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Chapter Text

The Twins, Late 299 AC, Wedding of Edmund Tully and Roslin Frey

Rurik

The wine tasted wrong.

It wasn’t sour. Nor bitter. Wasn’t even spoiled. But somehow—Others take it—it was wrong.

The way it sat on my tongue, cold and metallic, and the way the light danced too brightly off the goblets. I set mine down and wiped my mouth, suddenly aware that the laughter around me had thinned. The feasting tent still bustled, but it was an unnatural merriment—forced chuckles, too-wide smiles, a hollowness behind every gesture. I had hunted long enough to know when beasts circled in the grass.

The minstrels were playing off-key again. The third time tonight. Each time, their return to song had grown more discordant. Their notes were not the clumsy sort of off-key either. Deliberate. Discordant. Like men playing music they didn't believe in. Each time, their new starts had grown more harsh —like crows attempting a riverlands ballad.

I stood near the Hornwood banner with my falx leaned against my shoulder, fingers drumming along its haft. I had found the weapon by chance—no, by instinct. I’d gone to relieve myself earlier and saw a pair of Frey men bent over a bundle under a tent flap. At first, I thought they were adjusting instruments. But I glimpsed a crossbow string glint under lamplight. That had been enough.

When I returned, I fetched the falx from our tent without telling anyone. My grandfather, Beoren Asheart, hadn’t questioned me. He'd just watched with his tired old eyes as I buckled it to my back. I saw now that the same grim suspicion had gnawed at him.

“Too many swords, too few drunks,” Grandfather muttered, his voice worn as riverstone. “Why are they armed like that? Men shouldn’t wear steel to feast under guest-right.”

I nodded without answering. He wasn’t asking me anyway.

All around the tent, Frey retainers lounged with tankards in hand, but few drank. I saw one heavyset man feign a stumble, knocking his wine over a table. He didn’t curse. Didn’t apologize. Just smirked and stepped back.

Across the hall, Sebastian—my cousin, young and sharp-tongued—slipped outside, muttering something about pissing. I followed him with my eyes, unease coiling tighter in my belly.

Grandfather’s hand crept toward the haft of his axe, casual as a leaf falling.

“Go outside,” he muttered to me, “Warn the boys at campfires. Quietly. If the horses are gone, tell them to arm themselves. Don’t look back.”

I never got the chance.

A scream tore through the night. A woman’s voice, high and panicked. A heartbeat later, steel scraped leather—then another scream, gurgled this time. The music stopped. No,...... it didn’t stop. It changed. Faster. Sharper. Like battle drums hiding behind strings.

“DOWN!” Grandfather roared.

The first crossbow bolt zipped through the tent like a snake made of iron. It thudded into our Hornwood captain’s chest—through the throat. He fell back, gurgling, wine pouring down his chin in place of blood. Another bolt hit a serving girl. Then came the swords.

Chaos surged like a wave crashing against the shore. Freys lunged from all directions, weapons in hand, faces twisted with something like glee. Men who had been handing out meat moments before now drove daggers into the throats of their guests.

I drew the falx and turned just in time to meet a charging Frey. His mail didn’t save his head. The blade dug deep into his jaw and out his neck, cutting it in clean halves. The second came on too quickly—but grandpa was there, axe crunching through ribs like they were dry wood.

Around us, Hornwood men screamed and died. Some drew weapons, others used tankards, bones, fists. Too few were armed. We had been feasting. We were not ready.

One of the Freys tried to skewer Triston, my youngest cousin, barely fifteen. The boy fumbled backward, then grabbed a pot of steaming stew from the fire and hurled it into the man’s face. The scream was short. I cleaved through the bastard’s spine from behind and shoved a sword into Triston’s hand.

Grandpa's face was red with blood that was not his. “To the camp’s edge!” he barked, grabbing me by the shoulder. “We will break North!”

There was no time to argue. No time to mourn.

We fought through the chaos, gathering what few survivors we could—maybe thirty souls, most younger than twenty, two dozen men-at-arms from Hornwood and its holdfasts. I spotted Mallin Spearhand swinging a mace wildly, screaming for his brother. He didn’t stop swinging even as a Frey blade slashed across his thigh.

Kark Dolen—my boyhood friend—had a shield in one hand and a sword in the other, dragging a wounded comrade with his teeth bared like a beast.

“They’re pushing from the east! Road’s blocked!” Kark roared.

“Then we don’t take the road,” I said, spitting blood. “Through the cookfires. Out back.”

“They’ll chase us!"

“They’ll surely try." 

Grandpa arrived soon after, dragging two of the squires—boys barely grown. He looked around, eyes like chips of flint. “Leave the dead. Take what you can fight with. We go now. Or we die.”

“But the king—” Andrik began. 

“No buts,” Ser Halrik snarled. “King Robb is probably dead. The Freys are butchering our kin. You’re not dying in their pigsty of a land. We will buy you time." 

"We can't just leave King Robb like that!" 

“There is no king. They will have killed him first," Grandpa growled. “Only fire and steel now.”

And then he looked at me.

“Ser Halrik is right. We old men will buy you time. We will Hold the line,” he said.

“No!”

“You take the boys. Lead them. You’re all that’s left of our blood. If Hornwood is to live again, it starts with you.”

I grabbed his arm, shaking. “You don’t get to order me—”

“I do,” he said, pulling me close. “Because you are my grandson. My last boy. Because I held you when you came out screaming. Because I taught you to fight. And because you’re too fucking stubborn to know when to run.”

His lips brushed my forehead.

“Live, boy. And make them pay.”

Then he was gone.

I turned before I could watch him die.

“Fall back!” I shouted. “Through the fires!”

We ran. I don’t remember how many. Perhaps two score. Perhaps more. The rest stayed behind, rallying around Ser Halrik like wolves in their last stand.

Near the Northern camp, our company burst through the tents like a herd of elk, trampling over tables and corpses, grabbing whatever mounts or pack beasts we could find. Dolen had the good idea of opening the pig pens and cattle holdings, creating even more chaos in the camp. 

In the frenzy, I saw a Frey knight charging a mail-barded horse toward our line, hoping to run us down. I hurled a spear—stripped from one of their own—into his chest. He tumbled backward like a sack of flour, and I seized his reins.

Triston and Sebastian leapt behind me onto the steed. It groaned under the weight but carried us still.

The marshes loomed ahead, black and treacherous beneath a sky that had forgotten the stars.

I knew these waters. Hunted ducks here just yesterday with Triston and Sebastian,before we ever crossed into Frey lands. The reeds grew high and thick, the soil beneath them hungry for horseflesh and careless feet. A man could drown two steps in if he didn’t know the way. The Freys didn’t care. They didn't need to. They had numbers. They had the surprise on their side. They thought that would be enough.

They were wrong.

We vanished into the reed-thickets, the thunder of hooves following us like distant war drums. I could feel the ground tremble with each beat. They were closing, riding hard, eager to finish what they’d started at the Twins. Eager to butcher the last of the Northerners

At the bend in the river, I turned and looked back. Kark limped beside me, one hand on his thigh where a Frey arrow had lodged deep. His breath came in ragged puffs of steam, and he was muttering curses—half of which I’d never heard before, likely because he was inventing them. He wasn’t alone. About two score men had made it this far—more than I’d expected, though less than I had hoped. Bloodied, winded, mud-soaked, but alive. And that was something.

Some weren’t Hornwood men at all. A few bore the colors of Tallhart or Cerwyn. One grizzled sergeant wore the trout of House Tully on his torn surcoat. I even spotted two grey-cloaked men from Winterfell’s garrison. How they’d made it out, I didn’t know. But they’d followed me, and that meant they were my responsibility now. 

That meant I owed them a chance.

“We set a trap,” I told them, my voice loud enough to carry, firm enough to cut through the growing despair.

Some of the lads stared at me like I’d gone mad. Fight? Now? When we should be galloping for the safety of The Neck?

But I saw the fatigue in their eyes, the raw edge of panic in their shoulders. They wouldn’t make it much farther. Not on wounded legs and empty bellies. And even if they did, the Freys would pick us off one by one in the trees. We needed to bloody them. Make sure they don't dare to follow us desperately. And I needed to make sure that the men following me get some their courage and taste for vengeance back. 

With the help of Dolen, Harv, and the Tully sergeant, I got the men moving. We split into two groups. I sent one behind the thickest patch of reeds to the left, the other behind the muddy ridge near the shallows. A dozen stayed with me—bait for the hounds. We’d feign retreat, make it look like we were stumbling, slow. They’d come for us with blades in hand and grins on their fat Frey faces.

When they did, they walked straight into death.

Arrows hissed from the reeds, low and deadly. Spearmen leapt from behind mossy banks, driving their points up beneath steel gorgets and into the soft flesh beneath. I saw one Frey shriek as Old Harv dragged him down into the marsh by the ankles, drowning him face-first in brackish mud. The horses screamed and bucked, panicked and untrained for wet terrain. Their riders fell. Some tried to rally, but we pressed them from both flanks, javelins flying, rocks hurled down like hail.

Steel rang against steel. Men cursed, bled, and died.

It wasn’t a battle. It was a butchering. 

When the last of them fell, I stood still amidst the carnage. My falx hung from a blood-slicked hand, heavy as a greatsword. I could taste copper in my mouth—some mine, most not.

One of the bodies was different.

Beard too thick for a Frey. The pelt he wore was not of river otter or local deer but mountain goat. There were no mountain goats in these lands. Frostbite scarring on his cheeks. Face flushed red, not from the heat of the fight, but from years in the snow.

I knelt, suspicion stirring cold in my gut.

When I turned him over, I saw it: the flayed man of House Bolton, burned into the leather of his collar.

I stared at it, unmoving, as my heart turned to ice.

Boltons. Not just Freys. The Dreadfort had known.

Without their blessing, this butchery would never have happened. The Red Wedding wasn’t just a betrayal. It was a conspiracy. And the North had been sold from within.

The man still breathed. Barely. Blood bubbled on his lips, eyes wide in fear.

Kark stepped forward with his spear, eyes lit like a forge. “Let me,” he growled.

But I held up a hand.

“No.”

I pulled the triskelion from around my neck—three twisted spirals carved from old weirdwood, handed down from the days before the Andals came, before steel and dragons. It was more than a sigil. It was a promise. A blood tie to the Old Gods of the forest, the ones who watched from the heart trees and whispered only to those who listened.

I knelt, placed the wooden medallion beneath the Bolton’s head, and with one smooth cut, opened his throat from ear to ear.

The blood spilled hot and fast, soaking the triskelion. Steam rose in the cold air. The dying man twitched once, then stilled.

It was a sacrifice. An offering to ask for vengeance in return. Old Harv murmured a prayer behind me. I did not need one.

The gods knew. They were watching. Listening. 

I stood, my hand trembling from more than exhaustion. I lifted the triskelion to the sky, still dripping red, and spoke not to my men but to the woods, to the shadows, to the ancient things that lived in bark and bone.

“I swear,” I said, voice thick and cracked, “by the Old Gods, by the sacred groves and nameless spirits, by every blade my forefathers ever held… I will not rest while these traitors still draw breath. I will see the Twins drowned in fire and Frey blood. I will bring down the Dreadfort, stone by bloody stone. I will hunt them through storm and snow, through shadow and time if I must, until the last of them is ash in the wind.”

Silence fell over the marshes. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Behind me, the men said nothing. They had seen enough death for one day. But they had seen something else, too. 

Resolve. Vows for vengeance. A new direction.

Early 300 AC, Somewhere in Bolton Territory

The night was thick with the scent of pine and frost as we made our way through the Bolton lands. The sky above was a deep, impenetrable black, and the world was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the cold wind. It was close to midnight when we arrived near our target: a small, secluded holdfast nestled within the shadowy woods of the Dreadfort’s domain.

My heart pounded slightly in my chest as I dismounted, my boots crunching softly against the frozen ground. The silence was almost oppressive, a stark reminder of the danger we faced. No guards patrolled the area, no riders in the night to keep watch for outlaws like us. Despite the recent troubles that plagued the North, it seemed the Boltons had grown complacent in their power, their arrogance blinding them to the storm that was about to descend upon them.

Perfect for us.

I signaled to one of my men, a former Winterfell soldier, to take the horses and lead them to a safe distance. The rest of the company spread out, slipping into the shadows like ghosts, each man knowing his role without the need for words. We had done this many times before—raiding, bushwhacking, surviving on the fringes of our war-torn homeland. The art of war had been honed in us, forged in the fires of loss, betrayal, and revenge. 

As I crouched behind a thicket of bushes, ignoring the biting cold and the crawling insects, my mind wandered back to how it had all begun. How did it come to this? Me, a son of House Asheart, turned outlaw, committing the same sort of crimes that had been inflicted upon my family. We had marched proudly under King Robb Stark's banner, believing ourselves unbeatable. But the Red Wedding had shattered that illusion in a single, blood-soaked night.

The memories flooded back, unbidden and painful. Escaping the massacre at the camps in The Twins, my grandfather staying behind to fight so that I could live, joining up with the ragged remnants of the Northern survivors, returning home through the bogs to find my towerhouse burned and blackened, my mother’s body among the charred ruins...

I had formed the Brotherhood of the Woods in the aftermath, a band of men and women who, like me, had nothing left but their thirst for vengeance. Yet even now, it all felt like a fever dream, a nightmare from which I had never truly woken. My hand rose up involuntarily to the triskelion medallion on my neck. This sacred emblem, cherished by us, the forest folk of the North, was more than a piece of wood—it was a link to my ancestors, a source of strength that had guided our people for generations.

I closed my eyes, drawing in a deep breath of the pine-scented air. The forest had always been our refuge, a place where the world’s noise faded away, leaving only the heartbeat of the earth and the steady rhythm of my thoughts. As I traced the spiral design with my thumb, I almost felt the power of the land seep into me, a reminder that we were not alone in this fight. That the old gods were watching over us. 

Brotherhood Banner

A sharp poke from Kark Doeln's spear brought me back to the present. I didn't even realize I was squeezing the medallion so hard that my hand was almost starting to bleed. Kark was one of the few who had marched originally with my grandfather and one of the few who had returned. He had been a soldier before I had, a seasoned warrior with a talent for survival. When I first proposed raiding the Boltons in retribution for what they had done to us, I half-expected him to challenge my leadership. But instead, he had merely shrugged and followed, content to let me take the reins. Perhaps he was relieved not to bear the burden of command, knowing that if things went wrong, it would be my head on the block, not his.

I rose to my feet, taking the hand Kark offered, and adjusted the quiver of barbed arrows on my back. The arrows were prizes from our previous raids, taken from the bodies of Bolton soldiers. I knocked one on the string, feeling the familiar tension of the bow in my hands, and spoke to the darkness around me, where my men lay hidden.

"Remember, the hay bales go first," I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath in the cold night air. "They’ll come to inspect the fires soon after. We loose when they come halfway. Don't loose until I give the order. And whichever oaf looses an arrow before time, I'll shove it up his arse!"

The bushes around me rustled with laughter and grunts, a low chorus of agreement. They were ready.

A few heartbeats later, the first bale caught fire, followed by another, and then another. Bright orange flames licked at the night sky, casting an eerie glow over the holdfast. The sight of the flames made something twist in my gut, a memory of the night the sky had burned that same shade of orange at The Twins. I glanced at Kark, seeing the same thought reflected in his eyes. We had both also been in another battle, among the trees of the Whispering Wood, launching volleys of arrows at the Lannisters. But that seemed another life, another time.

Our targets—Bolton men—arrived on horseback faster than I had anticipated, up to a dozen of them with tall spears and swords. Their quick response meant this was no mere patrol; they had come prepared, expecting trouble. I couldn’t help but laugh quietly. The fame of our brotherhood was growing, and the Boltons were growing wary.

"Now!" I shouted, rising from my hiding place and loosing my arrow. Around me, my men did the same, a deadly rain of arrows descending upon the riders. We aimed high, for the torso and head, careful not to harm the horses—they were valuable, and so were the mail shirts the riders wore.

The night was filled with the sounds of panicked horses and the cries of dying men. It was a sound I had become all too familiar with, a sound that transported me back to the battlefields of the Riverlands, to the bloody chaos of war. When the last arrow had been fired, the bodies of the riders lay scattered on the ground, their corpses bristling with arrows like grotesque porcupines. The surviving horses bolted, eager to escape the stench of death.

"Get those horses before they go too far!" I shouted as I ran toward the holdfast gate. "And take those mails too!"

Old Harv was already at the wall with the rest of our men, preparing to scale it with the ladders we had brought. Two of my young Mallister cousins, lads barely old enough to grow beards, were struggling to carry one of the ladders between them. I shoved them aside and started climbing myself, knowing that if anything happened to them, their mothers—my aunts—would have my head. Besides, they were still young, and this was a job too risky.

The men, seeing their leader take the lead, followed with renewed vigor. We climbed swiftly, silently, and within moments, we were over the wall and inside the holdfast.

The interior was dimly lit, the low, hay-roofed huts casting long shadows in the flickering firelight. There was no sign of any resistance—no archers loosing arrows from the rooftops, no soldiers charging at us with spears. The holdfast seemed almost deserted, but I knew better than to let my guard down. This was Bolton land, and treachery was their trade.

I helped Old Harv lift the heavy bar that secured the gate, allowing the rest of our men to enter. "Split up," I whispered to them. "Search for more horses, check the granary, and prepare the wagons. Take everything that isn’t nailed down."

As they dispersed, I made my way toward the main hall, the only structure in the holdfast with stone walls. Whatever valuables the owner had would be inside, along with any soldiers who might still be alive. I was flanked by Warin, a former Riverrun guard, and Old Harv, both seasoned fighters who had seen more than their share of bloodshed. Warin carried a torch, its flickering light casting eerie shadows on the walls as we approached the door.

The hall was dark save for the faint glow of embers in the hearth. The smell of burning wood and something rancid hung in the air. I drew my knife and shield, moving cautiously into the room. The silence was unnerving. My grip tightened on the knife as we moved deeper into the hall.

Suddenly, there was a rustle of movement, and a figure lunged at me from the shadows. I blocked the attack with my shield and twisted, throwing the assailant to the ground. Harv’s sword was already raised, ready to strike, but he stopped short, cursing under his breath.

"Fuck! It’s a girl!"

I bent down, the dim light revealing the pale, terrified face of a young woman. She was dressed better than a serving girl, perhaps the daughter of the holdfast’s lord.

"Who else is in the hall?" I demanded, my voice low and dangerous.

The girl glared up at me, her eyes filled with hatred, and spat in my face. My first instinct was to strike her, but I held back, wiping the spit from my cheek. She had every right to be angry. We were the invaders here, the ones who had brought death to her doorstep.

"Bind her before she tries something more stupid," I ordered Warin. "Tightly."

Warin obeyed, tying her wrists tightly with a length of rope before stuffing a rag into her mouth. She struggled, but it was no use. The girl was strong-willed but no match for a seasoned soldier. Once she was secured, we continued our search of the hall, moving cautiously through the shadows.

In the main solar, we found more weapons, armor, and a small chest of silver stags—perhaps a hundred in total. It wasn't the treasure trove I had hoped for, but it would do. Running a band of outlaws was expensive work; men needed to be paid in kind or coins, and supplies had to be bought. The silver would go a long way in keeping our cause alive.

But where were the other men? We had killed the riders outside, but surely there should have been more guards within the holdfast. The silence was unnerving, the emptiness of the place unsettling. I had expected a fight, but instead, it felt like we were walking through a tomb.

"Something's not right," Old Harv muttered, echoing my thoughts. "This place should be crawling with men. Where are they?"

I had no answer. The Boltons were ruthless, but they were not cowards. They would have defended their lands with everything they had. So where were they? The thought gnawed at me, but I couldn't dwell on it. We had what we came for—horses, weapons, supplies. It was time to leave before the situation turned against us.

We regrouped in the courtyard, where the wagons were already being loaded with grain, livestock, and whatever else we could find. The men worked quickly, their movements efficient and practiced. They knew that every moment we lingered was a moment we risked being discovered.

I was overseeing the loading when Sebastian, the older of my two young cousins, came running toward me, excitement written on his face. "Rurik! Come, see what we found in the barn."

Curiosity piqued, I followed him to the barn, where a group of my men were gathered, their expressions a mix of triumph and confusion. They had emptied the barn of animals, but it was clear they had found something else—something hidden.

