~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and all rights for characters, plots and settings belong to G.R.R. Martin and FromSoftware. I have no ownership.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The north remembers. The Red Wedding, Lady Hornwood's fingers, the sack of Winterfell, Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square, they remember all of it."
Theon Greyjoy
"My son Wendel came to the Twins a guest. He ate Lord Walder's bread and salt, and hung his sword upon the wall to feast with friends. And they murdered him. Murdered, I say, and may the Freys choke upon their fables. I drink with Jared, jape with Symond, promise Rhaegar the hand of my own beloved granddaughter ... but never think that means I have forgotten. The north remembers, Lord Davos. The north remembers, and the mummer's farce is almost done. My son is home."
Wyman Mandarly
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Westeros, North
301 AC
Wyman Mandarly
At his urging, they chose his tent as the meeting place, which was located in their previous camp, right next to the battlefield—if that's what he could call what had happened there.
For the king, as if straight out of the Age of Heroes, was a true force of nature in combat. Stronger than ten men, faster than a shadowcat, and possessed incredible magical abilities.
Wyman still recalled the moment when Aerion Targaryen rose into the air amidst ranks of enemy soldiers, and above him, a roaring dragon's head appeared, from which a veritable river of sapphire flames erupted, consuming hundreds of men.
Combined with his own men, the spirits serving the king, and his animal companions, they crushed the Bolton and Frey armies with very few casualties. A few dead and dozens wounded.
Had he not witnessed it all, he would never have believed it. The maesters proclaimed that magic was dead, but right before him was the best proof that this was nonsense. For Aerion Targaryen was as magical as could be imagined.
In this situation, all of Wyman's previous plans were rendered meaningless. Even if Onion Knight returned with Rickon Stark, his cousin would have the upper hand.
Like Eddard Stark's youngest son, the king bore the blood of the Kings of Winter, and he had a legitimate claim to the Iron Throne. Moreover, he possessed what truly mattered most: power in its purest form.
Power. Not the kind guaranteed by gold or birth, nor the kind bestowed upon the soldiers who served you. It was personal power, power that no one could take from you, power that was not dependent on others, and was thus far more terrifying.
But in the current situation, with Westeros torn by war, perhaps it was the kind of power needed to bring peace. The only threat to the young king might be his aunt, who, according to the latest news, was still in Meereen, over 3,000 miles as the crow flies from the shores of the Seven Kingdoms.
No, their current problem was Cersei and Blackfyre, who had landed in the Stormlands, a fact the king might not even know about yet, though with his powers, he couldn't rule anything out.
He also preferred not to think about what Ser Davos had told him. For if the news about the Others were true, and the tales and legends were more than just fables, something far worse than a fight for the Iron Throne awaited them.
His gaze fell on his young king. Wyman had seen many powerful lords and rulers in his life, including Robert Baratheon, whose figure, back then, resembled that of the Warrior himself rather than that of a fat, drunken fool.
Aerion Targaryen, however, had something inhuman about him, but Wyman didn't think of it negatively. It was more of a presence, an aura surrounding the king. Power radiated from the young man, making the atmosphere in the tent seem somewhat oppressive.
And the king's golden eye, as if a tiny sun had been set in his eye socket, sent shivers down his spine. He wouldn't be surprised if the king told him he'd gouged it out from some god and stuck it in his own eye socket.
The king was remarkably calm, but the same couldn't be said for the others. Stannis Baratheon could barely sit still, his eyes clouded, his face carved like granite.
Lord Storm's End had a tough nut to crack. On the one hand, he himself was a contender for the Iron Throne, with his own plans and ambitions.
On the other hand, if it weren't for the king, he would likely be dead or on the run while his army was shattered. Furthermore, from what Wyman understood, Stannis's wife and daughter were on the Wall, and most of his depleted army were Northerners.
Not to mention that if the king wanted to, he could kill them all faster than they could blink. Stannis had practically no pieces on the board, while the young king had all of them.
In the end, whether he wanted to or not, Stannis would submit. He had little choice. He knew it, Wyman knew it, and most importantly, the king knew it.
Wyman's gaze now fell on Mors Umber, who had been staring at the king from the start as if he were Brandon the Builder reborn or one of the Old Gods who had descended among them.
The Lord of White Harbor had no doubt that the old warrior would leap into the fire if the king ordered him. This was all the more surprising, as he had expected suspicion and resentment directed at the young Targaryen. The king might be a Stark, but he looked like a typical dragonlord.
