has thus giving me this fine opportunity.
"
Opportunity for what? Eddard wanted to ask.
The thing flapped its wings, and the air smelled of burning flesh. "Your wife carries a child. A boy. The greatest greenseer who will ever live. And you… you are in the way."
"Be grateful, Eddard Stark, that we are allowing you to serve as a necessary sacrifice so that your son's power may become so much more powerful."
"If you die now," the crow mused, "the future unfolds as it should. Your son will be born sooner and thus come to me sooner. His power will be greater. And the world will be remade."
Another vision, the Sept of Baelor, his own head rolling. Sansa screaming as a crowd cheered.
"Better this than that, no?" the crow taunted. "A quiet death in your bed."
His breath came in ragged gasps. The children, his babes, broken, slaughtered, used.
Rage, hot and blinding, erupted in his chest.
The crow laughed, a sound like bones breaking, and with a flick of its wing, Eddard was falling.
The tower rushed past him, the spikes below gleaming like daggers. He saw the bodies impaled upon them—men, women, children, their faces twisted in agony. A thousand other dreamers who fell there. But he also saw his family. His people.
All he could feel was the rage burning in his chest, and in that moment, he felt the same slight power he felt when sitting on his ancestor's throne.
Eddard reached forward.
His fingers closed around the crow's wing. It shrieked, its feathers slicing his palms, but he did not let go. He would not.
"You dare—?!"
Eddard squeezed.
The crow's cries turned to screams. The world shuddered. The tower cracked.
And then—
A man.
Gnarled hands clawed at Eddard's wrists. A face, ancient and ruined, one eye red, the other closed.
"Release me!"
Eddard did not.
He wrapped his hands around the creature's throat and crushed.
The world burned. The sky split. Pain lanced through his skull—memories not his own flooded him. A thousand years of watching. Of scheming, of waiting. Brynden Rivers—no, something wearing his skin, the three eyed crow. The Children's whispers. The Wall's curse. The Long Night.
Bran. Always Bran.
The crow's body went limp.
Silence.
Then—
Eddard gasped, his knees hitting the tower's edge. The corpse in his hands was dust, swirling into the abyss below.
The horrific world around him bent.
The green sky darkened. The tower groaned. And Eddard understood.
The power was his now.
The knowledge of it was a blade in his mind. The memories, too much, too vast, threatened to unmake him. He shut his eyes, trembling, and let the darkness take him.
The last thing he heard was the wind howling, or perhaps it was the crow, laughing still.
Author Notes:
Imma be honest with you all, I have no idea when I am going to update this one. Those of you who familiar with my other stuff are probably about to get a stroke just by thinking about my usual update schedule. Better off just believing this to be a one-shot, with possibly a few more chapters coming.
Oh and AU stuff so far is that Marlon Greyjoy didn't die when the walls fell down, and he happened to be carrying a dagger covered in weirwood sap and seeds which usually kills people and acts as a kind of poison that Marlon likes using. My headcanon for this is that Marlon was aware that his Uncle Euron was some kind of witch/magic user and was planning to use the dagger on him in the future.
The only other thing is that Bran was born earlier than his canon counter part, and the Three Eyed crow wanted to use an opportunity to strengthen his next successor.