Seb led me to a loose board on the floor, which he and the others had pried up to reveal a hidey hole beneath. The smell that wafted up from the hole was rank, a foul mix of piss and sweat. My nose wrinkled at the stench, but I motioned for Seb to go ahead.

"Come out, whoever you are," I ordered. I didn't know what I expected—perhaps hidden treasure or contraband. But instead, what emerged from the darkness were just people.

One by one, men and women in servant’s clothes climbed out of the hole, their faces pale with fear, their bodies trembling. They had been hiding, no doubt hoping to wait out the raid in safety. There were ten of them in total, and the sight of them both relieved and angered me. If they had managed to escape, they could have warned the nearby villages or other holdfasts, forcing us to flee back to the Hornwood forest with nothing to show for our efforts.

But now, they were in our hands, and that gave us an advantage.

"Bind them," I ordered my cousins. "We can't afford to leave loose ends."

As they tied the servants' hands and led them away, I turned back to the wagons. We had collected ten in total, each one filled to the brim with grain, livestock, and whatever else we could carry. It was a good haul, better than most, but it still wasn't enough. We needed more—more men, more supplies, more allies if we were going to stand a chance against the Boltons.

"Hold on for a while," I told the drivers. "We journey to the Hornwood in an hour."

As I sat on the stairs of the hall, the sergeants of the company gathered around me—Kark, Warin, Old Harv. Their faces were grim, their eyes filled with unspoken questions. We had won the night, but what came next? What was our plan? How long could we keep this up before the Boltons crushed us?

"We go to Deepwood Motte," I said, my voice steady. "We raid a few more holdfasts, rally more men to our cause. We find allies. Then we rescue Larence Snow and restore House Hornwood."

The words hung in the air, met with silence. I could see the doubt in their eyes, the uncertainty. Not all of them were Hornwood men. We had men from various northern houses and even a few from the Riverlands in our company. Warin himself had once served the Tullys. They had joined us out of desperation, not loyalty. And while they hated the Boltons, their commitment to our cause was tenuous at best.

"We can't take the Boltons head-on," Kark said, his voice low and filled with the same frustration that gnawed at me. "We don't have the numbers, and they know this land better than any of us."

"I know that," I snapped, more harshly than I intended. "But we have to keep moving, keep striking. If we stay in one place too long, we're dead. We need to find more men, more allies."

Before Kark could argue further, a commotion from the courtyard drew our attention. One of the prisoners, a serving man, was yelling, struggling against the ropes that bound him. I walked over, my patience wearing thin, ready to silence him myself when I recognized the man.

It was Len Brewer, son of the brewer of Hornwood. We had been boys together, hunting and playing in the forests around Hornwood with Daryn Hornwood, the young lord. The sight of him here, in Bolton lands, was a shock.

"Len?" I said, barely believing my eyes.

"Rurik?" Len's eyes widened in recognition, and for a moment, we were back in the woods, boys without a care in the world. But those days were long gone.

"Untie him," I ordered, and my cousins quickly cut his bonds.

Len stood before me, rubbing his wrists, a mix of relief and fear on his face. "I had no choice, Rurik," he said, his voice low and urgent. "They killed my father when he refused to follow the Bastard's orders in Hornwood. I had to save my mother and sisters. Many lads from home did the same. Joining up with the Boltons to keep their families safe."

He spat on the ground, his expression filled with disgust. "But fuck me, I never would have guessed it was you causing all this trouble for the bastard. Much less that you were the one leading the Brotherhood. He has been gathering men on every farm and homestead to deter raids from your brotherhood."

The news hit me like a blow. If the Boltons had garrisoned every holdfast in their lands, our raids would have become much more dangerous. We had relied on surprise and the element of stealth, but that advantage was slipping away.

"There goes our plan of more raids," Warin said, voicing the thoughts of everyone present. "What do we do now?"

I had to think quickly, to adapt. The Boltons were tightening their grip on the North, but they weren't invincible. We just needed to be smarter and find newer ways to strike.

"We abandon that part of the plan," I said after a moment. "We go to Wolfswood and join the clans there. The Boles, the Branchs, the Woods the Forresters—they all have the same interest as us. Together, we can relieve Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn and rescue Larence Snow."

Warin looked uncertain, but before he could voice his doubts, Len spoke up. "Forget the Forresters. They're not in a position to help anyone."

That caught my attention. The Forresters were a powerful vassal of the Glovers, one that had always been loyal to the Starks. If they were in trouble, it could mean the end of any hope of rallying the Wolfswood Houses.

"What do you mean?" I asked sharply. 

"Gryff Whitehill went after Rodrik Forrester with a large group of men," Len said, his voice grim. "He passed through here not half a day before. Took the lord and most of his men with them. They're heading for the old jetty near Karhold. The Forresters have some help arriving, and Whitehills planned to ambush them."

The news was worse than I had expected. If the Forresters were wiped out, the Wolfswood would lose one of its last bastions of resistance. We couldn't let that happen.

I stood up abruptly, my mind racing. "Everyone on their feet! Get ready to travel now! Ready those horses and carts!"

The men, though confused, obeyed without question, scrambling to their feet and preparing for the journey ahead. I began donning my armor, my thoughts focused on the task at hand.

"All right, here's the new plan," I said, fastening the straps of my breastplate. "We split up. I will take twenty men and horses and head toward the old jetty near Karhold to intercept Gryff Whitehill. Warin, you'll come with me. The rest of you, gather the men and supplies we've collected and make your way to Ironrath, the Forrester stronghold. Harv, you'll lead them. Once you're there, wait for my signal. We might still be able to turn this to our advantage."

Old Harv nodded, his weathered face set in a determined scowl. He knew Ironrath well, having traded there many times in the years past. If anyone could lead our men safely through the Wolfswood, it was him.

Kark, however, was less pleased. The soldier in him chafed at the idea of being left behind while others rode to battle. "If it's a fight you're after, we should be with you," he argued. "Give Warin and your cousins to herd the men."

I shook my head. "It's a long road from here to the Wolfswood, and the Riverlanders don't know our land. It has to be you and Harv. Besides, someone needs to ensure the supplies make it to Ironrath. We can't afford to lose them."

Kark grumbled but didn't argue further. He understood the importance of the supplies, even if he didn't like the idea of missing out on the action.

Turning to Len Brewer, I asked, "You still want revenge for your father, old friend?"

Len nodded eagerly. "Aye, and more than that. There are men still looking to get back at the Boltons for what they did to Hornwood. Men from other houses as well. If I can get them to join us, we'll have a small army by the time we reach the Wolfswood."

"Good," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Bring your family to our men in the Wolfswood. It will be far safer for them there. Then, gather as many men as you can. We’ll need every blade we can get."

With that, I turned to the rest of my men. "Saddle up, boys! We've got miles to go and Boltons to kill!"

As the men hurried to prepare, I couldn't shake the feeling that our mission was about to take a much darker turn. We were walking a fine line between life and death, and one misstep could have spelled the end for all of us. But there was no turning back now. We had a chance to strike a blow against the Boltons, to weaken their hold on the North. And we were ready to take it, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

The moon hung high in the sky as we rode hard toward the old jetty near Karhold. The cold northern wind bit at our faces, three days continuously on the saddle, bone wary and chilly but the urgency of our mission drove us forward. We had to reach Rodrik Forrester before Gryff Whitehill's men could lay their ambush. Our horses, laden with stolen mail, weapons, and supplies, galloped through the dense forest, their hooves pounding out a rhythm of impending conflict.

Warin rode beside me, his eyes scanning the treeline for any movement. Behind us, the twenty men of our hastily assembled war party rode in grim silence, the tension palpable in the night air. We had cut off from the main road to avoid being noticed by any patrolling group of the Karstarks. None of us were ready to question about our intentions while being armed to the teeth on a land that was not ours. Sharp Tom had been sent ahead to scout the path and locate any potential hazards. He was a scout serving in the Northern Army during the war. His knowledge of the area, of the rider and the horse, of the woods and hills, made him a great valuable asset to our warband.

"Rurik," Warin shouted from his saddle, breaking the silence. "This does not sit well with me. We are deep behind Bolton lands, with no prospect of help or allies to help us if we get in trouble. Maybe we ought to go back to join with the rest of our men."

"We don't have a choice," I replied, keeping my gaze forward. "We need their strength, and they need ours. The Whitehills are as much their enemy as the Boltons are ours. Quiet now. Eyes on the road. We will talk later."

We pressed on, the forest gradually giving way to the rocky, uneven terrain near the coastline. The distant sound of waves crashing against the shore mixed with the rustle of leaves, creating an eerie symphony. We were about a league away from the town, hidden inside a deep patch of woodlands to avoid any prying eyes. Even if the Whitehills had kept a man or two to watch the backroad, it would be hard for them to find us through the forest. I wasn't worried about Tom finding his way back to us though. He was the type of scout to be able to track a lizard over rocks.

"Everyone dismount for now. Take rest but be prepared to move out as soon as I command." Four men were ordered to keep watch around our perimeter while the rest got down from their horses. Some went to water the horses or find something to graze on for them. Others sat about, cracking and twisting their limbs to break the rigidity of the long ride. Those who had sacks of supplies shared food with the rest.

"No fire," I warned Triston and Sebastian, my cousins as they were trying to light up kindling to set up a pan to cook up what looked like a delicious meal with fried meat and bread. Sighing, they put down those supplies and chose to chew on some hardtack and dried meat instead. I for myself, dug out some frozen grass from the snow and started to rub down my destrier. I got Crimson while escaping from the Twins. By skewering down a Frey rider with my spear and took his ride along with the mail barding and saddle. Fiery tempered as his name, the horse was a nuisance to ride through the Northern lands as it didn't like the rocky terrain nor did it have much patience for the colder temperature, showing his displeasure at me by neighing hard and shaking head. I gave it some rough rubdown to ease off the ride while feeding it some of my oatcake shares to calm down the tantrum.

Sitting down under an oak, I began to hone my falx, part of my everyday chore to prepare it for the upcoming fight. I named it Reaper as all the boys did the naming process, who wanted to be soldiers and dreamed of having glory and fortune in battles by means of their famous blades. Reaper though had nothing of the beauty or elegance of the blades of heroes in such tales we grew up on. It had a wicked outward curve, the top ending with a very fine point, and was sharp enough to shave off hair if needed. Even ugly, I was not ashamed to admit among my company that I loved the Reaper. No blade was finer in my eyes for cutting off limbs clean. We, men from the Hornwood forests preferred the falx over the sword or the spear for highly trained infantrymen weapons. My grandfather was a famous falxmen himself, as his father and his before him, famous for screaming charges through the woodlands going for the deepest fighting. Cutting off hands, legs, and heads to spread panic among enemy ranks, often causing entire infantry lines to break formation or cutting deep wedges in them to allow other men to get through.

While resting after a while, my sweet dream of roasted beef and dark brown beer was roughly broken as Sharp Tom found his way back to us. "They're close," he whispered, pointing toward a cluster of trees in a frontal direction. "They are about half a league ahead of us, hiding out off the road. I counted thirty men-at-arms on horses, with mail on. Took a ride around the jetty as well. No sign of any ship. Nor any townsfolk for that matter. Forrester men, I say probably waiting right near the jetty."

Patting him on the back, Warrin gave him our best share of food. Soft grain cakes mixed with eggs and meat. He climbed up a high tree with his spyglass to keep an eye out for any incoming ship. I would happily give anyone else the lookout job after Tom had such a long ride but he wouldn't let any man touch his spyglass. He got it in the war after scouting out five Lannister raiding parties in a week and was quite fond of it. Only his future son would be the one to carry on his father's means of trade, he would say if we asked anytime to let one of us use it.

Warrin and my cousins saw me watching over the twig map of the jetty on the snow. "What time is it?" I asked Warrin.

The riverlander wetted his finger to sense the wind, then dug a branch in the ground to stare at its shadow for a while. "Little past midday".

I sighed. Daytime was not my favorite to fight, especially since we were outnumbered and out-equipped. Night raids and ambushes were the tactics that made The Brotherhood such an adversary to the Boltons. A face-to-face fight was too risky for us. Every life was valuable to our cause and the prospect of recruits was few as the smallfolk were too scared of Boltons to join us.


"We are outnumbered," Triston the baby, pointed out the obvious. We called him that because he was only fifteen, the youngest among our ranks. "With only half of us with mail on."

"We just have to reach the Forresters. With the help arriving, between us and them, it will be the Whitehills who will be twice outnumbered."

After a long silence, I spoke up. "I say there is only one sensible way this can happen. To ambush Rodrick, the Whitehills have to go into the town. Leaving one or two men-at-arms to stay with the horses. Good opening for us to set us the attack."

"You two," I pointed at my cousins. "Each take four men and go left and right when we take out the guards. Climb up the houses to get a good position and cover our backs. Me and Warrin will take those of us who have better armor to assault the Whitehills at the best opportune moment."

My men started making preparations then, exchanging weapons with the other groups to be best suited for the role. I for myself, took my falx and two sets of pine javelins, tying them firmly on my back with a leather belt, giving my shield to another of my men, telling him to keep an eye out for any flying missiles coming my way. Now my hands were free to swing without restrictions. A kill on each swing. That was my goal.

I was helping Warrin to ease into his shoulder straps when Sharp Tom came down from his lookout post. "Got a ship incoming. And Whitehills are breaking camp. We should follow."

****************************************

I was hiding behind an archway in the outer part of the jetty, concealing myself under the shadow. The rest of my party did the same in various covers as our archers started to climb the house roofs. Somewhere ahead of us, there were two voices barking orders, one being presumably Gryff. They had positioned themselves already when we entered the town at a slower pace, giving them the advantage of a better location. Now we couldn't move forward or take an extended look over the house roofs else they would discover us.

The town was divided into sections with stone walls and arched doorways on the inner roads. Inner jetty had a gate with portcullis through which Forresters had entered and Whitehills had entered through the opposite side with us following behind. Ideally, that would make us easily able to ambush them on both sides. But the inner walls had separated us into three parties with Whitehills holding the best position with archer covers on high ground.


Looking up I saw, both Triston and Sebastian frantically signaling me to give the order to attack. But I hesitated. One wrong move could put us at severe risk of getting overwhelmed on the feet. My cousins signaled again. They had hidden themselves on the slopes of various houses, by their faces something had already gone wrong.

Making up my mind, I went through the archway crouched with the rest following beside me, and immediately found out what went wrong. Most of the Forresters had already gone out through the postern gate, leaving only a handful of their men inside.

No sooner had I gone inside, than I saw a Whitehill soldier running for the portcullis chain as the Forresters remained oblivious. Without thinking further, I rapidly picked out a javelin, taking out the Whitehill soldier in the back and the whole town fell into chaos.

With the javelin piercing the Whitehill soldier’s back, he let out a scream that echoed through the town's stone walls. The Whitehills turned, weapons drawn, eyes wide with shock. The few Forrester men left inside the inner jetty were quickly alerted to the danger, and the fight began in earnest.

I struck at the nearest enemy with all my might. Reaper swatted through the man's block, the shape point biting down so deep into the skull penetrating iron coif and heavy hood that I almost had to lift the man to wrench my weapon free. With a blood-curdling war cry, I let a second enemy's swing barely miss me, cutting down his sword arm with a hard slash. Warin was at my side, his sword flashing as he engaged the nearest Whitehill soldier. Our men poured through the archway, a flood of steel and fury, catching the Whitehills off guard.

Mix warcries of Hornwood's "Wrath!", Stark! and Tully! were being shouted out by our men as we drove through the Whitehill ranks. Forresters now realizing we were not against them, shook off their confusion and started to rally. 

The sound of metal clashing against metal filled the air, mingled with the cries of men in battle. The Whitehills, though momentarily surprised, quickly regrouped and fought back with savage determination. Arrows rained down from the rooftops where our archers had taken position, thinning down a few ranks of the Whitehills and giving us a slight edge. But that gained them the attention of their archers, prompting another battle on the house roofs between archer units.

"Push them back!" Warin shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle. He fought like a man possessed, his blade carving a path through the enemy. I followed his lead, Reaper slicing through armor and flesh with deadly precision. The Whitehills were well-trained, but they were not prepared to be assaulted from both directions. Forresters did their part all right. I recognized Rodrick from our times fighting under the direwolf banner, cleaving men with his greatsword. A beast of a man wielding a mace and another blonde sellsword with a curved blade was laying waste to those all around him. The rest of the Forrester party, men-at-arms and sellswords both ran back down through the gate and joined the melee.

Over at roofs, my cousin had gotten the better of their foes. With a mixture of armor-piercing arrows, crossbow bolts, and javelins, most of their enemy had dropped, and the fighting turned hand-to-hand as men jumped from one roof to another. I saw one aiming a bolt at Sebastian and send a javelin on his way.

After cutting down an incoming enemy's legs from under him with a single swing I pushed forward for the middle of Whitehill ranks. Gryff Whitehill from horseback and a sergeant was leading them from a circle of spearmen.

Screaming like a madman I pushed forward. The Whitehills, caught off guard by the intensity of our assault, faltered. Forresters led their charge now, swords flashing as they cut through the last of their enemy's ranks. We followed, the falxes cleaving a path through both armor and bone.

I found myself face to face with the sergeant as Rodrick and the blonde sellsword rounded up on Gryff, his eyes blazing with hatred. He swung his massive sword at me, but I parried with Reaper, the force of the blow vibrating through my arms. We traded blows, each strike sending sparks flying as our blades clashed.

"You Brotherhood bastard," the Whitehill sergeant snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. "If I fall, I will take you with me!"

"We'll see about that," I growled, ducking under his swing and driving Reaper into his thigh, twisting it and pulling it out with savage fury. My enemy roared in pain, but he didn't go down. He was a beast, fueled by rage and stubborn determination.

Harys, I later found out the man's name, swung his sword in a wide arc, forcing me to step back. He was a powerful opponent, but struggling on one leg he was also predictable. I watched his movements, looking for an opening.

He overextended on his next swing, leaving his side exposed. I took my chance, darting forward and driving Reaper into his ribs. Letting out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with shock and pain. He staggered, his sword dropping from his grasp.

I didn't give him a chance to recover. With a final, decisive strike, I swung Reaper into the back of his neck as he was kneeling, cutting the head off.

Beside me, Gryff had already been brought down and bound by the Forresters. The rest of the Whitehills had either given up, were dead, or were dying noisily.

"Seven hells," Rodrick addressed me offering his hand, as we greeted each other as leaders of our respective groups. "If it's not the champion of the fighting pits Rurik himself. If only I had the coins I made from betting on you during camp fights."

I smiled back, "Those were the days I swear. But now let us try to get away from here as soon as possible. Bolton's are after us like these Whitehills were after you. We need to regroup."

We rode away with our prisoners tied over the back of horses like sacks, commandeering all of the enemy's supplies, equipment, and horses. The battles to restore The North were just about to begin. 

Chapter Text

In the dim light of the chamber, the flickering flames of the hearth cast a warm, golden glow, painting the walls with dancing shadows that seemed to come alive with every twist and turn. The air was heavy with the scent of wood smoke and the faint perfume of pine, oak, and ironwood, mingling together with the softness of the bed and pillows in such a way as to summon deep sleep.

I was dozing by the hearth, lost in thought as I stared into the crackling fire, its flames dancing in an odd display of light and shadow. The previous day's events weighed heavy, the weight of responsibility and the future pressing down on my shoulders like a burden too heavy to bear. But amidst the chaos and uncertainty, the thing that was giving me cause to wince now and then was the pain in my lower back and leg due to the forced march from Karstark land to deep in the Wolfswood. My skin was red and itching, with every bone in my lower body protesting and groaning if I tried to move.

A slight creak of the door broke my doozies, as a woman walked in, her figure lightly illuminated by the soft glow of the hearth fire. From the dim glow of the fire, all that I could make was that she was young, a girl rather than a woman with a shapely body. Despite the pain, I sat up pulling my furs along to cover the slight bulge in my breeches. It had been too long since I had been alone with a woman in a room. The quick fucks in the tents with the camp followers didn't count. With the look in the eyes, one could easily tell they didn’t want to be there, no matter what they said and I also wanted out as soon as I had taken my pleasure. 

"I-I'm here to clean," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire. But there was something else in her tone, a subtle undercurrent that sent a shiver down my spine.