Yet, contrary to the stereotypical stubbornness and traditionalism of the Umbers, Mors had become Aerion Targaryen's staunchest supporter within the space of an hour.
Wyman could only guess at the reason. Was it the king's sheer strength or his presence? Or perhaps the old warrior believed he was the best chance for the North and for reclaiming his brother from the Freys?
In any case, he could only hope that the other lords of the North would just as readily submit to the authority of their new king.
"So what now?" Stannis asked, breaking the silence that filled the tent. The king looked at Lord Storm's End with a slightly raised eyebrow.
"Isn't it obvious, my lord? We will recapture Winterfell and restore order to the North," he replied with a slight smile, then added in a more serious tone.
"For now, I would like to hear your answer, Lord Stannis. Will you kneel? And before you answer, let me assure you of one thing. Regardless of your answer, your wife and daughter will be safe." The king's words surprised all three of them, including Wyman.
Stannis looked at the young king with a frown. "Are you really willing to give up such an advantage over me?" Why?"
Aerion looked at each of them in turn, then his gaze settled again on the southern lord. "Much has happened recently, and I have experienced things that have changed me in more ways than one. However, I would like to think that I have not lost my honor and conscience."
He cleared his throat and, as if giving himself time to gather his thoughts, reached for the mug of ale on the table in front of him. After taking a hearty swig, he continued.
"Many may call me a fool for this, claiming that people in our position cannot afford sentimentality and weakness of this kind. If that is the case, it is no wonder that our world is such a shitty place. If it is to remain so, perhaps it would be better if the Others took us all away."
Stannis opened his mouth as if he wanted to respond, but after a moment he closed it, apparently giving up. Instead, he took a hearty swig from his untouched mug.
Aerion smiled faintly. "I also think I have a considerable advantage over other rulers when it comes to stubbornly sticking to my sense of what is just. I can crush any fool who tries to betray me or use my heart against me with my bare hands."
Wyman smiled to himself. Perhaps after all the tragedies that had befallen them, and if they survived what was to come, they would finally have a king who truly deserved to sit on the Iron Throne.
After all, the Targaryen family had already had many members who died prematurely, even though they showed promise of becoming great rulers. Baelor Breakspear, Baelon the Brave, and Rhaegar Silver Prince were just some of the most notable examples.
"You are not a god, and you should not forget that. There is no creature more treacherous than man. People will always find a way to get to you or your loved ones. And betrayal can come from the most unexpected source," said Stannis in a gloomy tone, as if remembering something.
The king smiled slightly in response, "I realize that, but believe me, I will be much stronger, and the network of spies I am building will be unmatched... Anyway, before we get down to business, I ask you once again. Lord Stannis, your decision."
The king's gaze, like that of Mors Umber, now rested on Baratheon, who gritted his teeth, but before he could reply, Wyman interjected, "My lord, before you answer, you should know that Storm's End no longer belongs to you. Nor does most of the Stormlands."
Stannis's head turned toward him so quickly that he thought he heard a crack in his neck. The man's eyes were burning. "What do you mean? Are you saying that the Lannister's have taken a stronghold that has not fallen in millennia?"
Wyman just shook his head, glancing at the king, wondering if he somehow knew about the events in the south. But the king seemed equally intrigued by his words.
"It was not the Lannister's who took it, but the Golden Company, in the service of a young man who calls himself Aegon VI, son of Prince Rhaegar and Ellie," he replied, waiting for their reaction. The king's face remained inscrutable, his eyes too inhuman to read.
Stannis, however, shook his head. "That's impossible. I haven't seen them myself, but Robert had many Stormlands lords with him who have seen Aegon and Rhaenys many times. The Mountain crushed the child's head, not his face."
Wyman nodded. "I think so too, my lord. I believe we are dealing with a living Blackfyre. The Golden Company would not follow a Targaryen. Not them."
"So not only do we have to defeat the Boltons, the Freys, and the Lannister's, but now there is another pretender to the throne," said Mors Umber for the first time, looking at the king.
Before the king could respond, Stannis interjected, "I will kneel. And I will swear an oath to you, Your Majesty," he said, his face showing pure resolve, though he sayed the last words through his teeth.
"Not because I have no men, nor because I have lost my lands, but because you promised my family immunity," he added, then looked hard at the king. "But I want to know what you need me for. I have no men, I have no land. I am no longer of any importance."
"I don't need your men or your land, but you," replied the king. "I need your experience, knowledge, and mind. I need a competent commander, or rather, many."
Stannis stared at the king for a moment, then nodded. "If that is what you wish, so be it." Then he rose, knelt before the king, and took the oath.