I watched as she moved gracefully around the room, her movements fluid and deliberate. Every brush of her hand against the furniture, every sway of her hips as she bent to pick up stray objects, sent something coursing through me. It was as if the air itself crackled with tension, thickening with each passing moment. Her movements, her posture, and her shadowy figure against the hearth fire were familiar. I was sure that I knew this woman from before. 

Unable to resist any longer, I reached out to her, my fingers grazing the soft skin of her arm. She turned to me, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of surprise and longing. Without a word, she moved closer, her body pressing against mine in a deep hug. Surprised, I returned the embrace for a moment then pulled her away slightly, to observe her face. 

It was the woman I had spent a great deal of childhood with, playing deep in the Hornwoods, capturing snow castles, and raiding occasional orchards alongside her brother Len Brewer and younger Kark Dolen, now my brothers-in-arms. It was also the first woman I had ever laid with during a harvest feast on the table of Lord Halys Hornwood while the lord himself had taken off to lay with a new "special" arrival from White Harbor. "Maya", I whispered, pulling her along for a deep kiss. 

Our lips met in a heated embrace, the kiss igniting a fire in me that burned with a fierce intensity. It had been months since I was with a woman and this was no mere camp follower, but rather a girl with whom I thought I figured out what love was. I let my hands explore freely, tracing the contours of her breasts and arse with a rough touch that sent waves of pleasure coursing through me.

With a groan of desire, I tried to pull her gown down, my hands tangling in her hair as I deepened the kiss. I could feel the heat of her skin against mine, the rhythm of her heartbeat matching my own as we moved as one. The dress got ripped slightly, breaking out one of her heavy breasts from Its prison. I sucked at it greedily, breaking the kiss then freed the other to bite around with Maya moaning heavily in pleasure. 

Soon she was bent over the desk, gown lifted over her arse as I fumbled with my breeches. Taking in the sight of the prone milky body, I entered her dripping sex with a slow yet deep thurst, pulling a moan loud from both of us if anyone was walking by they could easily hear. 

Maya had a habit to swear and talk during the rut, loving it even more if It was wild and rough. The tightness in her cunt made it so that she hadn't been with a man anytime soon, thus making her way more wanton. I had to put a hand on her mouth to muffle her cries else guards would come asking if someone was getting skewered. 

My sharp pull of her hair in a twist to bring her mouth close for another round of kissing was rousing enough loud enough that she started asking for it harder and spread her legs up even more and pushed her arse back against me.

"Please, fuck me Rurik. Deeper. Ohhhh." She was shoving back, almost losing balance. Her pussy was seeping. "I can feel you cock up to my throat, oh God, it feels so big. Make me cum Rurik! Shoot your seed up inside me!! Feed my hungry fucking cunt!!"

Her whole body started quaking, almost uncontrollably. Her cries were ear-splitting, she came and came and came again, as I continued to draw out my pleasure while she convulsed around my cock. My thrusts were going hard as her body was gone slightly limp, head resting on the table, moving with the rhythm of my pelvis. I bit down on her ear as I came, taking a great deal of my focus to pull out of her tightness as I shot my seed over her back. 

Both of us just rested there for a while to recover. After I carried her onto my bed, covering us with furs listening to the sound of each of our beating hearts pulsing fast enough for both of us to listen.  

"Remember our first time?", she asked after some time as I kept myself busy with her heavy breasts. Making me stop and laugh loudly at that. 

Once, when we were both around ten and five, at a harvest feast we were both messing around in the corner of the hall in shadows, kissing and filling each other up. Sometime during the night, I suggested we should hump. 

"Here?! Where? We can't get naked in front of all the people."

"You're wearing a skirt. Slide onto my lap."

"No! No way," she cried. "People will see!"

"They will not, your skirt will cover us up. Now get over here and let me empty this hard-on inside of you."

All that caused Maya to shove me off and run away, giggling. With me chasing her with a visible lump in my breeches. Finally, I cornered her in a room which we later discovered was the Lord's meeting chamber. Her being the daughter of the brewer and me being the grandson of a captain and a future one, we weren't strangers to the castle grounds. But we never saw this portion before. 

Ultimately back then Maya was on for it. She hesitantly walked over, facing me, and got up the table with her legs slightly open.  I reached up her loose dress, moved her small clothes aside slipped it in, and started feeling her up. Due to the farmwork with horses, she didn’t have her maidenhead intact which made it all the way better than instead of bloody and painful. She was slow, unsure at first, but was her cooch tight. And wet. Super wet. She came as hard as she ever came, and years later, she would still sometimes blurt out every once in a while "Remember that time we did it in the Lord's room?" That usually meant that she was ready to romp that minute. Not that we could ever get to do in the castle again. 

Now she decided it was time to go again. She chose to get on top and impale herself this time, riding it out until she came for a second time and practically forcing me to finish inside her despite me not wanting to risk bringing a child in this perilous time. 

I pulled her closer to me as she prepared her half-torn clothes to leave. "I have duties. Lady of this castle ordered us to help out in whatever way we can to pay for food and shelter.", she murmured as I pulled her and the furs back on us. 

"Just sleep with me here. I'll sort out your duties first thing at the light.", I replied, spooning her and closing my eyes. Not to mention, it was the best proper sleep I had since leaving home for the war.

**************************************************************
I was drifting into a restless sleep after the intense encounter with Maya. The crackling fire provided some comfort, but my mind was still between halfway asleep and thinking of our present situation with the Boltons and Whitehills. 

Suddenly, my slumber was interrupted by a firm hand shaking my shoulder. I groaned and blinked, slowly coming back to reality. "Rurik," a voice called out, cutting through the haze of sleep. It was Royland Degore, Ironrath's master at arms, his stern expression carrying urgency. Also with slight annoyance to find myself bedding one of their new maids.  

With a heavy sigh, I pushed myself up, rubbing my eyes to clear the remnants of sleep. "What is it, Royland?" I asked, my voice hoarse due to sleep and thirst for water. 

"Lord Forrester expects you and your people to meet for an urgent war council first thing in the morning. Come to the meeting hall at the earnest," he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of responsibility settling back onto my shoulders. "Right, I'll be there shortly," I said, forcing myself to shake off the last traces of sleep.

As Royland left the room, I turned to Maya, who was still curled up beside me under the furs. Her clothes were left torn and disheveled beside the bed from our last night's encounter. 

I gave her light shoves to break her slumber. It took her a while to figure out where she was and what was going on. I picked up the torn gown, pondering if she had managed to bring any other of her clothes from home. Probably not.  Reaching into my purse, I withdrew two pieces of silver and pressed them into her hand. "Here."

Maya's eyes dropped with hurt, and she hesitated momentarily before nodding softly. "Thank you, Rurik," she murmured, with a hint of pain in her voice.

Sighing, I pulled her close, kissing her slightly on the nose. "They're for your clothes. Buy new ones from the smallfolk here and anything else your family needs." 

That brought the smile back on her lips. Watching her leave made me sigh again. Maya wasn’t the smartest person to be around but I liked her too much anyway. Perhaps grandfather was right when he refused to make the match between me and her. 

The state of my clothes was another situation. They were sticky with sweat, oily, entirely without a touch of soap, and smelled if I brought them closer to my nose. Roaming from one hideout to another didn't give us enough chance to wash regularly. I made a note in my mind to keep an eye out to find someone of my size so that I could barter or buy some clothes while staying in the castle. In the end, I chose to wear the studded leather jerkin I wore under the mail and the least dirty woolen tunic I owned. Closing the door, I began to make my way to the meeting room of the Ironrath. 

The familiar chill of the stone walls seep through my tunic. The castle, built with the towering ironwood trees of the Wolfswood, stood as a bastion of the Forrester legacy. Part of the main keep was stone, surrounding new chambers made with wood by touches of expert hands with intricate floral and geometric designs of the columns. 

As I approached the meeting hall, the murmur of voices grew louder. The sounds of preparations for the imminent conflict were faint through the halls, of sharpening steel, hushed discussions, the occasional bark of a commander drilling his men. Every inhabitant of Ironrath seemed to move with a sense of purpose and urgency.

The heavy wooden doors to the meeting hall stood ajar, and I pushed them open, stepping into the room where the council was to be gathered. The long table was littered with maps, documents, and small wooden figures representing troops and fortifications. Near the fireplace, I only found my cousins, Harv and Dolen talking among themselves quietly. I walked over to stare at the potrait above the fireplace. It showed all the Forrester family members, present here and without. I recognized the older men easily, Rodrick and Lord Gregor standing together, Asher on the other side alone. For the boys, I didn't remember who they were. My companions gathered around as they saw me watching the portrait. 

"This must be the brother Ramsey killed. And that younger one is the one Whitehills hold hostage," Sebastian pointed out. 

"Not for long I think. Rodrick will surely want to trade Gryff for his brother." 

"You sure this is the best idea for us to go forward?", Kark pressed me as soon as he got the chance. He and Harv arrived earlier near Ironrath with the rest of our company and the cargo and had time to rest and regain strength. " I have been watching the people here. Most of them are smallfolk and their garrison has barely fifty men. Even with us and the sellswords, we would be outnumbered ten to one against the Boltons." 

"I have my doubts about that number." I took a sip of beer from Sebastian's flagon and popped a handful of a concoction of dried meat and berries with fat. "Roose has yet to arrive in The North. Ironborn holds the Moat. Now it means Ramsey and his allies must put the Moat on siege from both sides. They won't have a thousand men to fight us."  It was an analyzed guess but I had my reasons to suspect it was accurate. From the raids and ambushes we did on Boltons, it occured to me the bastard of Dreadfort was not a tactician. Brute strength and savagery, that was his personality. He would take charge of the Whitehill soldiers coming to Ironrath with a small company of his choosing and would try to smash down the gate. Bad strategy. But good for us if we can exploit the chances. Still, they would have the numbers on their side. 

Kark and Old Harv exchanged looks. They were not a fan of getting into a pitched battle against the superior Bolton army but Warin, my cousins, and most of the company trusted my judgment. 

"I am with you to the end laddie," Harv took a sit at the end of the long table, with us following around, keeping the front seat reserved for Foresters. "But I do hope you have some new tricks like you always seem to bring about in a whiff." 

I had to smile. "I have indeed thought of a few." 

One by one, the Forresters started making their way in. Rodrick, the Lord Forrester with a stony expression on his face, limping slightly on one foot. Lady Elissa, with her eyes puffy and red with her daughter beside her carrying a look on the verge of crying. Asher with his female sellsword friend, wearing an angry expression. It looked like they all had been fighting. 

As everyone took their seats refusing to look at one another, with Royland filling up the cups ahead of us I started the talk to break the silence. "What's going on?". 

Asher Forrester took an accusing finger at his brother. " Lord Forrester here won't exchange the Whitehill for Ryon. Losing one brother was not enough for him. Now he wants to put another's life at risk!" 

Rodrick exploded with their mother trying to calm them both down. "I didn't say I won't do it! I just want to be sure if there's another way to stop the Bolton's attack with a hostage exchange.  Our brother he may be, how many will die if Whitehills breach our gate..!?" 

I took a hand to stop Asher from replying with something fierce. "If this is about a hostage exchange I say you should give Whitehill back for your brother. " 

That stopped the bickering with Lady Elissa and the young daughter looking at me with hope. "Explain your meaning, " Rodrick said. 

"From what I gather this Gryff seems to me a worthless individual. Cowardly and stupid. He was almost crying when he thought you would execute him at the jetty. This type of person is far more likely to muck up a command if he's given the charge. All the good for us." 

Rodrick considered this for a while. I pressed on. "Keeping Gryff hostage won't stop an attack by the Boltons. They have been after us for months. From now what happened at the jetty, they surely know we are allies and now in Ironrath. Ramsey wants us for what we have been doing to him and his allies. That makes you his target as well." 

"So it's you who brought this Bolton curse on us," Royland, the master at arms accused us. "Ramsey had no reason to attack us directly before this." 

Asher bristled at that as well. "That bastard killed Ethan you old fool! How much of a direct assault do you want!?" 

"Both your lord and his brother owe us their lives and the lives of your men. We backed you up against your enemies. It's only right you back us up in return." Royland kept silent. 

Rodrick pondered at all this for a while. Then ordered the maester to send the raven to confirm the exchange. 

All that settled, Rodrick started the council for the reason we gathered. "Where are we at our defenses? What numbers can we expect to face?" 

"I would say the main Whitehill strength and a few men from Dreadfort. Boltons need all the men they have to put the Moat under siege. They don't have much to spare. Perhaps Ramsey and his inner circle of bastards." 

Royland and Rodrick talked among themselves for a while. "That's five hundred foes, give or take." 

"And on our side, we have fifty men of our brotherhood, all soldiers. Twenty raw recruits from Hornwood who escaped the Boltons with their families. They will need to be armed and trained. Not the best of soldiers, but they loathe Boltons and are ready to fight." 

"I can muster fifty guards here in Ironrath. Well-equipped and trained. We also have our sellswords. Forty total. Their services bought and paid for by Lord Asher. If their boasting holds true, they are the best killers in the seven kingdoms.", Royland added. 

Rodrick put more blocks of Ironrath sigil on the map. "So that makes it one hundred and sixty total. Against five hundred." 

"I saw a lot of refugees here when we arrived. We should train them up as well. Put crossbows on their hands and teach them how to hold a spear. They can throw rocks, pour hot water through murder holes and even just standing by they can threaten our enemies with numbers." 

"Putting our smallfolk in line of danger would not be right," Rodrick replied begrudgingly. "But I suppose they would suffer a fate lot worse in case Whitehills win.  He put four more blocks on the map. " Let's make it an even two hundred." 

Two hundred against five in a siege. That was a lot better odds than I thought it would be. 

"What about battle strategies?" Asher walked up to the map. "We just fight in a siege or what?" 

That was another problem. Foresters didn't have enough provisions to feed all the newcomers for an extended period. Also, most of the Forrester hold was made of wood except part of the main keep and wall. It would not be easy to set the castle on fire due to snowing. But it was a large risk nonetheless.

"It's a long road through the forest to Ironrath. We can ambush them on the way many times at our choice of spots. Killing outriders, burning tents, looting supplies. If we can spread enough panic, they may break if we repel them a few times from the walls," I added.  

"We can put scorpions on the towers," Triston the baby put in enthusiastically, probably thinking of the defenses of Seaguard Castle. "And a mangonel in the main street. With a few good hits, we can destroy any siege engines." 

The older men smiled at that. Rodrick replied, "Scorpions we might be able to manage. But I don't see our craftsmen and smiths building a mangonel in twenty days with no previous experience." 

Watching a young Triston get a say, Talia put her voice in as well. "There are books in the library on siege crafts. I saw the maester teaching Ethan about them. If Maester Ortengryn can draw up a schematic, our craftsmen can surely build up one." 

"If we have time, we can at least try," Asher agreed. "With our wall, ditches around it, and a few shots from siege engines could scare off the Whitehills." 

There were more small suggestions like finding more allies from the wolfswood clans, hiring out sellswords from the mountain clansmen, sending out ravens to ask for help, and so on. By the time we left, half a day had passed and we had our duties sorted; to get the men and the castle to be ready for a siege.

Chapter Text

The heat from the forge prickled my skin, beads of sweat trickling down my face. My hands, rough and calloused from years of wielding weapons and fixing farm tools, felt more or less at home here in the smithy. Each hammer swing brought a sense of purpose, a stark contrast to the uneasiness due to the upcoming battle looming over Ironrath.

Volgrin, the blacksmith, stood beside me, his burly frame casting a shadow over the glowing forge. "Yer a quick learner, Rurik," he said, wiping his brow with a dingy rag. "Not many men are strong enough to dirty their hands in the forge."

I shrugged, focusing on the red-hot frame of the scorpion's bow I was shaping. "I've been doing work like this since I was a boy. Hard work makes me feel almost back at home."

Volgrin grunted in agreement, his eyes scanning the nearly completed scorpion. "This one should be ready by nightfall. Two more to go after that."

I nodded, ignoring the sharp pain in my shoulders and back from the time spent at the smithy and the defenses around the wall. The plans drawn by Maester Ortengryn lay smudged with charcoal and grease on a nearby workbench. Each piece had to fit perfectly; there was no room for error. The rhythmic pounding of hammers and the roar of the forge were turning into a steady backdrop to my thoughts.

I wasn't a master blacksmith, but my experience in forging horseshoes and fixing farm tools had given me a basic foundation. The work was grueling but necessary, and I was among the few men in Ironrath who knew their way around the forge, besides three resident blacksmiths, so every hand was needed for the extra work. The scorpions, massive crossbow-like siege engines, could give us a crucial edge in our defense if we managed to complete them.

"My men tell me you’ve been trying to kill yourself with overworking," Rodrik Forrester had entered the smithy and was measuring up the frame, bolts, and nails built separately for the mangonel. "You know there are far easier and more comfortable ways to commit suicide."

Well, it had some truth to it. Ten days had passed since the war council. And each day, I had worked from dawn to midday at the smithy. Then, up to dusk, digging the ditches around the castle perimeter. The castle was alight with people training even at night with spears and crossbows, so I also spent daily two or three hours there as well. By the time I went to bed, I felt like a wounded animal with pain all over my muscles. Maya and her mother had to strip me down each night and massage my body with healing oil and a hot iron wrapped in clothes just to make me able to get up the next day.

I simply grunted. "This is not work. I’m building my body up for the battle." Putting down the frame, I walked over to a bench that contained my lunch. Fried bear meat which Maya cooked up for me with salt and horseradish. My cousins and I hunted the grizzly on the second day of arriving here and I had been gorging myself ever since. "By the time of the battle, I aim to gain over three stone."

"Interesting way to prepare for a fight." Rodrik was in the mood for a conversation, so I pushed part of the bear steak to him and took a seat.

"Well, I learned all this during my time in the fighting pits at White Harbor. Despite what people believe, the fights are not just people swinging fists at each other. It takes quite some time for the fighters to prepare themselves."

Volgrin put down his hammer, grabbed a flagon of light beer, and joined us as well. "I sense a story coming. Don’t keep us in wait now. The work here gets boring at times."

I cut a piece of meat and chewed carefully, savoring the bite. "Four years ago, well, two years before the war, most of our cattle died from some disease. Cattle are very important to us forest dwellers, and we did not have enough coins to buy more. So I said to my family I’m going to White Harbor to find some work. I was hoping for some sort of mercenary or bounty-hunting work to make quick coins. Instead, I found the pit behind the harbor’s market where the bare-handed fights take place. The lord of the city doesn’t close it down because it brings a lot of people and businesses to the city. Also, Manderlys themselves bet on the fights. Anyway, I signed up as a young fool I was to fight a seasoned fighter for a quick bag of coins and found myself in bed for a week after that. It took me a whole month to recover. But Dolen took charge of things and got home a steer and five cows on my behalf."

"Wait. Wait," Volgrin stopped me. "You were in a bed for a month and you still managed to find the coin? Are you sure you didn’t take too many hits on the head back then?"

I took his beer flagon and finished half of it in a long gulp. "The other guy died two days after the fight. Blood clotting in his brain or something."

The smith eyed me cautiously. I continued, "Anyway, after healing up, I found myself a mentor. An old former fighter who had seen better days and agreed to teach me this and that of the pit and watch my back in the city for a commission. I fought for four more months in the pit. At my last fight, Lord Halys himself arrived in White Harbor. I heard he won three hundred gold dragons betting on me. As a reward, he bought me a full mail shirt and a palfrey. And when I finally returned home, I had two dozen cows and one hundred goats and sheep of the finest breed with me."

"Is this all true or are you making this up to boast?" One of the workers in the smithy asked me suspiciously as they had stopped their work to listen to us.

Not taking offense, I asked him, smiling, "Why don’t you ask your Lord what he thinks about my tale’s honesty?"

Everyone turned to Rodrik. He shrugged. "I have seen him fight in the camps for coin. I have no reason nor the courage to call him a liar."

The men looked at one another. The younger with awe and the older halfway between trusting my words or not. After a while, Rodrik stood up. "Alright. Break’s over. Everyone to their work now." He signaled me to follow him outside.

"Any news from those ravens we sent out?" I asked after we had walked a few paces out.

Rodrik sighed and stopped. "Only this."

I took the rolled parchment. In a maester’s hand, it said,

"Bear Island is sorry to hear of the Foresters' peril, but what men remain to us are needed to protect our own home. We have none to spare.

Lady of Bear Island
Lyanna Mormont."

Letting out a deep breath myself, I gave back the parchment.

"If we had the gold Asher brought home earlier, we could have hired mercenaries from the mountain clansmen. But now it’s too late to send someone important and work out an agreement. And Wolfswood clans are too afraid of Boltons to join us." Rodrik sounded tired.

I put a hand on his shoulder. "We have enough men. Between the defenses we are building and the number of our garrison, Boltons won’t get in. They don’t have the men or supplies for a long siege either. I say we have a very good chance of enduring this."

Rodrik nodded. Neither of us spoke of what would happen if Roose Bolton returned unopposed to the North, but we both knew. Instead, we walked back to our duties.

************************************************

I left the smithy around midday to take some rest before joining the defense work outside of the castle. Getting in the line of the soup cauldron, I got myself a bowl of thin, steaming grain and meat brew and sat on a bench in the yard. To keep the men in working shape, Rodrick ordered the cook to keep cauldrons of thin grain soup mixed with some meat instead of just water. Now when the workers grew tired they had cups or a bowl full of soup beside their lunch. The courtyard of Ironrath was a hive of activity. The Lord himself was present, his limp barely slowing him down, and barked orders to the guards and smallfolk. Men drilled with swords, spears, and ironwood shields, while others hoisted bundles of arrows and spears onto racks. The walls were being reinforced with additional wooden palisades, hoardings were being built on the outer side, and ditches were dug to deter any siege engines the Boltons might bring.

Royland Degore, with his ever-watchful eyes, supervised the training of the new recruits. These men, raw and untested, fumbled with their weapons but at least had determination in their eyes, not fear. Harv, Warin, and Dolen were also admitted among the men who led the drills, shouting instructions and correcting stances, going from man to man. Even the children were put to work, carrying water and supplies to the men. Work overall was backbreaking. But no one had a reason to complain, since even the lords of the House themselves worked side by side with the men. Even Lady Elissa, when freed from her duty of overviewing the food and resources, spent time among the women, making caltrops out of porcupine quills or fletching arrows. 

The younger of the women, of age twenty to thirty were practicing with crossbows, which were light enough for them to pull down the string or lever after a fashion. Talia Forrester, despite being far younger had found a place among them as Rodrick didn't deter her. Now she was struggling with pulling the lever of a crossbow but had overall good aim when she managed. The older women were fixing the shafts of the arrows or making fletchings.  I kept drinking the soup while observing things around me. 

Triston fancied himself as a painter. He had fashioned himself some green paint out of herbs and now was painting our shields and banners with the Brotherhood triskelion. 

Finishing my soup, I left my bowl and spoon with the utensils and joined the digging crew outside. As soon as I threw my first spadefull of soil, Sebastian came running. "Rurik, you need to come to the training yard now." 

In the narrow yard, Asher and his sellsword friend Beshka were struggling to maintain order among the unruly band of mercenaries hired to bolster Ironrath's manpower. The sellswords, accustomed to a life of chaos and violence, chafed under the restrictions imposed by their new employers. Asher, his brow furrowed with frustration, attempted to reason with them, but their loyalty was fickle and their tempers short.

One of the sellswords, a hulking man with a scar across his cheek, sneered at Asher. "You think you can just boss us around, Forrester? We're not your lackeys."

Beshka stepped forward, her eyes flashing with anger. "Shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you."

The sellsword laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "I'd like to see you try."

The tension was palpable, the threat of violence hanging in the air. I stepped forward, my presence drawing the attention of the sellswords. "Enough," I said, my voice firm. "We are barely days away from a fight for our lives and you fools are trying to pick fights with your employers?"

The sellsword turned his sneer on me. "And who are you to tell us what to do?"

I met his gaze steadily. "I'm the one who saved your lives just barely ten days ago. So you'd best listen."

The sellsword eyed me for a moment, then shrugged and stepped back. "Fine. But don't think we're going to take orders from you forever."

I gave him a nod. "Just stick around for this fight with the Boltons. After that, you can fuck off in any direction you want." 

Asher looked over at the prisoners from House Whitehill, who had been forced to mock-fight against the sellswords to keep them entertained. They used dull weapons, but the sight was still brutal. I could see the fear in the prisoners' eyes, mingled with a flicker of defiance. This was a dangerous game, but it kept the sellswords occupied and gave them a chance to release some of their pent-up aggression.

I glanced over at Asher. "How long has this been going on?"

Asher shrugged. "Since we brought them here. It keeps the sellswords busy, and we haven't lost a prisoner yet. Though it's only a matter of time before someone gets seriously hurt."

A particularly brutal match caught my eye. One of the prisoners, a young man with a gaunt face, was struggling against a sellsword nearly twice his size. The sellsword, a hulking brute covered in tattoos, had the look of a man who enjoyed inflicting pain. I had seen his type before, back in the fighting pits. They called him "The Beast."

The Beast knocked the prisoner to the ground with a powerful blow, then turned to the crowd, raising his arms in triumph. The sellswords cheered, and I could see coins changing hands as bets were placed. This wasn't a fight; it was a spectacle.

If entertainment is what they want, why not give them one they would remember for a while? I stepped forward, my eyes locked on The Beast. "Enough of this children's nonsense. I'll fight the big one."

The crowd went silent, all eyes turning to me. The Beast sneered, looking me up and down. "You think you can take me, farm boy?"

I met his gaze steadily. "I've fought bigger men than you in the pits. And I never needed a weapon to do it."

The Beast laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Fine. Let's see what you've got."

Asher stepped forward, a worried look on his face. "Rurik, you can't possibly survive a fistfight with him."

I shook my head. "It's fine. It's time these men saw what a real fight looks like."

The sellswords quickly formed a circle around us, their excitement bringing more people to the yard. I stripped off my shirt, my muscles rippling in the dim light. The Beast did the same, revealing a body covered in scars and tattoos. He was a mountain of a man, but I had faced worse.

We squared off, the crowd shouting and cheering. The Beast came at me fast, swinging his massive fists. I ducked and weaved, my movements fluid and controlled. Years of fighting in the pits had honed my reflexes, and I could see the surprise in The Beast's eyes as he struggled to land a blow. Blocking his blow to my head, I connected my shin as hard as I could to my opponent's calf. After four more kicks, with some sacrifices to my face's structure, The Beast started limping hard. 

Circling each other with bruises on my face and limp for the Beast, I waited for my moment, then struck. A quick jab to his ribs, followed by a powerful uppercut to his jaw. The Beast staggered, his eyes wide with shock. He hadn't expected this. The crowd roared, coins changing hands as bets were being re-adjusted.

The Beast roared in anger, charging at me like a bull. I sidestepped, delivering a powerful kick to his knee. He went down, his leg buckling under him. I pounced, my fists a blur as I rained down blows on his face. He tried to fight back, but I was relentless. My hands were locked together as I brought it on the back of his neck like an axe handle, hoping to knock him out. To my surprise, the beast just showed a stagger. His neck was protected by thick wads of muscle and skin felt like a large gut of dried leather barely showing any effects of my hits. I realized my only hope was to choke him out. The beast was not a fist fighter but his training as a killer pitfighter made his endurance longer than mine. 

Grabbing his neck, I wrapped my right arm around then grabbed my right with my left behind my back in an inverted facelock, my muscles straining as I tried choking him senseless. The Beast struggled, his hands clawing at my arms, but it was of no use. I held on, my grip unyielding.

The crowd went silent, watching in awe as The Beast's struggles grew weaker. Finally, he went limp, his eyes rolling back in his head. I released my grip, letting him fall to the ground.

The sellswords were stunned, their eyes wide with shock. I stood over The Beast, my chest heaving, my fists clenched, letting out a victory roar. My men were shouting in reply. "Rurik! Rurik!! Rurik!!!"  

Finally, with the shouting dying down, I addressed the crowd ahead. "Let this be a lesson to all of you. We fight together, or we die alone. There is no room for infighting. The Boltons are coming, and we need to be ready."

Asher stepped forward, a look of relief on his face. "Well done, Rurik."

I nodded, my eyes scanning the crowd. "Now, let's get back to training. We have a battle to win."

The sellswords dispersed to find new interests, exchanging coins amongst themselves. The tension in the air had dissipated, replaced by a newfound respect. They had seen what I was capable of, and they knew better than to get out of line again. Their sports with the prisoners, free drinks, and food were more interesting and worthwhile than butting heads with their employers. 

*****************************

The chaos of the day was settling into a muted hush, Ironrath took on a steady stillness, interrupted only by the distant sounds of soldiers and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. Inside one of the sheds near the training yard, Maya was tending to my wounds with practiced care. The air was thick with the scent of heated distilled wine, its burn seeping into my skin as Maya dabbed at cuts and bruises.

"You took quite a beating out there," Maya remarked softly, her eyes focused on her task. "You're lucky none of these are too deep."

I winced as she applied the heated wine to a particularly nasty gash on my cheekbone. "It's nothing I haven't endured before," I replied, trying to mask the pain in my voice.

Maya glanced up at me, her expression a mix of concern and something more difficult to read. "You shouldn't be so reckless, Rurik," she chided gently.

"I know," I admitted, meeting her gaze. "But sometimes a display is necessary. And I am best suited here for these kinds of jobs."

"You're a leader, not a pit fighter who jumps at a jingle of the coins," Maya said, her voice tinged with frustration. "You can't keep risking yourself like this. Let Forresters deal with their problems for once."

Smiling, I pulled her in for a kiss. Responding, Maya's breath got heavier and soon we were pulling down each other's smallclothes and using the long table as an Impromptu bed. 

I was deep inside Maya when the shed's door creaked open, and young Talia Forrester stepped inside. Her eyes widened at the sight before her, me and Maya both moaning loudly in pleasure. Her cheeks got red in embarrassment. The young lady's presence quickly made me pull out and pull up my breeches as Maya closed up her legs and started fixing her gown. 

"I... I'm sorry," Talia stammered, turning rapidly on her heel to leave. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll go."

Maya became red in embarrassment and worry. "This is it. They will surely kick me and my family out now." 

I was still hot with desire with the unfinished sex. Even with Maya protesting, I pulled her back on the table and finished rather quickly. 

Even though I made Maya get her finish, rubbing down her nub, she was still worried. Leaving quickly after gathering her herbs and the bottle of distilled wine for her other duties. Truth be told, I was a little worried myself. After telling Rodrick about me and Maya, he told the new steward to assign Maya to my care. But rutting in public places was still not acceptable for anyone. And if this reaches, Lady Elissa's ears, gods know how she might react. 

At night, after finishing dinner with the rest of my men in the great hall, I went looking for the young lady to sort it out. Talia was in the meeting room, sitting on a chair with a lit candle, working on some numbers on a parchment. 

"Those are some big numbers." I picked a look over her shoulders at the contents. 

"Estimation of our current stores against the current rate of depletion to predict the future. I thought of helping Mother and the maester a bit," Talia replied with a hint of pride in her voice. 

I nodded despite not understanding half of what she said. I was not a stranger to basic numbers work, but the numbers involving farmwork were in tens and hundreds, not thousands.  

"My lady, about what happened a while ago...." I was not sure about how to approach the topic. "It was not meant for you to see. We should've been more careful." 

"It's alright," Talia stopped me. "I know things happen..... between man and woman. I won't tell anyone." 

I was relieved. Talia seemed far more mature for her age to me. So hopefully, this uncomfortable situation was over. 

I began to leave for the door. But she stopped me. "I was actually looking for you before. Someone said you were at the shed. But I didn't realize you were not alone." 

Not sure where is the conversation going, I pulled up a chair opposite her direction. "Is there something I can help you, my lady? I am at your service. " 

Talia's voice was between embarrassment and determination for something. I wasn’t quite sure of what. She kept avoiding my eyes. After a while, she asked, "Your grandfather was a bannermen to Lord Hornwood, is this correct? " 

"Well, not a bannermen to be exact. We had a large farm, around five hundred acres, and held oaths of several forest farmsteads around our land. We lived in a tower-house and could gather around thirty men when House Hornwood called on us." 

"Oh," Talia murmured as she kept fidgeting with her fingers. 

"If you have something to say, my lady, you can say it to me without any issue," I offered. 

It took her a few moments to gather up her words. Finally, she found them. "I had a brother. He was my twin. Before Rodrick returned, Ramsey came to our house one day and murdered Ethan when he stood up to him." Her voice choked up with tears, her hands shaking. I thought of touching her hands to offer her some solace, then did the better of it. Talia was still a highborn lady and I wasn't sure how she might take me touching her. 

"Ramsey Snow is also responsible for my mother's death," I said after a while. "She sat fire at our home rather than submitting to the bastard when they came knocking. I heard all those who entered the tower got burnt to death. And my mother with them." 

"I want revenge. I want someone to kill him," Talia's voice was determinant. 

"We think Ramsey will himself come to Ironrath. If he's at the battle, we have a good chance of killing him." 

"No!", Talia's voice changed to frustration now. She stood up, walking to the fireplace. At that moment, she reminded me of my mother, a true woman of The North. "I mean I want someone to especially look for him in the battlefield. To take a sword and drive it through his face." Her fist was clenched, face red with contempt. "I would do it myself if they let me. But Rodrick will never allow it." 

She came back to look me in the eyes now. "Both of my brothers will be busy leading the men. They may not get to Ramsey before he has a chance to escape. But I believe you can. I saw you fighting that sellsword today. Rodrick himself said he has never seen someone fighting with so much raw strength and fiercely like you." 

The previous look of embarrassment came back to her. "If.....If you can kill Ramsey, I will ask Rodrick to offer you my hand for marriage." 

I had to look the other way, biting down my cheeks to hide my laugh or else I would probably hurt her womanly pride. Talia Forester's offer was bold, I had to give her that. But she was about half my age and standing up she wouldn’t even reach my chest. Talia looked as much like a very large children's doll next to me if we compared sizes. 

"That's a noble offer, my lady," I replied solemnly, despite my half-laughter and half-impressed view of the little noblewoman now. "But my lands are currently lost. I don't have much to offer you. I doubt your brother would make such a match if you offered." 

Talia looked very rejected. Due to the cause of losing the marriage offer for a man twice her age and three times her weight or seeing Ramsey dead, I couldn't tell. 

Looking around, I found a flagon some drink to pour for her. "If you are looking for a marriage prospect, my lady, I can offer up my younger cousin. He has the Mallister name and is of more noble birth than me. He's also around your age. Two or three years older maybe. I think Triston would make a good match for you." 

"So you are asking my hand for your cousin on the condition that you kill Ramsey?" Talia spoke slowly. 

"I guess I am." 

"Deal," Talia spat on her hand and offered it to me. No doubt a new practice she picked up from all the soldiers present here in Ironrath. 

Laughing in my mind, I did the same to appease her. We talked for some more time to work out the kinks of the deal before the sudden horn of a nightguard alerted us. 

"Are we under attack already? " Talia asked anxiously. I was very pleased to see that her hand didn't reach her heart or face as women did when they were in panic. Instead, they found a dagger's hilt she wore now on her belt. 

"No. That would be two long blasts. Still, You stay here. I should go and check what's going on." I ran for the yard. 

Soldiers were coming out of the keep, tents and other houses turned barracks in droves by the time I reached the main street. I was making my way to the front gate when a soldier on the wall directed me. "It came from the western forest." 

Asher told half of the gathered men to stay at the front gate. The other half followed us to the western towers. Down from the battlements, I found Sharp Tom waiting for us with his warhorn. "What is it, Tom?", I called out.  "Is it the Boltons?" 

"No. Mormonts." 

Chapter Text

The great hall of Ironrath had surely seen many councils, but none was probably so critical as this. The air was thick with anticipation—a mix of fear and resolve. Flickering torches cast dancing shadows on the walls, and the scent of pinewood smoke mingled with the tension of the gathered leaders.

Rodrik Forrester stood at the head of the table again, his face drawn but determined. Asher, his younger brother, was a sharp contrast, his fiery temperament barely contained, pacing around rather than being seated. Lady Alysane Mormont, freshly arrived from scouting Deepwood Motte, exuded a fierce energy, her presence commanding respect from all. While I, Rurik, took a seat nearby, ready to offer my insights and support, standing for the Brotherhood. 

Rodrik stepped forward to greet Alysane. “Lady Alysane, welcome to Ironrath. Your presence here is both an honor and a necessity. We are grateful for your support.”

Alysane nodded, her expression serious. “Lord Forrester, it is good to see Ironrath standing strong. When Lyana sent words of your letter, I figured it to be a good chance to find like minded allies. The flayers and the krakens must pay for their treachery. This can be a good start to do so." 

Rodrik's lips curved into a brief smile. “Your aid comes at a crucial time. The forces Boltons have gathered are formidable, but with your reinforcements, we stand a better chance.”

As the formalities concluded, Rodrik gestured for everyone to take their seats. The room settled into a heavy silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on us all.

Rodrik opened the council with a grave nod. “Lady Mormont, I think we all know your much needed aid for us must have some sort of cost. How can me and mine be of your service? We have gold if you have need of it for the coming winter." 

I was observing the conversation closely. Mormont hesitated before answering. "It would not be proper to take your coin for help when your own need is more dire than ours. But if you decide to buy grains for the winter, a portion of it would be much appreciated  for our grain store is short. As for the help against Boltons, We will help you if you help us in return." 

Rodrick nodded before asking her to continue. 

"I have orders on me to take back the Deepwood. But I need more men if I am to do that. Forresters, Boles, Branchs, Woods, Barks, and Rootfields—all of Glover bannermen's aid." Alysane paused to look at all of us. "Since you, Lord Forrester have gathered quite a number here, I would help you with one hundred warriors. If you promise to aid me in attacking Deepwood Motte." 

I stood up before Rodrick could answer."That is a fine proposition. A perfect way to achieve all of our goals. They have Larence Snow, a son of Lord Hornwood in Deepwood Motte. To have him free is a must for our cause. The Brotherhood would happily join you in your assault on Deepwood, my lady. We can restore the rulers of the Wolfswood, cast out the Greyjoys and return Hornwood to its rightful owners." 

Lady Mormont raised her goblet for me. With nods from both Asher and Royland, Rodrick also consented. "So it is settled then. We shall do our best to raise the Deepwood Motte's banners against the krakens in return of Mormonts aid against the Boltons. Let us be the first to pledge our swords to rescue our overlords."  

Everyone drank deeply to this proposal. While everyone was sitting down, I asked the question that had been nagging at me for ages."My lady, I must ask about the whereabouts of Lord Glover and Lady Mormont. I know for a certain fact that they were not at the Twins during the Red Wedding. Where did they go? And why are they not taking charge of fighting against such traitors and invaders?" 

"Yes." Rordrick had the same mind as me. "Lord Glover ordered us to lead the van against the coming campaigns while he had urgent business in the name of the King. But we had no news of him since." 

By the face of Alysane, we both knew she didn’t know or was not telling us the whole truth. "As far as I know, both my mother and Lord Glover are in Greywater Watch. She sent orders to me regarding Deepwood but that's what I last heard from her." 

It took some time for us to digest this news. Me and my men passed around the crannoglands on our return to the North. But no marsh dweller mentioned of other soldiers passing through. They must have been in hiding. But if commanders like Glover and Mormont were alive, our chances for a successful resistance were high. 

"Perhaps you could send words back to your mother. A fishing vessel or a trusted man on a horse would serve. Say that the House Reed and whatever men remain to Lord Galbert and to her must do whatever it takes to delay Roose Bolton's return to North." I suggested. "If we can destroy as much as possible the Bolton forces in the coming battle, more men would rally to our cause and we can build up a more succesful resistance." 

The she-bear nodded again but took her turn to press on us. "I understand that Boltons started for Ironrath a week ago. Why have you not cut their numbers in half already? Wolfswood offers many chances of ambushing or raiding enemy lines that march through. By sense, Ramsay should not have even make it to your lands in fighting order." 

We exchanged looks of annoyance and anger. "You don't have to remind us of that, my lady," I repiled with a sigh. "It was among our original plans to do so. But the Boltons proved to be rather craftier than we gave them credit for. They hold a brother of Rodrick hostage, just as we hold a son of Whitehill hostage. I suppose they will do the exchange only when safely encamped somewhere near the Ironwood forests at a secure location." 