And I, Stannis Baratheon, swear that I will well and truly serve our Sovereign King Aerion Targaryen, First of His Name. I pay homage to you and swear my allegiance. I will be your man in matters of life, health, and earthly honor. I will serve you in faith and deed as long as I have breath in my body. I swear this by all the gods, old and new."
The king smiled slightly and replied, "I accept your homage. I swear that you will always find a place by my hearth and meat and honey on my table. I promise that I will not ask you to do any service that would bring you dishonor. I swear this by all the gods, old and new. Arise."
Wyman did the same a moment later, followed by Mors Umber. As they sat back down at the small table, their attention focused entirely on the king. It was time to hear his plans.
"My lords, before I say anything more about our next steps, I must warn you. My extraordinary powers are not without a price. In perhaps a few hours, perhaps a few days, or perhaps a dozen or so, I will have to leave you. This could happen at any moment, during a battle or a council. This is beyond my control; the gods are taking me to a place where I am tested and can grow in strength."
The king's words confused them and gave rise to unforeseen complications.
"My king, I don't understand. Are you saying that at some unknown moment we will have to manage without you?" Mors asked, his face expressing utter incomprehension. He might as well have been listening to a lecture from some archmaester on the structure of language.
The young ruler simply nodded. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. I can't say more, except that I'll return stronger. In my absence, you'll be responsible for ensuring everything doesn't fall apart."
After these words, he fell silent for a moment, lost in thought. "This evening, I'll go to retake Winterfell. Under cover of darkness, I'll first kill Roose Bolton, and then I'll slaughter his men."
"Your Majesty, is it wise for you to go there alone?" Wyman protested, concerned. "One stray arrow or crossbow bolt is enough, and even your strength won't help."
"One arrow won't kill me. Believe me, Lord Wyman, I know what I'm doing," the king assured him, then added, "While I take care of the fortress, you will regroup and follow me the next day. From Winterfell, we can begin retaking the North."
"If we're thinking this far ahead, confident of retaking Winterfell, our next goal should be to take the Dreadfort and raze it to the ground," Stannis said with a certainty that suggested he himself planned to do just that.
"It's a symbol of their power, so destroying it will also be a symbol and a message of what happens to the king's enemies: the utter destruction of the House and its erasure from history and memory. Without mercy."
The king began to nod, as if to himself, clearly agreeing with Lord Stannis's opinion. "We will do so," he said, then turned to Wyman himself.
"Now, my lord, tell me what the situation is at Winterfell. What are their forces like, and which lords are present there?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
North, Winterfell
301 AC
Roose Bolton
He made his routine evening patrol of Winterfell's courtyard, searching for any irregularities. There was to be no laziness or indolence among his men. The guards were to be vigilant, the walls manned, and ready.
He obviously didn't expect an attack from Stannis Baratheon anytime soon, not after the recent snowstorms. Moreover, he counted on his bastard son to do his part and solve this problem for him.
Initially, he had sent the Frey forces under Aenys and Hosteen, along with those of the Mandarlys, against Stannis, hoping they would either deal with the southern lord or slaughter each other.
However, when the bastard begged him to prove himself, he sent him at the head of thousands of his own men to take command of both armies. With a combined strength of 5,000, they should easily crush Stannis's forces, likely plagued by cold, hunger, and desertion.
The battle should be over by now, and he expected news at any moment, though with such snow, he could expect delays.
He was tempted to go against the Lord of Storm's End himself, but why give up the advantage of a stronghold like Winterfell when it was still winter outside?
He had indeed sent the Frets and the Mandarlys there, but considering how they were at each other's throats, he had eliminated the problem. Whichever way he looked at it, he was winning.
Contrary to appearances, however, the situation in the North wasn't as good as he'd hoped. He knew he had no real allies outside of Barbery, and he couldn't even be sure of that. Besides, if his bastard could gain the upper hand, he would stab him in the back without hesitation.
Suddenly, his gaze fell on the powerful but slightly hunched figure of Hother Umber, who was engaged in a lively discussion with his sister-in-law. Equally intrigued and concerned, he approached them.
Before he could listen to what they were saying, however, they noticed him and fell silent. Barbery shot Umber an angry look and then hurried away. The old soldier went in the opposite direction.
He would be lying if he said their behavior wasn't suspicious. He had to assign a few of his trusted men to take a closer look.
His footsteps led him slowly to his chambers in the Great Keep. Yet, not for a moment did his eyes stop scanning his surroundings. He couldn't truly feel safe, even among his own people.