Another round of silence doned on us. We probably had ten days or similar before Boltons would be on the gates and the Lords of the Castle had a hostage situation to deal with. Without a successful exchange, we were looking at a bloody battle, costly for our already small numbers. How would we attack the Deepwood with a similar number or less against the Ironborn? 

Rordick shook off the doubts and confusion to rouse all of us up. "We have the advantage of position now. I say we go for the offense when the siege happens. Keep a third of our numbers in the keep while the rest attacks the Boltons from flanks or behind. They have no way to know that we have been further reinforced. That would be our way to win." 

Asher and I opened up the large map of the Ironwood forest on the table, using our knife and bracers to secure the corners. The map showed all the important locations for a radius of a hundred miles in detail, including the ridges, elevations, and contours of the land. 

I pointed out such an elevation point just outside the gates of Ironrath. "Here it is. The perfect location for such an offensive move. With places to set both soldiers and scorpions, caltrops, mangonel, and the wall of the keep to aid us in our attacks." 

Others gathered around to look at the point I selected. "It could serve," Asher said thoughtfully. "If we have means to keep the enemy's centerline in disarray. Where we are now with our siege engines?" 

"The scorpions would be ready in time. Twice their numbers of we have oroginally decided if some more men from Bear Island with expert hands aid us. The mangonel though....Its ropes are likely to snap if the pull back lever puts too much tension on it after each launch. I say we can get four or five proper shots out of it before the rope snaps." 

"That would be enough." Rodrick didn't pick his eyes up from the map. "We'll fill up clay pots with distilled wine, oil and pitch to use as loadings. Maester Ortengryn will tell us how far the loads will drop. The fire will make them lose order if they try come up using a turtle or shield-wall." 

He moved up the blocks, meant for soliders in two rows on both sides of the main road. "What is more important is to sort out who and how we will lead the attack. My lords and lady, we will pay the skinners back in a bloody slaughter." 

***********************************************************************

The clang of hammer on anvil echoed through the smithy, a relentless, rhythmic sound that marked the passage of time. For the past week, this place had been most of my world. The air was thick with the scent of hot metal and sweat, and the walls seemed to vibrate with the force of our efforts. We had worked tirelessly, preparing the scorpions and other siege equipment, ensuring everything was in perfect order for the coming battle.

Each day was a blur of activity. Sparks flew without a stop as steel was shaped and tempered, the forge kept roaring like a beast demanding to be fed. I had spent countless hours here, overseeing the cruder and strength consuming part of the work while my mind constantly ran through the plans and contingencies. 

Today, however, was different. Today, I was preparing to leave Ironrath for the hostage exchange with the Whitehills. Everyone feared for a treachery from the Whitehills in Rodrick himself went and Asher was not to be trusted to keep his head if he saw Whitehills according to his brother. So I volunteered, a seemingly expandable soldier but well experienced for a possible quick combat situation. I would have twelve guardsmen for the meet, all of whom were familiar to Ryon Forrester. My hands moved with practiced ease, donning my mail and fastening the leather straps. I left out my brigandine and pauldrons because it would be too heavy to pull the bow strings with them on. Instead I had all the mail pieces over a heavy leather coat and woolen tunic. After almost three weeks in relative comfort, each piece of armor felt like a familiar old friend, a second skin that had seen me through many battles. The weight of it was rather reassuring, grounding me in the reality of what lay ahead.

Beside me, Triston was helping out his older brother Sebastian with his mail and straps. Sebastian was of age and eager to earn out his knighthood so Rodrick gave him the command to lead our escort and backup. My falx was in a simple scabbard on my back leaving my hands free to pull bowstring and nock arrows. I practiced a few times taking out the Reaper, twisting out my elbow to  take out the weapon in a single clean motion. Satisfied, I left the smithy to join the men who were assembling.  

Outside, the cold Northern air bit at my face, a sharp reminder of the harsh realities we faced. The sky was a dull grey, threatening snow, and the wind whispered through the Ironwood trees, carrying with it the scent of pine and the light hint of earthy musk. That would be sign of rain. There were no smallfolk to be seen in the yard. Everyone who would not be needed during the battle had been moved to a safer location near the postern gate. All those who remained in the gates and manning the walls were fighters. Crimson, my destrier was already saddled and bridled. Around me, my command was already on their horses or checking their weapons on the mount. Putting a foot on the stirrup, I noticed Maya had come out from the keep to stand near the soldiers. She looked anxious, her hands wringing together, eyes darting around as if she feared being seen.

"Rurik," she called, her voice low but urgent. I put down my foot and turned to her, noting the worry etched into her young face.  She stepped closer, glancing around to ensure we were alone before speaking in a hushed tone. "Rurik, I need to tell you something... something important."

I nodded, giving her my full attention. Maya took a deep breath, "I have not bled in a while," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implications. The possibility of a child now, in the midst of war and uncertainty, was a dangerous prospect. I felt a surge of conflicting emotions—surprise, concern, and a flicker of joy quickly overshadowed by the grim reality of our situation.

"Maya," I began, choosing my words carefully, "This is not something I was prepared to hear now." I paused, searching her face for a reaction. She looked worried."You know how dangerous things are right now. We're at war. Gods forbid...I don't even know if we will see the sun tomorrow. It's not safe—for you, for a child. You should find the maester to take some moon tea."

Her eyes widened, and she took a step back, hurt flashing across her face. "You would ask me to...?" She trailed off, biting her lip. "Rurik, I don't want to." 

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It's not that I don't want to have a child, Maya. But what kind of future would our child would have if I die before it is even born? You know very well what happened with my father. I don't want to father a child like him just to abandon it in the cruel realities of the world." My voice rose slightly. 

Maya nodded slowly, her eyes filled with a hint of tears. She walked back to the keep to join the rest of the women. I thought of calling back on her, then did the better of it. The words felt hollow in my mind. What are even the right words to say to a woman who had lost her home and had been denied the possibility to have a child with someone she loved?

Sebastian had seen the whole thing. He patted my shoulder to offer comfort and held Crimson ready for me to mount. Sighing, I got on, barking an order to the men to follow as the gate was pulled open.

The journey to the designated meeting place was tense. The snow began to fall lightly, dusting the landscape in a blanket of white. It seemed almost peaceful, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. The area chosen for the exchange was a narrow clearing with a thin stream separating both parties, flanked by Ironwood trees. As I arrived, I saw the Whitehill banner fluttering in the breeze on the opposite side of the bridge and soon after, the corpulent figure of Lord Whitehill emerged, flanked by his guards. Gryff, his son, bound at the hands over a horse, looked hopefully at the man.

I dismounted and approached, my eyes scanning the area for any sign of treachery. This was quite a delicate situation, and a slight misreading of the enemy could let me fall for a trap. Whitehill greeted me with a smirk, his eyes glinting with malice. "So the pups didn’t even dare to come themselves to face me," he said, his voice oily and smug, "Instead, they have sent a commoner to get their brother."

I waited a long moment before replying. Taking the time to try to measure out the man before me. Ludd was a pot-bellied man, with a balding head and malice in his eyes. "It's a wanderous day indeed. Never in my days did I think I would see a pig walking on two  legs," I replied finally. "Lord Lard, it is good to make your acquaintance finally. Your smell, I have to say, precedes you." 

Ludd's snarl widened. "Insolent bastard. You must be the one leading the Brotherhood of whoresons." He gestured to his men, and Ryon was brought forward. "You know," Ludd continued, his tone filled with hatred, "you lot won't last long. Ramsay is here, and when we break down your gate, we'll make Ironrath burn. You'll all be flayed, and those who survive... well, let's just say they'll wish they hadn't."

I smirked at his words, kept my voice level. "We're not here to talk about what makes you hard at night, you fat fuck. We have your piglet, you have a Forrester." I leaned in closer, lowering my voice so only he could hear. "Now, be a good dog and finish this exchange so you can run back to your master." 

Ludd's eyes flashed with fury, but he said nothing, his lips curling into a snarl. The man was full of cunning and hate but lacked the courage of a soldier. If he had some plan to stab us in the back, it would not be on equal ground where we had the chance to fill him full of arrows. The exchange was completed quickly—Ryon Forrester, looking pale and frightened, was handed over to us, while Gryff was returned to his father's custody. As we parted ways, Ludd shot me a final, venomous glare. "I just might ask Ramsay to give his leave to flay you myself."

I didn't bother to respond this time.  Instead, I turned and led Ryon back to our horses, the boy clinging to me as if afraid to let go. "It's alright, my lord. Your brothers are waiting for you back home," I murmured, trying to reassure him. "You're safe now." 

The ride back was uneventful. We took a narrow game trail off the main road to avoid any potential pursuers, while Sebastian took off with his men to follow the orders Rodrick left him. The gate was already open for us. Lady Elissa almost snatched Ryon from my saddle and hid him under her cloak like a hen hides her chick, hurrying to the keep. 

I left Crimson for the stabeboys as my company hurried their way into the battlements. The bows were at the ready as I nocked a bodkin in the string. Sure enough, soon Sebastian and his men rode for the gate, digging hills to their horses. As their pursuers emerged behind them, I drew back the string aiming a head higher at the enemy right behind my cousin. The arrow pierced clean through the leather and throat, sticking to the shield of the man behind him. Other bowmen started losing arrows as well, mowing down the enemy horsemen. The gate was already kept open as our skirmishers made it safely through. Whitehill cavalry saw themselves taking heavy losses in both men and horses and melted back in the forest. Much was the same at the postern and western gates. The bows on the walls drove away the enemy, allowing our men to safely enter. 

I hurried back to Sebastian, helping him off the saddle. His shield was filled with arrows and javelin marks, and he had a arrow sticking out of his back. "I'm fine. It didn’t pierce the skin," He groaned as I pulled out the arrow. "Punch my teeth out if I ever ask to be in command again." 

"Did it work?" I shook him a few times. "Were you successful in setting the tents on fire?" 

"It is done. They're siege camp is in disarray." Asher and his sellswords had returned from their tasks as well. "Now we wait for them to fall into our trap." 

Chapter Text

The cold night air bit at my face as I crouched low in the undergrowth, my body tense with anticipation. The moon was a silvery grey shadow in the sky, casting just enough light to see from time to time but not enough to reveal our positions. The valley road stretched below us, a narrow, winding path flanked by shallow, wooded slopes. It was the perfect place for an ambush.

I glanced at Asher beside me, his face streaked with coal and his eyes sharp with focus. We had smeared ourselves with mud and covered our armor with green shrubs, blending into the landscape like shadows. The men of House Forrester were spread out along the right ridge, concealed among the rocks and bushes, their breaths barely visible in the chill air.

Across the valley, Alysane Mormont and her warriors were similarly hidden, a silent force waiting to spring into action. The She-Bear of House Mormont commanded a formidable presence, her warriors were disciplined and fierce. While our men were a mix of Brotherhood soldiers, Forresters, and their smallfolk, Mormonts had a unified army, united behind a single leader. She insisted on having the command of the left flank for this very reason. We had chosen this spot carefully, knowing that the Bolton-Whitehill forces would have to pass through this narrow valley to reach Ironrath's main gate.

Rodrik held the castle with a hundred warriors and some smallfolk men and women posing on the wall, giving the appearance that all our forces were concentrated there. It was a ruse designed to lure Ramsay Bolton and Ludd Whitehill into a trap. They would think they could overwhelm Ironrath with sheer numbers, but they would find only one-third of our force holding the walls while the rest of us waited here, ready to strike.

The sound of hooves on the frozen ground reached us, faint but distinct. I tensed, signaling to the men to be ready. The Bolton scouts and outriders were approaching, sent ahead to ensure the road was clear. We couldn't let them discover our position; they had to be taken out silently and swiftly.

The first scout appeared as a shadowy figure on horseback, his head swiveling as he scanned the terrain. He was close, close enough to see the whites of his eyes. He was allowed to pass. Four more outriders followed him in. When the last of them passed my position, I got up from the ground, marking my target. 

I drew my falx, the curved blade well-suited for swift, silent kills. Asher had his sword ready, his eyes fixed on the third scout. The man halted his horse, peering into the darkness. I held my breath, waiting for the right moment. As he turned his head, I lunged, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him from the saddle. Reaper sliced through muscle and bone, and he collapsed with a low gurgling, his blood darkening the snow. The rider in front of him got my throwing axe buried deep in his skull as I threw it with my left, slumping off his horse.

Asher moved to the next scout, who had seen the flash of movement and was reaching for his horn. Before he could sound the alarm, Asher's sword flashed, and the man's head fell off, a look of surprise still frozen on his face.

We dragged the bodies into the underbrush, covering them with branches and leaves. The night was quiet again, but only for a moment. A soft rustle above us made me look up. Kark Dolen was perched in a tree, a coil of rope in his hands. He watched the road intently, waiting for his target.

One of the last two outriders reappeared, riding slowly, his eyes searching the shadows. Kark moved with practiced ease, swinging the rope in a wide arc. It looped around the outrider's neck, and with a sharp tug, Kark pulled him from his horse. The man fell to the ground, choking and struggling, but Kark was quick. He leaped down, driving his spear through the man's back, the weight of the blade pinning the corpse to the ground. 

Old Harv, the grizzled veteran with a familiarity of crannogmen poisons, took out the last. He had a blowpipe ready, a small dart tipped with fast-acting snake venom. Another outrider was making his way back on the slope, oblivious to the danger. Harv aimed carefully and blew. The dart struck the man in the neck, and he slumped in his saddle after twenty paces, paralyzed on the ground.

I gave the signal to our men. The scouts and outriders were down; it was time to set the trap. Quietly, we moved to the ridges, where the real work would begin. Our scorpion, capable of launching massive bolts, had been concealed among the rocks. We had mounted it on a wheeled sled, ready to be pushed into position.

"Get the stakes in place," Asher whispered to the men. They nodded and began to work, carrying out one anti-cavalry stake per four men, creating a half circle around our position. The stakes were sharp and sturdy, designed to repel any horse or man who tried to charge up the slope. We also brought angled wooden barricades with arrow slits, sharpened single stakes, and iron and porcupine quill caltrops for the sides of our half-circle position, scattering them across the road to cripple the enemy's horses and men if they try to flank us.

Asher helped push the scorpion sled into position, his breath misting in the cold air. "This is going to be one hell of a surprise," he muttered, a grim smile on his face.

I nodded, feeling the tension in my muscles as we waited for the coming battle. The Bolton-Whitehill forces were close now, their numbers hidden by the darkness but their presence palpable. They were marching in disciplined, close-knit steps, giving off a presence of confidence. I guessed their thoughts were all the Forresters had holed up in Ironrath, prime to be crushed by superior numbers.

Rodrik's order echoed in my mind, reminding me of the stakes. Defend the ridges and your line to the last man if you have to. Boltons had to be corralled on that narrow road no matter what, allowing our bows to slay as many as they can. 

I glanced across the valley. There was no sign from here of Lady Mormont's warriors in position, but I knew they were there nonetheless. I thought I saw a silhouette of a rider suddenly losing his saddle, but it could very well be my mind playing tricks on my eyes. 

The first torches appeared on the road, bobbing in the distance like a line of fireflies. The enemy was coming, unaware of the trap that awaited them. They advanced steadily, the sound of marching feet and clinking armor growing louder. In the dim light, I could make out the shadow of a battering ram, a massive construction of wood and iron, trundling down the road toward Ironrath.

Ludd Whitehill rode at the head of the column, his porky face hidden under a helm but his banner, armor, and size unmistakable. I could not identify Ramsay among the mass of enemies. But inside those lines, there was a center of heavy horses, the armors giving off a dull glint when the moon came out from time to time. The bastard of Dreadfort had to be in that circle. 

I raised my hand, signaling to the men to wait. The enemy had to be fully committed, deep in the valley, before we struck. The torches grew brighter, the figures more distinct. The battering ram was close now, rolling over the caltrops and anti-cavalry stakes hidden under the snow. The first screams rang out as horses stumbled in spiked ditches and men fell, impaled on the stakes or crippled by the caltrops.

"Now!" I shouted, and the valley erupted in chaos.

Arrows flew from both ridges, a deadly rain that fell on the enemy with unerring accuracy. The scorpions fired, their massive bolts tearing through armor and flesh with devastating force. The first ranks of the Bolton-Whitehill forces crumpled under the onslaught, their torches dropping and plunging the valley into confusion.

The longbow in my hands had a massive draw weight of two hundred pounds. Any lesser men would've struggled to pull back the string but I had been using bows since I was eight. All I had to do was select my targets with my eyes and years and years of familiarity between my eyes and brain with the bow did the rest. By the time an average bowman loosed one, I already had killed four foot-soldiers. The bodkins with two and a half feet long shafts and goose fletching alongside the heavy power of my longbow easily penetrated the wool, leather, and mail. 

An enemy captain's voice rose above the din, barking orders. "Forward, you dogs! Take the gate!"

But the battering ram, its operators dead or dying, was trapped by the stakes and the bodies of the fallen. The scorpions fired again, and another round of enemies fell. The road was turning into a mass of tangled bodies and panicked horses, the enemy struggling to regroup.

Asher's voice rang out beside me, fierce and exultant. "Give them hell!"

Our men in charge of the siege engine pushed the scorpion forward, adjusting Its aim, while our archers continued to rain death on the enemy. The stakes and caltrops did their work, preventing any organized charge up the slopes. The Bolton-Whitehill forces were in disarray, caught between the relentless assault from above and the obstacles on the ground.

Across the valley, Lady Mormont and her warriors pressed the attack, their arrows finding their marks with deadly precision. I noticed her shadowy figure at the front, voice carrying out over the chaos, urging her men to press the attack.

In the middle of the valley, the Boltons had managed to get some manner of organization among their numbers as the next rank moved in. Their footmen had broad tower shields with pikes and were creating two shield-walls for moving up on the ridges to deal with both of our pincer lines while another team of infantry was trying to form up circles around the men pushing the ram. I kept shooting arrows through the breaches in the shield walls but they had enough men to cover up for their dead as soon as one fell. 

"They are moving up!", one of our bowmen shouted out the obvious. 

Asher was in charge of our infantry. "Stand strong, men of the Wolfswood! SPEARS form up in front! ARCHERS come behind the barricades!! Stewards!!  Do your jobs!" 

I led our bows up on the ridge where we had barricades set up to take cover and shoot around the corners. "Don't shoot at shields boys. Aim for that mass in bastards in the middle!" I had already finished up a quiver and picked up a barrel full of arrows behind a barricade which I shared with three other men. From up here we had a clear angle of those who were in the last among the advancing Bolton phalanx. I picked out the most heavily armored men among them and stood up. The bowstring was pulled so much back that I feared the bow itself would snap. The arrow did the unthinkable, piercing the broad shield and helm of the man through an eye. The loss of the man who was probably a captain haltered the wall for a moment. But that's what we needed to cover for the retreat of our missile unit. Len Brewer, moved up the stewards to exploit this chance to unleash a nasty surprise.

Our single-men spearline was more mobile compared to one of the foes, allowing the sergeants to open up gaps. The stewards had brought up empty barrels, wagon wheels, and tied up large hay balls in leather strips. They started setting them on fire before pushing them downhill with the slope giving the debris much momentum. Men got set up on fire, run over by the wagon wheels, or knocked down by the splintering barrels. Some of the debris were stopped by the pikes but the fire did what it was supposed to do. Men were screaming, trying to put the fire on their coats, going out of the shield-wall. They died by our arrows or got burned to death. Those trying to move up the slope got bolts on their back from the walls of Ironrath. The men on the spearwall kept getting hit with more rolling barrels or hay bales, halting their advances. In a matter of minutes, the ridge and the valley turned into a screaming, boiling mess with men dying or getting injured in mass.  

Meanwhile, the ram was still advancing under a turtle-shaped cover and shield wall cover on the sides. The men and women on the wall of Ironrath were trying to shoot up the pushers with crossbows. They had almost reached the gate of the fortress much to the panic of our men. Some of the men tried to turn their bows at the ram but I barked out orders. "Forget the ram! Keep losing arrows for the middle! " 

Proving me right, thirty yards from the gate the ram took a nose-first dive in a hidden ditch. I had helped to dig out the ditch myself before covering it up with planks, soil, and snow. It was hardy enough to hold up the weight of a few men but anything massive such as a siege engine would break the planks and trigger the trap underneath. Some of the men pushing up the ram broke bones while others got impaled on the stakes underneath. 

To make matters worse for the Boltons, the first load from the mangonel took flight to light up the dim of the sky. The fiery loadings landed right on its pre-designated sight on the ditch and the hot oil, wine, and pitch exploded everywhere, drowsing nearby soldiers on fire. The men with the ladders gave up with the ram being turned into roast and the front routed from the gate. 

The flanks and head of the Bolton host were breaking, their formation shattered, their morale crumbling. Ludd and the captains were shouting, trying to restore order, but it was of no use. The ambush had worked perfectly, and now it was time to finish the job.

Asher turned to us, his eyes bright with battle fever. "Let's charge in and finish them off!"

I nodded, feeling the battle lust surge through me. We had to strike now, while the enemy was still reeling. I dropped my bow and raised my falx, ready to lead the charge, when a new sound reached my ears—two distant horn blasts, deep and resonant, coming from the direction of Ironrath.

I froze for a moment. It was the signal we had dreaded, the one that meant Ironrath was under attack. Ramsay and Ludd had planned a diversion, sending another force to assault the castle while we were engaged here.

********************************************

The horn blasts echoed through the valley, a chilling sound that signaled danger. My heart sank as the realization struck me; Ramsay Snow, ever a treacherous cunt, had sent a second force to assault Ironrath while we were engaged in the valley. Asher, standing beside me, caught my eye, and I saw the same grim understanding reflected in his gaze. And helplessness. He had an order on him to hold the eastern flank and as a soldier, he couldn’t just leave his post. 

"Asher!" I shouted over the clamor of battle, grabbing his arm with urgency. "Take your sellswords and head for the eastern gate. Stop them before they breach the postern wall. I'll take charge here. Go!"

Asher nodded, his jaw set with determination. "We'll throw those bastards off our walls," he promised, his voice steady despite the chaos and death around us. "You just remember what Rodrick said. This position must be held at whatever cost." 

He turned to his men, barking orders. The sellswords, led by Beshka and Amari, save for the massive figure of the Beast, quickly gathered. They sprinted towards Ironrath, their boots crunching on the snow, weapons ready for the fight to come.

With Asher and his sellswords gone, I needed to reorganize our forces quickly. "Kark!" I called out, spotting the figure of Kark Doeln among our archers. He was perched behind a boulder, losing fire arrows with deadly accuracy, each shot finding its mark among the enemy ranks.

Kark turned to me, his eyes sharp and questioning. "Take command of the bows," I instructed. "Keep up the pressure on the enemy center. We can't let them break through."

A feral grin spread across Kark's face as he nodded, happy to be at command, already turning back to his task, his bowstring singing as he continued to fire.

"Old Harv!" I shouted, searching the melee for the grizzled veteran. I found him near the barricades, his shield and falx in hand, eyes scanning the battlefield with the keen gaze of experience. "Reinforce the barricades! We need to hold this position at all costs."

Old Harv gave a curt nod, his face set in grim determination. He immediately began directing the smallfolk and stewards, who worked with frantic energy to drag more debris and fortify our defenses. These men, most of them half-trained in combat, were now our last line of defense. They took up spears and gathered behind the barricades, their faces pale but resolute.

Turning to my remaining infantry—Forresters and Brotherhood members alike—I raised my falx high. The weight of it was reassuring, a symbol of strength for everyone in the chaos. "We charge," I commanded, my voice carrying over the din. "We break through their right column and crush them. For The Young Wolf! For Hornwood! For Ironrath. Men! To me! TO ME!!!!!"

A unified cry rose from the twenty-five men at my back, their voices fierce with the resolve born of anger and loyalty. We surged forward, a tide of steel and fury, descending upon the weakened Bolton flank through the gaps of the barricades where we had not planted the caltrops. The clash was immediate and brutal. The sound of metal on metal filled the air, accompanied by the screams of the dying and the wounded. I was in the head of the wedge with The Reaper, cutting through armor and bone with lethal efficiency. Each swing was precise, each strike lethal, as my men carved a path through the enemy ranks who were already in disarray from arrow volleys and fire from both our bows and crossbows from the wall.

The Mormonts, led by Alysane, pressed the attack on the left flank as they saw us charging forward. Their warriors, well-trained and fierce, moved with the precision of a well-oiled machine. They cut through the Bolton soldiers, pushing them back, their battle cries of "Here We Stand!" echoing through the night. The unity and strength of the Mormonts were a sight to behold, each warrior fighting with the strength of ten men.

The battle intensified as we reached the Bolton center, where their strongest forces were arrayed. Ramsay's soldiers, grim and determined, fought with the savagery of cornered beasts. The mangonel behind us fired once more, launching a massive projectile into the heart of the enemy ranks. The impact was devastating, setting men ablaze and causing chaos within the Bolton lines. The stench of burning flesh mingled with the acrid scent of blood and sweat, creating a suffocating atmosphere. 

I cut down another soldier, my blade slicing through his neck with a sickening crunch. Running forward I avoided an overhead thrust of a spear, driving the point of the falx on the enemy's stomach. Warin, stabbed his spear through that soldier's mouth, watching my back like a true brother-in-arms. The Beast, now well armored in a large brigandine and faceplate was having the best day of his life. His heavy mace crushed Bolton soldiers' shields and armor easily.  Around me, the battle raged on—a cacophony of screams, shouts, and the clashing of steel. The enemy fought with desperate ferocity, but we had the advantage. The momentum was ours, and the sight of their burning comrades shattered their resolve.

As we continued to press the attack, I lost any news of Asher and the situation inside Ironrath. My focus was entirely on the battlefield before me, the relentless push against the Bolton center. My assault had punched a large hole into the middle of the column. The enemy's formation was beginning to crumble under our assault, but they still held their ground with grim determination. Ludd Whitehill's banners had already crumbled under our boots. Of the fat Lord or his pathetic son, I saw no sign. But some of his men were still holding. Coming face to face with them, I realized some of them were foreign mercenaries. One tried to come at me with a spiked mace. I swatted the blow with the falx and landed a mailed fist on his jaw. The mercenary got knocked down on his back and then crawled back inside his lines. 

Across the valley, Lady Mormont and her warriors maintained their pressure on the left flank. The Mormonts fought with the precision and unity of a single organism, their shields forming an unbreakable wall as they advanced. Each step they took was a step closer to breaking the Bolton lines, their discipline a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding among the enemy ranks.

The center of the Bolton force, however, remained still a formidable barrier. Ramsay's men, hardened and ruthless, continued to resist, their shields locked in a desperate attempt to hold the line. The mangonel fired Its last shot, the burning payload crashing into the enemy formation, adding to the chaos. Men screamed as they were engulfed in flames, their cries piercing the night.

Our situation was critical. The Bolton center was the strongest point of their force, and they were holding us at bay. My force started to take on losses as our momentum had slowed. We needed to break through, but the enemy's discipline and numbers were formidable. The smallfolk, who had been holding back, now surged forward to reinforce our lines which got us some relief. These were ordinary men; farmers, blacksmiths, and weavers, who had taken up arms to defend their home. Their bravery was palpable, their resolve unshakable but it would not be enough against professional soldiers. 

Suddenly Rodrik's voice, strong and commanding, rang out from the gates of Ironrath. The warhorn rang out high and Lord of Ironrath himself now emerged with a fresh force of fifty Forrester guardsmen, well-armed and clad in mail and ironwood shields. Their arrival became a turning point. With Rodrik leading them, they charged into the fray at the front of the Bolton army, their presence bolstering our forces.

The battle raged on, the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded creating a symphony of chaos. Our forces, now bolstered by Rodrik's men, pressed the attack from three fronts. The Bolton center, surrounded and besieged, began to falter. At first, the mercenaries began to run away. Then the Bolton and Whitehill men-at-arms, once so disciplined, broke under the relentless assault. The sight of their comrades falling, the constant barrage of arrows and bolts, and the relentless advance of our forces were too much for them.

Ramsay, ever the coward, saw the writing on the wall. Amid the chaos, I caught a glimpse of him, his pale face twisted in fury and fear. He was surrounded by his personal guard, running over his own men in a desperate bid for escape. I pushed forward, my heart pounding with the need to end him. The Reaper, heavy, now blunted, and slick with blood, felt like an extension of my arm as I cut down anyone who stood in my way. 

But the bastard was already on a horse and the battlefield was a tangle of bodies and chaos. As I reached the edge of the melee, I saw him almost sticking to his mount, trying to avoid stray arrows.  Our eyes met, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. His dead whitish eyes bore into mine, a promise of future torment with a hint of terror, a challenge that hung heavy in the air. I roared out to see the bastard, the man responsible for so many deaths including Lady Hornwood and my mother. A desperate rush to hold onto the rein of the horse was suddenly blocked by a whip coiling on my arms. In my fury, I took a dive on the ground, wrapping the whip around further in my arms. The men stumbled towards me as I grabbed him by his scarf then buried my handaxe on his belly and sliced, disemboweling him. The guts spilled out with a reeking stench while the men-at-arms screamed at the top of his lungs. 

"Run, you coward!" I shouted after Ramsay, my voice hoarse with fury, as I displayed the whip wielder for him by the neck. "I'll chase you to the ends of the earth if I have to!"

Ramsay spurred his horse and fled, disappearing into the night. My heart pounded with frustration and rage. Through months and months of hardship and torment, I had been dreaming of this moment. How I will kill the men resposible for the death of my family, my king and House Hornwood. I had one at the grasp of my fingers and he still managed to escape. In my rage, I picked up my falx to kill the injured foes around me. When I ran out of them around, I grabbed a man who had surrended by the throat and threw him on the ground. For a moment, I forgot everything around me as I kept stomping on the skull of the men long after it had been turned into squash. I was still struggling in fury as Dolen and Warin pulled me off the corpse. 

"Rurik, that's enough. It's done now. The victory is ours. We won!" 

The Bolton forces, leaderless and demoralized, broke completely. Asher had rallied the women and older children at the postern gate to repel the Boltons from the wall successfully.  The survivors had fled, their banners falling in the snow, their cries of despair echoing in the cold dawn air. Rodrick was rallying half of our men to give chase to the remaining Boltons and to capture their baggage and supplies.

Ironrath stood, scarred but unbroken. The valley, once a place of serene beauty, was now a grim testament to the cost of our victory. The ground was littered with the bodies of the fallen, men dead or dying, both friend and foe, the snow stained red with blood. Family members were trying to find their loved ones. Healers were struggling with the injured. Some People were crying over the body of the dead. 

As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, casting a cold, pale light over the battlefield, I felt the weight of the battle settle on my shoulders. The victory was hard-won, but the war was far and far from over. Ramsay had managed to survive. It almost felt like a loss to me as Boltons still had men and a leader to lead the attack on Moat Cailin and we had none. 

I turned to my men, the survivors of the brutal clash. Their faces were a mixture of relief and sorrow, the cost of our victory weighing heavily on them. I hugged both Triston and Sebastian as they walked up to me. They were at the wall of Ironrath, commanding the bows, and were unharmed. The smallfolk, who had fought bravely alongside us, were tending to the wounded, their hands shaking but their eyes had resolve and defiance in them, not fear.  They had stood up against overwhelming odds, defending their home with a courage that would be remembered in song and story. 

Asher approached, his face grim but resolute. "We've won the day," he said, his voice rough from shouting commands, armor drenched in blood. "But Ramsay is still out there. This isn't over."

I nodded, clenching my fists. "He won't get away. I'll hunt him down alone if I must, no matter where he hides."

Lady Mormont and her men rode past us with a hand raised as a salute, her face flushed from battle but her eyes still sharp and clear. "I'm going as Rodrick's rearguard. You see everyone safe through the gate. We'll celebrate later." 

I stood there for a moment with the leaders of this motley army, united by a common purpose. The battle had been fierce, the cost was high, but we had stood our ground. The Battle of this Death Valley was over, and the War for The North was about to begin. 

Chapter Text

Let me touch you,” I begged.

“Not yet,” the She-bear replied. Looking down at me with a glint in her eye, she touched her body and moaned, putting herself on display before me. She played with her breasts as I would love to do, imitating my touch but not allowing the real thing.

The sight was amazing. I watched with open hunger and made a desperate noise as her hands traveled downward.

Alysane stopped and grinned. She moved her hands lower, running along her stomach to her crotch. Grinding backwards, she made a pleased noise when my cock pressed against her arse. “Good,” she said, positioning herself on top of it. “I need to get this feeling off me." 

“What feeling?”

“The wetness between my legs,” she snapped. “Now give me your cock.” With that, she lowered herself on my cock in a fluid motion.

Immediately, I was enveloped in a hot, wet tightness. She was taking me so smoothly that I knew she’d prepared. “You got ready for a fucking,” I gasped. The very thought was enough to make my cock throb. “Just how much did you finger yourself?”

Alysane looked at me with the horniest look from a woman I had ever seen. “A lot,” she said breathlessly. “Didn’t feel this good.”

She didn’t waste another second. Thighs trembling, Alysane rolled her hips, fucking herself on my cock. Her eyes closed in pleasure as it hit all the good spots inside her.

Every time she moved, her breasts jiggled up and down, and the sight got me even harder. She seemed to feel it too, if the gasp she let out was any indication. “You’re big,” she moaned, open mouthed and panting as she bounced on my cock. “This is exactly what I need.”

“You’re big as well,” I muttered with a strangled whine. I bent my legs and shifted the angle, thrusting hard.

Immediately, Alysane whimpered and pitched forward, catching herself with shaky arms. “Yes,” she cried out. “Right there.” With a flustered look on her face, she lifted herself before slamming back down again. 

I moaned at the way she tightened on my cock. My hands came up to squeeze her breasts possessively, kneading into the flesh.

I felt hot and frantic, like nothing in the world mattered but the way Alysane was riding me. Jolts of arousal went through me every time she squeezed around, and I couldn’t stop the desperate way I drove into her.

It was so arousing to see someone enjoying herself like that. I had never been with someone who was so forceful. But I didn’t mind at all. This was different. As far as I was concerned, she could do this any time she wanted.

“Keep moving fast,” I grunted. “I’ll give you everything you want.”

“Fill me up,” Alysane begged. Her eyelids fluttered, and she clutched my shoulders, panting into his ear. “It’s been so long. I missed this.” She closed her eyes and moaned, moving in little jolts. Desperate noises came out of her mouth as she begged to be fucked. “Come inside, please, I want you to.”

I tried to resist, I really did. I tried to avoid it even with Maya but I was gone the moment she said those words. My mind went blank as I came, a wave of lightning overwhelming my entire body. With one last, hard thrust, I pulsed and spilled inside of her, filling her womb with my seed.

Alysane kept fucking herself through it, rolling her hips even as I came. She clenched around me and refused to let go, riding me like her life depended on it. I understood—before she got her release, she was going to keep using my body.

Well, I couldn’t let my lady do all the work. With an oversensitive, overheated sensation, I grabbed her waist and kept moving. “Do it,” I gasped. “Come for me.”

“Oh gods, Rurik...” Now it was my turn to make Alysane see stars. She shuddered and collapsed against me, hiding her face in my shoulder. I felt her go tense as she came, a high moan escaping her. Her juices splashed onto my stomach and she moaned weakly.

Alysane raised herself up by the elbows and gave me a dazed, happy look. “That felt so good.”

As I regained coherence, I noticed Alysane was teasingly drawing spiral patterns on my chest with her finger. I smiled and put my arm around her. “I’m going to sleep well tonight in many days,” she said contently.

I chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that came from deep in my chest. “What do you mean? The night isn’t over yet.”

She opened her eyes, looking at me with a mix of surprise and curiosity. I shifted beneath her, reaching over to the side of the bed where I’d stashed a small bottle of oil. Her eyes widened as I held it up, the firelight catching the gleam of the glass.

“What is that?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“It’s oil,” I replied, my voice low and soothing. “It’ll make everything easier.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion, but she didn’t protest as I opened the bottle and poured a generous amount into my palm. The oil was cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat that still radiated from our bodies. I leaned over, pressing a kiss to her lips as I slicked the oil over my still-hard cock, the sensation sending a renewed surge of desire through me.

Alysane watched me, her eyes wide and dark with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I smiled, a slow, reassuring smile, and pressed another kiss to her lips. “Trust me,” I murmured against her mouth. “I’ll take care of you.”

She nodded, her breath hitching as I shifted her onto her hands and knees. I trailed kisses down her spine, savoring the way her body responded to my touch, the way she arched into me with a soft, breathless moan. When I reached her arse, I paused, my hands spreading her cheeks to reveal the tight, puckered hole hidden between them.

Her breath hitched, and she looked over her shoulder at me, her eyes wide and questioning. “Rurik…”

“Shh,” I murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the sensitive skin there. “I’ll go slow.”

She nodded, her eyes closing as she turned her face into the furs beneath us. I could feel her tension, the way her body trembled with a mixture of anticipation and fear. But she trusted me, and that trust meant everything.

I poured more oil into my hand, warming it between my palms, before I reached down to rub it over her tight hole. She gasped at the sensation, her body jerking slightly, but she didn’t pull away. I took my time, working the oil into her skin, loosening her up with slow, gentle movements.

She squealed with alarm as the tip of my lubed-up dick touched her asshole. I was trying to get it past her tight ring but it seemed she never had anything much in there before. 

It took a few tries, but soon I was able to force my way into her asshole, slipping the head of my cock inside her.

"ughhhh.," she groaned as a few inches of my cock disappeared inside her.

"Fuck Mornont, your arse is so tight!"

I gritted my teeth and pulled Alysane's hips back towards me, forcing her ass to eat up more of my cock.

"Oh fuuucckkk," she squealed as I slowly began to move my hips back and forth, moving my dick in and out.

My cock was barely even moving, but it was enough to cause Alysane's body to shake and squirm as she repeatedly gasped for breath. My hands dug into her fleshy arse as I began to move faster.

"Oh yeah! I'm fucking your arse! I'm going to destroy your tight little asshole!"

Profanity began to spew forth from my mouth as I watched Alysane's virgin hole swallow up more and more of my cock with each thrust. I was losing control.

"Where's my cock, Alysane?" I asked, fucking her harder and harder. "Where's my cock?"

"In.... my...... arse," she replied with a groan, her face still buried in the sheets.

"Louder," I demanded, reaching forward and grabbing a fistful of her dark hair.

"In My Arse!" she howled, as pushed my cock up to the hilt in her tight little hole. 

It had been a while since I'd fucked anyone in the arse, so it took me a moment to find my rhythm. But once I did, I didn't lose it. I dug my fingers into both her cheeks as I started thrusting harder, coaxing louder moans from Alysane as my cock sank deeper, boring into her arse hole. It didn't take long for me to reach the base, and from that point on, every row of my hips sent my pelvis crashing straight into her ass, drawing loud clapping sounds that echoed around the dark Chamber. I pushed myself on her body in a prone position and grabbed her head for a kiss with deep thrusts that kept bringing guttering sounds out of her throat. 

"uhhhh, ughhhhhh!" Alysane groaned louder with every thrust.

I reached down between Alysane's legs, finding her soaked and ready. The feel of her wetness on my fingers was enough to make me groan, and I couldn't resist the urge to explore her further. I slid one finger inside her, feeling how tight she was, how eager her body was for more.

Alysane gasped, her hips jerking against my hand. “Rurik,” she moaned, her voice breathy and full of need.

I didn’t reply with words; instead, I added another finger, stretching her roughly as I began to pump them in and out. Her walls clenched around my fingers, her body responding eagerly to every movement. I watched her face, saw the way her eyes fluttered shut, and saw her mouth fall open as I worked her into a frenzy.

I curled my fingers, pressing them against that spot deep inside her that I knew would drive her wild. She cried out, her back arching off the bed as her hips bucked against my hand. The sounds she made were desperate, pleading, and they only fueled my own desire.

“Gods, Alysane,” I growled, my voice rough with need. “You’re so tight. So wet. You’re going to come all over my fingers, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” she gasped, her voice trembling with the intensity of her pleasure. “Rurik, please, don’t stop.”

I didn’t stop. I kept fingering her, kept pressing against that sweet spot, and I could feel her getting closer and closer to the edge. Her whole body was trembling, her breaths coming in short, desperate gasps as she fought to hold on.