His chamber, once the home of hundreds of generations of lords and kings, was lit only by the light of a single candle burning in a chandelier he had left lit earlier.
He lit a few remaining candles, immersing the chamber in a soothing mix of light and dimness. He unbuttoned his cloak and threw it on a single chair against the wall. He then sat down on the bed, resting his face in his hands, rubbing his hands as he tried to banish the tiredness and tension.
"This is not how I imagined our meeting." A voice rang out in the chamber, and he rose to his feet, gripping the hilt of his belted dagger, realizing he wasn't alone inside.
In the chamber, which had been empty a moment before, a man sat on the chair where he'd thrown his cloak, dressed in his usual traveling clothes.
Silver short hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Golden, distinctly magical eyes. And a smile that, at that moment, seemed more than terrifying to Roose.
Moreover, he appeared inside his private chambers like a ghost, somehow avoiding the seventeen guards along the way.
Was this the Faceless Man? Or perhaps some Valyrian sorcerer, as his appearance suggested?
His face remained impassive, his gaze cold. He didn't intend to show that this unexpected visit had frightened him.
"Who are you? Or rather, who sent you?" he asked in a cold, emotionless voice.
The other man only laughed, but there was no amusement in it. "Nobody... or rather, I sent myself. You have something I desperately need."
"And what would that be?" he asked, not engaging in unnecessary games.
"Your life," the other man replied, still remaining where he was. Roose himself, meanwhile, was slowly, step by step, approaching the wall where his sword rested.
"I'll ask you once, you whiner. Who are you?" He turned to the other man, stalling. For though he saw no weapon on the man, he felt the sense of danger tightening around his neck like the jaws of a direwolf.
"Where would be the fun in just telling you?" the other said. "I hope you'll figure it out for yourself once I give you a few hints."
The man's smile widened for a moment, more like that of a demon than a human. It was the smile of a madman or a man who had lost everything.
"I promise it won't be difficult. You killed my brother."
"I've killed many brothers," he replied, still emotionless, though inside he felt a consuming fear of death and, at the same time, a growing anger at his own carelessness and the carelessness of these fools, his guards. If he survived this encounter, he would skin them personally.
The man nodded, "Aye. You did. But tell me, how many of them did you order to sew on their own direwolf's head?"
Roose lost track for a moment, for of all the answers he'd expected, this was the last. "Robb Stark? From what I recall, he didn't have Valyrian blood. So how can you be his brother?"
"Aye. There you have me; we don't share the same mother and father, but I loved him as a brother just the same, and you're the reason I'll never see him again," the other replied, his tone growing softer, more serious with each passing moment.
Before Roose knew it, the man was no longer sitting in the chair but standing before him, holding him by the neck and lifting him up. "I desire your death more than anything. But I swear to you, it won't be easy. I have something special for you. Something my mother's ancestors would approve of."
At those words, the world before his eyes blurred, and he felt as if his body was being torn apart at incredible speed. A few moments later, he felt himself landing in the snow.
Gasping for breath, he struggled to his feet, recognizing where they were: the Godswood of Winterfell. His gaze fell on a man who couldn't simply be human, but some kind of demon, a spawn of magic and dark Valyrian rituals that should have long since been lost to the mists of time.
Then he felt a blow to the head, and everything went black before his eyes, and he lost consciousness. When he opened it again, he was no longer on the ground but hanging above the ground.
His hands were bound at the wrists, stretched upward, and the rope from them ran to one of the branches of the heart tree. He couldn't see the strange man anywhere in front of him.
"You still don't know who I am," a voice said behind him. "Then I'll tell you. I'm Eddard Stark's nephew, Robb Stark's cousin, I'm the son of the Last Dragon and Winter Rose. I'm your reckoning."
A moment later, these words didn't matter as he felt pain in his back. Once, then twice, as if someone were deliberately and slowly cutting into his back with a knife.
For a while, the pain subsided, only to intensify a thousandfold. It felt as if something were tearing at his back, trying to get inside. He heard a crack, then another, and another. The pain seemed unbearable.
At one point, he felt as if he was almost losing consciousness, but the same pain that had caused it wouldn't let him lose it. The next seconds, minutes, maybe hours, he didn't know, amounted to only one thing. Suffering of a kind he had never experienced and never thought possible.
At one point, he thought he heard screams of terror, as well as vomiting and curses.
His mind wandered amidst the pain, barely conscious, in agony. His ambitions and plans no longer mattered. His betrayals and alliances were forgotten. Men slain, prisoners flayed, women raped, children murdered. All for nothing. Death had overtaken him.