But she couldn’t hold on forever. With a loud, keening cry, she came, her body convulsing as her orgasm ripped through her. Her walls clamped down around my fingers, pulsing with the force of her release. I kept thrusting my fingers in and out, prolonging her pleasure, making sure she felt every last wave of pleasure.

Alysane collapsed onto the bed, her body going limp as the last shudders of her orgasm faded. She was panting, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat, and I could see the satisfied, blissful look in her eyes as she looked up at me.

But I wasn’t done with her yet. 

With one hand, I gripped her thigh, and with the other, I pulled her head back by her hair, driving my dick as far as it could go into her ravaged asshole. It was then that I felt a tingling feeling surge through my cock. I knew I was going to cum. My balls tightened, and my cock exploded, dousing the inside of Alysane's anus with my hot seed. Her tight little ring spasmed around my dick at the feeling of being internally assaulted by streams and streams of the hot, slimy liquid.

"Fuck," I muttered, as the intensity drifted away, leaving me with feelings of tiredness and fatigue.

Carefully, I pulled my cock out of Alysane's abused, cream filled butthole. 

The she-bear of House Mormont was still struggling for breath as I brought her head to my chest, pulling into a deep embrace. I covered us with another layer of fur. By the time, Alysane's raspy breathing had calmed down, my eyes had already started to droop in heavy sleep. 

********************************************************************

I awoke with the light of dawn filtering through the shutters, casting the room in a pale, early glow. The furs that had kept me warm through the night had shifted, leaving a chill against my skin. But the warmth that had lain beside me was gone. Alysane. I reached out, finding nothing but the cold imprint of where she had been. The She-bear had vanished.

I pushed myself up, the aches from the night before still lingering in my muscles. My head throbbed lightly from the beer and exhaustion, but it was a pain I welcomed. It reminded me that I was still alive, that we had survived the night, and that for once, we had reason to celebrate.

Throwing the furs aside, I rose from the bed. The room was quiet, save for the faint crackling of the fire that had burned low in the hearth. My clothes lay discarded on the floor, a testament to the fevered passion that had taken hold of us. I dressed quickly, pulling on a fresh tunic and breeches, before making my way to the small adjoining chamber where a hot bath awaited.

The water was hot against my skin, soothing the tension from my muscles as I sank into it. A servant must've used hot iron to warm up the water while I slept. I closed my eyes, letting the warmth envelop me, and allowed myself a moment of peace. The events of the past few days had been brutal. Blood had been spilled, lives lost, but for once, the gods had seen fit to grant us a reprieve. We had won, and the spoils of victory awaited.

When I emerged from the bath, the chill of the morning air was a stark contrast to the heat that lingered on my skin. I dressed quickly, donning a thick woolen tunic and a heavy cloak to ward off the cold. The castle of Ironrath was stirring to life, the sounds of activity echoing through the halls as the people prepared for the day ahead.

Outside, the courtyard was bustling with life. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, a welcome change from the stench of blood and death that had hung over the castle in recent days. Banners fluttered in the breeze, their colors bright against the dull gray of the sky. Ironwoods Triskelions and Bears. Ironrath was alive, and its people were celebrating.

As I stepped into the courtyard, I was greeted by the sight of tables laden with food, the spoils of our victory. Roasting spits turned slowly over open fires, the scent of horse meat filling the air. Pies stuffed with onions and meat, steaming bowls of thick soup, and roasted haunches were being prepared for the feast that would soon begin. Some horses from Bolton columns were killed or injured during the battle and the meat had not been allowed to waste. 

I spotted Rodrik across the courtyard, his face still a mask of determination as he oversaw the preparations. Despite the victory, there was joy in his expression. The loss of lives weighed heavily on him, I could see it in the set of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes. He was still missing his would-be bride from House Glenmore. But he would celebrate with the rest of us. It was a victory hard-won, and his people needed him and this moment of reprieve both. 

“Rurik!” A voice called out to me, and I turned to see Sebastian making his way through the crowd, Triston, Warin, Kark, and Old Harv close behind him. They were all grinning, their moods lifted by the promise of food and drink.

“Little Cousin,” I greeted him with a nod as he approached. “You’re in high spirits this morning.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Sebastian clapped me on the shoulder. “We’ve won, and there’s enough food and drink here to last us through the winter. Come, the feast is about to begin.”

We made our way to one of the long tables that had been set up in the courtyard. The smallfolk were already gathered, their faces alight with a rare joy. Children ran between the tables, laughing and playing, while the older folk looked on with contentment. For once, there was no fear in their eyes, no hunger in their bellies. Today, they would feast like lords.

As we sat, plates piled high with roast horse meat and thick slices of pie were set before us. The first bite was a revelation, the meat tender and flavorful, the pie crust flaky and rich. We ate with the voracity of men who had seen too little joy in too long a time.

Sebastian raised a cup of ale, his voice booming over the noise of the crowd. “To Rodrik, who led us to victory!” The table erupted in cheers, cups raised high in salute. Rodrik, standing at the head of the table, gave a respectful nod, rare shadow of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“And to Rurik,” Triston added, his voice slurred with drink. “For keeping us all alive!” More cheers followed, and I couldn’t help but smile at the warmth of the camaraderie that filled the air.

We drank and sang songs of old, our voices rising with the warmth of the ale in our bellies. “I want to be in the cavalry, if they send me off to war,I want a good steed under me like my forefathers before.” we sang, the words ringing out through the courtyard.  

My cousins and the men I’d fought alongside had flagons of ale in hand and a plate heaped with meat before them.  Sebastian, ever the jester, was regaling us with some tale of his exploits. 

“And there I was,” he said, gesturing grandly with his cup, “just me and a handful of men against a dozen of them. They thought they had us cornered, but I knew better. You see, what they didn’t know was that I’d already sent word to Rodrik. He was just waiting for my signal to capture the camp.”

Triston leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “And what signal was that? A loud scream as you ran away?”

Sebastian feigned offense, clutching his chest as if struck. “You wound me, brother! I would never run from a fight.”

“Unless there was a prettier fight elsewhere,” Kark chimed in, earning a round of laughter from the table.

Sebastian grinned, raising his cup. “A man has his priorities.”

As the laughter died down, Harv slapped me on the back, nearly sending my ale sloshing over the rim of my cup. “You were a sight to see out there, Rurik,” he said, his voice thick with admiration and pride. “I’ve never seen a man move so fast in full armor. That falx of yours must've taken off more heads than the rest of us combined.”

I nodded, accepting the praise with a glad smile. “We all fought well. The gods were with us today.”

“The gods and your strategy,” Kark added. “That was a clever move, striking at them from three sides. They never saw it coming.”

The sound of laughter and clinking cups filled the air as the feast in Ironrath reached its height. The cold was kept at bay by the warmth of the fires and the heat of the bodies packed together in the great hall. Even outside, the courtyard bustled with activity, the tables groaning under the weight of food and drink. It was a rare sight, the people of Ironrath celebrating after so long spent in fear and hunger. 

For a time, I let myself get lost in the moment. I joined in the songs that echoed through the hall, my voice blending with those of my companions as we sang the old tunes, songs of war and victory, of love and loss. 

But as the day wore on, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of leadership and duty weighing down on me like Rodrik. What do I do with my men now? How do I attack Deepwood Motte? More so, where was Maya? She didn't even come find me after the battle, and her mother was avoiding me. 

I had no answers, and the uncertainty gnawed at me. But then, as if in answer to my thoughts, I saw her. Alysane stood near the far end of the hall, surrounded by the men of House Mormont. She was laughing, her face lit by the glow of the fire, and when our eyes met, she winked at me.

I stood, leaving my cup behind as I made my way through the crowd. The people parted for me without hesitation, some offering words of congratulations, others merely nodding in respect. But my focus was on Alysane, and she watched me approach with a knowing smile.

“Lady Mormont,” I said as I reached her, my voice a low rumble over the noise of the hall.

“My Lord,” she replied, her eyes dancing with mischief. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“Not yet,” I said, the word carrying more weight than I’d intended. I reached out, taking her hand in mine. “Dance with me.”

She arched an eyebrow, but there was no hesitation as she allowed me to lead her away from the Mormont soldiers and into the open space where others were already dancing. The music had shifted to a lively tune, the kind that called for quick steps and close embraces.

We moved together in time with the music, our bodies close but not touching. Alysane’s steps were light and sure, her movements graceful despite the roughness of her nature. I could feel the warmth of her body, the slight press of her fingers against mine, and for a moment, I forgot the world around us.

“You’re lighter on your feet for someone of your size,” Alysane teased, her voice barely audible over the music.

I grinned, giving her a playful twirl before pulling her close again. “So are you.”

She laughed, the sound bright and clear, and I found myself smiling in return. There was something intoxicating about her, something that drew me in and made me forget the burdens of the world. The music quickened to signal the enf, and we moved faster, our feet keeping time with the beat. The hall around us blurred as we spun and stepped. Finally the song ended, with the men holding their partners in one hand for a flair. 

I wasn’t sure how long we danced, but by the time the music slowed, I was breathless, my heart pounding in my chest. Alysane was flushed, her skin glowing with sweat, but she looked as vibrant as ever.

"I'm looking forward to our next meeting in my bedchamber," she said seductively with a bite on my ear as I brought her up to her feet. She walked back to her men, bringing ripples to her back, leaving me dazed and confused. 

With the songs, celebrations in Ironrath had reached a fever pitch, the air thick with the scent of roasted horse meat, the sounds of revelry echoing off the stone walls. The smallfolk danced and sang, their faces lit by the flickering flames of the torches that lined the courtyard. 

Rodrik’s voice cut through the noise, commanding and clear from his table.  “Stop!” he called, and the clamor slowly died down as the captains of our forces gathered around him. Asher had already started organizing the sellswords, ensuring they were paid for their services. It was a necessary task, one that would keep their loyalty for the time being, though I wondered how long that loyalty would last when the gold ran out. 

Rodrik stood tall, his face grim, despite the victory we had won. He was always the one to bear the burden of leadership, the one to make the hard decisions. Both of the Forrester brothers were showing a solemn look on their faces. Asher was once in love with the daughter of Ludd Whitehill and Rodrick's betrothed was from a family sworn to House Ryswell, ally of House Bolton. Small wonder they were in a bad mood. 

As the sellswords assembled, I could see the weariness in Rodrik's eyes, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.

“Asher,” Rodrik said, turning to his brother, “Have you arranged the payment?”

“Aye,” Asher replied, his voice rough. “Six heavy bars of gold, taken as payment for my services in Essos. Enough to satisfy their demand, at least for now.”

Rodrik nodded, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men. “You’ve fought well, all of you. Ironrath stands because of your courage and skill. But the war is far from over. We need every sword we can get, every man willing to stand and fight.”

Rodrik continued, his voice steady. “I know you’ve been promised gold for your service, and you’ll get it. But I offer you something more—something beyond mere coin. Stay with us, here in Ironrath. Swear your swords to House Forrester, and you’ll find not just gold, but a place where you belong and a cause worth fighting for. I will pay you double the amount to those of you who decide to start a living here. ”

The offer hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the decision. For a moment, there was silence, the men glancing at one another, weighing their options. Then, slowly, one by one, the sellswords began to nod, their faces set with resolve.

“I’ll stay,” one of the older one said, his voice rough with conviction. “I've been fighting for glory for too long. It's time for me to settle down.”

“Aye. For me as well,” another agreed, stepping forward. “My sword is yours, Rodrik.”

Half of them accepted the offer, their loyalty secured, at least for now. The other half, however, looked to me, their eyes filled with a different kind of determination. These were men who sought more than just a lord to follow—they sought freedom, adventure, the thrill of the fight. They were pit-fighers, blood was the currency they want to be paid in. A fighting company offered them a better chance in that.  These were men who lived for the sword, who reveled in the chaos of battle, and I knew they would be of use to me in the coming fights.

I stepped forward, meeting their gaze with my own. “You’re welcome to join me,” I said, my voice low but firm. “The Brotherhood could use men like you—men who know what it means to live and die by the sword." 

The men exchanged glances, and then, slowly, they nodded. These were men who knew their own hearts, who were willing to follow me into the unknown.

“I’m with you, farmboy,” The Beast said, stepping forward. “The Brotherhood it is.”

The others followed suit, their decision made. I felt a surge of pride, it would be a thrill to fight alongside men like The Beast and Bloodsong. 

As the sellswords made their decisions and others dispersed, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Len Brewer standing there, his expression tense. Len was a good friend, loyal and hardworking, but I could see the worry in his eyes, the unease that lay beneath the surface.

Rurik,” he began, his voice hesitant, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

I nodded, motioning for him to walk with me. We moved away from the gathering, the noise of the celebration fading as we entered a quieter part of the courtyard. The night was cool, the air crisp with the scent of pine and earth.

“What is it, Len?” I asked, my voice calm, though I could sense the tension in his posture.

Len hesitated, his gaze shifting to the ground. “It’s about Maya,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

At the mention of her name, my heart clenched, a mixture of pain and regret washing over me. 

“What about her?” I asked, my voice rougher than I intended.

Len glanced up at me, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “A guardsman of the Forresters has asked for her hand in marriage,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. “He’s a good man, Rurik, and Maya… well, she’s thinking about accepting. We have nowhere to go, not until we can return to Hornwood, and it would be a safe place for her. My mother and sister can stay with her as well. ”

I felt a cold weight settle in my chest, the words hitting me like a blow. Maya, married to another man… it was a thought I hadn’t allowed myself to entertain, but now, here it was, staring me in the face. I knew Len was right; it was a practical choice, a safe choice, and Maya deserved that. She deserved more than I could give her. I was not ready for a marriage as long as the war was not over and she could not just wait for me to come back to her or not from this never-ending campaign. 

But it hurt. Gods, it hurt.

“I see,” I said, my voice tight with the effort to keep my emotions in check. “And what do you think, Len? Do you want this for her?”

Len hesitated, his eyes flickering with a mix of emotions. “I want what’s best for my sister, Rurik. We all do—me, our mother, Hena… we just want her to be safe, to be happy. But I know she still… still cares for you.”

The words were a knife in my heart, twisting deeper with every beat. I had known, of course, that Maya still had feelings for me, that she hadn’t completely moved on. But I had hoped, selfishly, that maybe she would wait. 

“Len,” I began, my voice rough, “I still love her. But you were in that battle yesterday. Fights like that had been my life for months now. I don't want to say my vows in one day and return to her dead in the next. Maya deserves better than that, better than me.”

Len looked at me, his eyes filled with something like sympathy. “I know You’re a dangerous man, Rurik,” he said quietly. “In battle, in anger. People fear you. But you’re also a man of honor, and Maya loves that about you. She sees the good in you.”

The words hit me hard, but I forced myself to nod, to accept what I already knew deep down. “If this is what she wants,” I said, my voice low, “then I won’t stand in her way.”

Len let out a breath, relief flooding his features. “Thank you, Rurik. I know this isn’t easy, but… thank you.”

I reached into my tunic, pulling out two golden dragon and two rings my men gifted me; taken from the Whitehill corpses after the battle. They were precious things, tributes of the fight, but they were all I had to offer her instead of my hand. I handed them to Len, who took them with a look of surprise.

“These are for her,” I said, my voice gruff. “For the bride and groom. The coins should see your family through for a year at least. Hopefully, the war would be over by then.”

Len stared at the gold in his hand, his expression a mix of shock and gratitude. “Rurik, this is too much. I can’t—”

“Take it,” I said firmly, cutting him off. “It’s not much, not for her. But it’s what I can give.”

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You have always been a good friend. This... this means more than you know.”

I clapped him on the back, a rough gesture that belied the turmoil in my heart. “Take care of her, Len. Make sure she’s safe.”

“I will,” he promised, his voice steady. “You have my word.”

I nodded, forcing a smile as I watched him walk away, the gold clutched tightly in his hand. As he disappeared into the shadows, I felt a deep, aching loneliness settle over me, the weight of my choices pressing down like a millstone around my neck.

Had I wronged Maya? The question gnawed at me, tearing at my conscience. I had loved her, once, with a fierceness that scared me, and she had loved me in return. But I had let that love slip away, let it fall apart because of duty, because of obligations I couldn’t escape.

The first time I had wronged her was when I didn’t make her my wife, bowing to the wishes of my grandfather, who had insisted that I needed to marry someone of noble blood, someone who could strengthen the Asheart line. And so, I had let Maya go, convincing myself that it was for the best, that it was the right thing to do.

The second time I had wronged her was when I had told her to drink moon tea, to prevent a child from growing in her womb when we had lain together. It had been a practical decision, one made out of fear, out of the knowledge that I couldn’t give her the life she deserved. But it had hurt her, deeply, and I had seen the pain in her eyes when she decided to drink the tea, the bitterness of it lingering on her tongue.

And now, here I was, letting her go once more, knowing that it was the right thing to do, but hating myself for it all the same. I had hurt her, time and again, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had failed her, that I had let her down in the worst possible way.

As I stood there, alone in the courtyard, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was what my life had come to—endless fighting, endless sacrifice, and the loss of the one woman who had truly loved me. Alysane and I… what we had was nothing more than a fleeting passion, a brief respite from the harsh realities of war. But Maya… she had been something different, something real.

I clenched my fists, anger, and regret warring within me. I had made my choices, and now I had to live with them, but that didn’t make it any easier. The path I had chosen was a hard one, filled with blood and pain, and I knew there was no turning back. 

**********************************

The godswood of Ironrath was a sanctuary amidst the chaos, a place where time seemed to stand still, where the weight of the world could be set aside, if only for a moment. The ancient trees, with their gnarled branches reaching skyward, cast long shadows over the soft, moss-covered ground. The heart tree, with its carved face and crimson leaves, loomed above me, its eyes ever watchful, ever knowing.

I knelt before the heart tree, my head bowed, the cool air brushing against my skin like a whispered prayer. The events of the past days weighed heavily on me, the battles fought, the blood spilled, the endless struggle to survive. My thoughts were a tangled web of doubt and regret, each thread pulling me further into the darkness.

I had come here seeking solace, some measure of peace, but all I found was emptiness. The old gods, if they were even listening, remained silent, their answers lost in the wind.

The sound of footsteps on the soft earth drew me from my thoughts, and I turned to see Talia Forrester approaching, her small, delicate form framed by the pale light of the moon. She moved with a quiet grace, her brown hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes filled with concern.

“Rurik,” she said softly, her voice like a gentle breeze, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You’re not disturbing me,” I replied, my voice rough with weariness. I motioned for her to sit beside me, and she did so, settling herself on the ground with a sigh.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke, the silence between us was heavy with unspoken words. I stared at the heart tree, the face carved into its trunk seeming to mock me with its eternal calm.

“I’ve been fighting for so long, Talia,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “Since the Red Wedding, I’ve been fighting... fighting for something that seems so far away now. And yet, Ramsay is still alive. We are no closer to avenging the Starks, or the Hornwoods. All the blood we’ve shed, all the lives we’ve lost—what has it all been for?”

Talia looked at me, her eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored my own. “It wasn’t for nothing, Rurik,” she said quietly. “You’ve done so much—more than you realize. Ironrath is still standing because of you. You’ve given us hope when we had none.”

I shook my head, the weight of her words too much to bear. “Hope,” I repeated, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. “What good is hope, Talia? It doesn’t bring back the dead. It doesn’t undo what’s been done.”

“No,” she agreed, her voice soft. “But it’s all we have. Without it, we’re lost.”

I looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “I’m tired, Talia,” I admitted, the words slipping from my lips before I could stop them. “So goddamned tired. I just want to go back home to my old towerhouse. But there’s no home left. The Bolton bastards took that from me, just as they took everything else.”

Talia’s hand found mine, her touch warm and comforting. “Ironrath can be your home now,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “You’ve done so much for us... for my family. Rodrik was at a loss before you came. Asher… I barely remember him, it’s been so long since he left for Essos. But you gave us hope, Rurik. You made a difference.”

Her words cut through the fog of despair that had settled over me, and for a moment, I could almost believe her. Almost.

Talia hesitated, her grip on my hand tightening. “I could still ask Rodrik to make a match between us,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Even if you couldn’t kill Ramsay, as you promised you would… I would stand by you, Rurik if you want. You wouldn’t have to be alone.”

I looked at her then, really looked at her, and saw the earnestness in her eyes, the sincerity of her offer. She was ready to sacrifice her happiness to serve her family. But it only made the ache in my chest grow stronger. Talia Forrester was so young, sweet, kind-hearted,  and she deserved so much more than what I could offer her. She deserved a husband who would fill her life with love and laughter, not someone so much older with whom her marriage would only be of duty.

A rueful smile tugged at the corners of my lips, and I shook my head. “My lady, you’re a sweet girl, but I’m not the man for you,” I said gently. “Triston’s probably looking for you right now, eager to ask you for a dance. He’s the one you should be with, not an older, bitter man like me.”

She looked at me with a mixture of slight relief and understanding.  But before she could say anything, we were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps, and I turned to see Royland Degore, Ironrath’s sentinel, approaching.

“Rurik,” Royland called out, his voice urgent. “There’s something you need to see.”

I frowned, rising to my feet as Talia stood up beside me. “What is it, Royland?” I asked, my voice laced with concern.

Royland glanced at Talia, then back at me, his expression grave. “It’s better if you see it for yourself,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

As we walked, my mind raced with possibilities, each one darker than the last. What could Royland have discovered that was so important? Had the Boltons regrouped? Were the Whitehills planning another attack?

We made our way through the winding corridors of Ironrath, the walls lined with tapestries depicting the history of House Forrester. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows on the stone, and I felt a sense of unease settle over me.

Finally, Royland led us to a small chamber, tucked away in a quiet corner of the keep. The door was heavy and reinforced with iron, and I could see the tension in Royland’s posture as he pushed it open.

Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single candle, casting long shadows across the floor. In the center of the room stood a lone figure, bound and gagged, his eyes wide with fear. It was one of the Bolton prisoners, his face bruised and bloodied from the torture he had endured.

Royland stepped forward, his expression as hard as stone. “This one’s been singing, Rurik,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “And what he’s told us... it can change everything.”

I moved closer, my heart pounding in my chest as I stared down at the prisoner. “What did he say?” I asked, my voice tight with anticipation.

The prisoner’s eyes were wide, darting from me to Royland, his fear evident in the quiver of his lips. He stank of blood, sweat, and piss, the byproducts of his recent interrogation. But it wasn’t the scent that turned my stomach; it was the words that hung in the air, the echoes of a name I had not expected to hear.

“Ramsay was to wed Arya Stark?” I repeated, my voice low and dangerous. The mere mention of the Stark name stirred something deep within me—a mixture of loyalty and rage that I had kept buried since the Red Wedding.

The prisoner nodded, his head jerking like a nervous bird. “Aye, m’lord,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “I overheard it… when I was servin’ wine at the Dreadfort. There were two guests, Arnolf Karstark and one of them Umber lads. They was talkin’… said Ramsay was to marry Arya Stark. I swear it on the old gods, m’lord!”

Arya Stark. The girl was supposed to be dead, lost along with the rest of her family. But if what this man said was true… If Arya was alive, and in Ramsay’s clutches…

I clenched my fists, feeling the blood drain from my knuckles as I fought to keep my fury in check. Ramsay Bolton. The name itself was a curse, a black mark on the history of the North. He had taken everything from us—our lands, our people, our honor. And now, he dared to claim a Stark as his bride?

I turned to Royland, my voice tight with barely restrained anger. “Does Rodrik know?”

Royland shook his head. “Not yet. I came to you first, knowing how personal Ramsay's death is to you.”

I nodded, my mind already spinning with the implications. This news could change everything, but we had to be careful. 

“We need to tell Rodrik and Asher,” I said, my voice firm. “And Alysane as well. This threat isn’t just about us anymore—it’s about the North, about the Starks. If Arya Stark is truly alive.... we must act.”

Royland inclined his head, and together we left the dim chamber, the prisoner’s panicked breaths echoing behind us. The corridors of Ironrath seemed colder, the walls closing in as the weight of what we had learned settled over me. Every step I took felt heavier than the last, as if the gods themselves were trying to drag me down.

In the great hall, I found Rodrik and Asher in conversation, their faces stern with the weight of command. Alysane stood nearby, her brow furrowed in thought as she listened. When they saw me approach, their eyes narrowed, sensing the urgency in my stride.

“Rurik,” Rodrik greeted me, his voice steady but tinged with concern. “What has happened?”

“We need to talk,” I said, glancing around to ensure no prying ears were nearby. “It’s urgent.”

Rodrik exchanged a look with Asher, and they both nodded. Alysane moved to join us, her eyes questioning but silent. I led them to a smaller room, one of the war chambers where we could speak freely without fear of eavesdroppers. The room was lined with maps and banners, the remnants of countless battles planned and fought.

Once the door was closed, I took a deep breath and relayed what the prisoner had told me. The moment Arya Stark’s name left my lips, I saw the shock ripple through their faces.

“Arya Stark?” Asher’s voice was incredulous, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “She was supposed to be dead, like the rest of them.”

“That’s what we all believed,” I said, my tone grim. “But if she’s alive, and if Ramsay intends to marry her, we’re dealing with something far more dangerous than we thought.”

Rodrik leaned forward, his expression darkening. “This could rally the North for our enemies,” he said, his mind already working through the possibilities. “The Karstarks and Umbers are staunch loyalists, but if they believe a Stark is married to Ramsay, they may even support the Boltons.”

Alysane, who had been silent up until now, spoke up, her voice steady and clear. “There’s more. I received a raven from the House Flint this morning. Stannis Baratheon has arrived in the wall. He crushed a wildling invasion and took their King as prisoner."

The weight of Alysane’s words hung heavy in the air, as if the very stones of Ironrath were listening, waiting for our next move. Stannis Baratheon had come to the Wall, and with him, the possibility of a new alliance. But more than that, the mention of Jon Snow—Ned Stark’s bastard—opened a door I hadn’t dared to dream about. If Arya Stark was truly alive, then Jon might be our best hope to rally the North.

I looked at each of them in turn, gauging their reactions. Rodrik’s face was a mask of contemplation, his fingers steepled under his chin as he considered the implications. Asher, always the warrior, had a fire in his eyes, the thought of battle was already stirring his blood. Alysane remained calm, her gaze steady, as if she had already thought through every possible outcome.

“A son of Eddard Stark at the Wall,” I repeated, my voice thoughtful. “If Jon Snow still holds true to his father’s legacy, he might be willing to join our cause. And with Stannis Baratheon there, we could offer him the North in exchange for his help against the Boltons.”

Asher’s brows furrowed, his voice gruff with skepticism. “You think Stannis will care about some bastard of the North? He’s a Southron king with his eyes set on the Iron Throne. Why would he risk his men for a cause that doesn’t directly benefit him?”

“Because the North is not just any prize,” Alysane replied, leaning forward while a the strategy began to take shape in my mind. “Stannis is a man of duty and honor, at least by reputation. He might see the North as the key to solidifying his claim. If we offer him the loyalty of the northern houses—Hornwood, Forrester, Glover, Mormont—he may see the value in siding with us. The Boltons are hated, and if we can convince him that toppling them will bring him the North, he might be swayed.”

Rodrik nodded slowly, the gears in his mind turning. “If we present it as a way for him to win over the North, he might listen. But we’ll need more than just words. We’ll need to prove our commitment. We have men, but not enough to take on the Boltons directly. That’s where Stannis’s forces could tip the scales.”

Alysane spoke up then, her voice clear and resolute. “And Jon Snow... if we can convince him that Arya lives, that she needs him, he might persuade Stannis to listen. Jon is bound to the Night’s Watch, but he is still a Stark by blood. He may not be able to fight for us directly, but he can be our voice to Stannis.”

I nodded, the plan solidifying in my mind. “We’ll go to the Wall. Asher, you and I, along with my Mallister cousins, Triston and Sebastian. We’ll speak to Stannis, present our case, and see if we can gain his support. If we can bring the North to his side, he may give us the strength we need to confront the Boltons.”

Rodrik’s expression remained grim, but there was a glint of hope in his eyes. “And what of Deepwood Motte? The Ironborn won’t sit idly by while we make our move.”

“You and Alysane will stay here,” I said, my tone firm. “Rally more men, train them. Prepare for whatever comes next. Raid the squids if they try to bring men or supplies from Iron Island." 

Alysane inclined her head, her agreement clear. “We’ll do what needs to be done. The Wolfswood is vast, and still we have allies who may yet answer the call. We'll play with whatever pieces are available to us and make sure our people are ready.”

Asher grinned, a fierce light in his eyes. “A trip to the Wall, then? It’s been too long since I’ve seen the Haunted forest. Let’s see if Stannis is as honorable as they say.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, though my heart was heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. This was no mere journey; it was a gamble with everything we had at stake. But it was a gamble we had to take.

“We leave in three days,” I said, feeling the resolve in my voice. “Let's tell our men to gather their gear, make their preparations. We don’t know what we’ll find at the Wall, but we’ll be ready for whatever comes.”

Chapter Text

Jon Snow

Jon Snow stood in the biting cold, the sharp wind cutting through the layers of fur and leather as if they were nothing more than a wisp of smoke. The Wall loomed above, an immense and imposing barrier of ice, a symbol of protection. But times like today he made it feel like a symbol of prison for him and the men of the Night’s Watch. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way across the yard, mind heavy with the burdens of command. As the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he had to make his decisions in commerce, battle, and strategy, but the decisions that weighed on him most were those that judged the lives of his brothers.

The yard was quiet, except for the occasional steel clang from the training grounds and the muted conversations of men who stood watch or huddled around fires. Eyes followed him as he passed, wary and respectful. The men knew something was coming, a judgment, a reckoning for someone. Jon could feel their tension, the unease that had settled over Castle Black like a shroud since the deserter had been brought back.

He found the man in the center of the yard, kneeling in the snow, hands bound behind his back. His name was Harold, a young man barely out of boyhood, his face streaked with tears and snot, eyes wide with fear. A ring of black brothers encircled him, their expressions a mixture of anger and disgust. Jon’s gaze swept over the men—Eddson Tollett, with his dour face and quiet eyes; Grenn, broad-shouldered and strong, his hands clenched into fists; and Samwell Tarly, who stood a little apart, his expression one of deep sorrow.

Jon stopped a few paces from the kneeling boy, his breath misting in the frigid air. He could hear the whispers of the past in the wind, the voices of those who had worn the black before him, men who had faced the same dilemmas, who had passed judgment on their brothers. It was said that the Night’s Watch had no king, no lord, no law but the oath they swore. And when that oath was broken, it was up to the Lord Commander to mete out justice.

“Harrold,” Jon said, his voice low and steady, carrying over the calm of the yard. “You have been brought before me as a deserter, an oathbreaker, and a violator of the vows you swore to the Night’s Watch.”

Harry’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Jon’s with a desperate plea. “Lord Commander, I made a mistake. I’m sorry. I never meant to desert—I was just… scared.”

“Scared?” Jon’s voice wasn't meant to be this cold but it was. Colder than the wind that lashed at them. “Scared of what, Harrold? Scared of the oath you swore? Scared of the consequences of your actions?”

The boy’s lower lip trembled as he struggled to find the words. “I… I didn’t mean to do it, I just wanted to feel something… something warm. I went to the house near the lake, to the new brothel. I know it was wrong, but… but I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear it.”

Jon studied him, his eyes hard, his expression unreadable. The boy’s excuse was pitiful like many had given before him. Men who had sought comfort in the arms of a woman, who had broken their vows in the pursuit of warmth and pleasure. But this was different. This was not just a lapse in judgment; this was something darker.

“You broke your vows. And not just the vows of the Watch. You violated a woman, forced yourself upon her when she could not refuse.”

Harry shook his head frantically, tears spilling down his cheeks. “No, it wasn’t like that. I paid for her! I paid her, and she said—she said—”

“She said no,” Jon interrupted, his voice like steel. “She said no, and you ignored her. You took what you wanted, without regard for her, without regard for the oaths you swore.”

"He didn't just lay with her though, my Lord," another ranger blurted out and Jon didn't miss how the accused froze in fear. "when we found the cunt and dragged him back, that woman was black and blue. Her clothes were ripped and she was crying. Said he forced himself on her. Our brother here is just barely a man and already showing signs of a would-be sick bastard."

"Can anyone else attest to this?" Jon asks, his voice lower and expression significantly darker.

Another ranger steps forward, a skinny boy with shaggy black hair.

"Aye, Lord Commander," he says nervously, "the girl was really upset. Her dress was torn to pieces and bruises already forming on her flesh."

The boy’s protests faltered, his face crumpling in on itself as the full weight of Jon’s words bore down on him. He might be a young man but Jon could not let that cloud his judgment. The Night’s Watch was built on the foundation of the oaths they swore, and when those oaths were broken, the entire structure could crumble.

“What do you think should be done?” Jon asked, his gaze sweeping over the men who stood around them.

There was silence for a moment, the men shifting uncomfortably, their breath clouding the air. It was Sam who finally spoke, his voice hesitant but firm. “He should be punished, Lord Commander. The vows must be upheld, and he… he broke them.”

Grenn nodded in agreement, his voice rough with anger. “He hurt that girl bad. He must be punished.”

Jon’s gaze returned to Harrold, who had collapsed into a sobbing heap, his body shaking with fear. “You broke your vows. You violated a woman, and you deserted your post. For these crimes, there can be no forgiveness.”

Harry’s sobs grew louder, his pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. Jon felt a heavy weight settle in his chest, a familiar coldness that had grown within him since he had taken the mantle of Lord Commander. He had seen too much death, too much betrayal, and too much darkness to let mercy cloud his judgment. He had a duty to the Watch, to the men who served alongside him, and to the vows they had all sworn.

“Take him to the dungeons,” Jon ordered. “He will be stripped of his rank and his position. At dawn, he will be castrated, and he will live the rest of his days as just a servant, a reminder to all of what happens to those who break their vows.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the men, and two brothers stepped forward to drag the sobbing boy away. Jon watched them go, his expression grim, his heart heavy. He had not taken pleasure in the judgment he had passed, but he knew it was necessary. Many of his brothers were criminals who would take the threat of death easily, maybe even with a hint of defiance. But the sane men would cower if the punishment was castration. He saw the effect with Stannis's own men. How they seemed to could not even look at their own shadows. Balls were more precious to some men than souls.

As the men dispersed, Jon turned his attention back to the Wall. Its walls almost felt like closing in on him. His other duties regarding Stannis were also of the same nature. The taciturn King was not happy with the news that Jon had been chosen as the Lord Commander of The Night's Watch and wanted an answer regarding the castles of The Watch. He would not likely be happy with the one he was about to get. Jon was slightly afraid that Stannis might even take those castles anyway regarding his answer. He was fighting a war and The Watch did owe him one giant favor to save their lives. A good portion of his brothers echoed this sentiment as those castles were useless anyway and they needed Stannis's help baldly.

He was about to return to his quarters when he spotted movement at the gate.

His breath misted before him as he approached the scene near the main gate. The sight that greeted him was one of escalating conflict, the kind that could turn deadly with the slightest provocation. Janos Slynt, a man Jon despised for his cowardice and treachery, stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword, his face twisted in a sneer of contempt. Across from him stood a much larger man, his features hidden beneath a thick hood. Jon had seen enough violence to recognize the air of danger that surrounded the stranger. The larger man had arrived the night before with twenty men-at-arms asking for a meet with Stannis Baratheon. They had kept to themselves for the time being and members of the Night's Watch didn’t get to know much about them except they hailed from the Wolfswood.

The tension between the two men was palpable, and Jon’s instincts screamed at him to intervene. He quickened his pace, but before he could reach them, the situation exploded into violence. Slynt, his face red with anger, drew his dagger and lunged at the stranger. The stranger reacted with a speed and power that belied his size, grabbing Slynt’s wrist with a grip that must have felt like iron. There was a brief struggle, and then the stranger twisted the dagger from Slynt’s grasp with a casual ease that sent the blade clattering to the ground.

A murmur rippled through the courtyard as men stopped what they were doing to watch the unfolding drama. Jon saw the men of the Watch exchange uneasy glances, their hands inching towards the hilts of their swords. The stranger’s next move was even more shocking—he grabbed Slynt by the throat, lifting him off the ground as though he weighed nothing. The former commander of the City Watch of King’s Landing, who had once been so powerful, now dangled helplessly in the stranger’s grip.

The courtyard fell silent as the stranger tightened his grip on Slynt’s neck. With one hand he took out Janos's sword from the scabbard and slashed at his throat while Slynt hung a foot off the ground. Then in a brutal fury, the stranger sunk his hands in the large gash of the throat, tearing out the head in a savage twist with a shower of red. The headless body crumpled to the ground, blood pooling in the snow, staining it a dark, sinister red.

Jon’s heart pounded in his chest as he took in the scene. Slynt was dead, and the man who had killed him stood calmly amidst the horror he had wrought. Jon’s mind raced, trying to make sense of what he had just witnessed. This was no ordinary man—this was a killer, a warrior of unmatched strength and brutality.

“Seize him!” Alliser Thorne ordered who was also watching the scene unfolding from a distance, his voice carrying across the courtyard. The men hesitated only for a moment before they moved to obey, surrounding the stranger with weapons drawn.

But before they could lay a hand on him, the stranger’s own men took action. From the shadows near the gate, three figures emerged. Jon recognized one of them as Asher Forrester, a Glover man of hard features and cold eyes. The others were unfamiliar to him, but their intent was clear.

Asher moved with the precision of a seasoned warrior, grabbing Dolorous Edd by the collar and pressing a dagger to his throat. “No closer,” he warned, his voice low and menacing.

The second man, a tall, wiry figure with a hood pulled low over his face, drew a long, wickedly sharp dirk and placed it at Satin’s throat. “We’re not here to shed unnecessary blood,” he said, his voice calm, almost bored. “But we’ll do what we must.”

The third man, with a bow in hand, notched an arrow and aimed it directly at Jon’s head. “Stand down, Lord Commander,” he growled. “Or your men die.”

The courtyard, which had been silent in shock just moments before, now buzzed with tension. More of the strangers started coming out of their sleeping quarters, weapons on hand. The men of the Night’s Watch and the strangers faced each other, weapons drawn, eyes locked in a deadly standoff. Jon could see the confusion in the eyes of his brothers, but also the resolve. They would fight, they would not back down. Yet, Jon also knew that a single misstep, a single swing of a sword, could plunge them all into chaos and bloodshed.

Jon’s grip on Longclaw tightened. He could feel the weight of his duty pressing down on him, the responsibility for the lives of his men. He had to end this before it began, but the path to that end was fraught with danger.

“Put down your weapons,” Jon commanded in a steady voice, though every fiber of his being was coiled tight, ready to strike. “This is not how we settle things at Castle Black.”

The man with the bow, the scout who had taken aim at Jon, sneered. “You’d have us put down our arms so you can slaughter us all? I think not.”

The stranger, Rurik, who had just moments before torn Slynt’s head from his shoulders, finally spoke. His voice was calm, and measured, almost as if the violence he had committed was of no consequence. “We came to meet with Stannis Baratheon, not to pick a fight with the Night's Watch. But if you think to cage us like animals for defending ourselves, you’ll find we’re not so easily tamed.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “You just killed a brother of the Night’s Watch. There’s a price for that.”

Rurik’s eyes met Jon’s, and for a moment, Jon felt the weight of the man’s gaze, as if those eyes were trying to see straight through him, could see the doubt and fear that lurked beneath his calm exterior. “Janos Slynt was no brother of yours, my lord,” Rurik said softly. “He was a snake, a coward who drew his blade on me first. I defended myself.”

Before Jon could respond, the sound of heavy boots on the snow interrupted them. Richard Horpe, Stannis Baratheon’s second-in-command, strode into the courtyard, flanked by a dozen of Stannis’s soldiers with spears. Horpe was a tall man, lean and sharp-featured, with a face that seemed permanently etched in a scowl. His presence commanded respect, and even the men of the Night’s Watch seemed to relax slightly as he approached.

“What is the meaning of this?” Horpe demanded, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

Jon turned to face him, grateful for the interruption but still wary. “This man,” he gestured to Rurik, “killed Janos Slynt in cold blood. I ordered him taken into custody, but his men have taken hostages.”

Horpe’s sharp eyes flicked from Jon to Rurik, then to the hostages, Dolorous Edd and Satin, who stood with daggers at their throats. His expression darkened. “Release them,” he ordered, his voice brooking no argument.

For a moment, no one moved. The standoff held, with both sides eyeing each other warily. Then, slowly, Asher and the others began to lower their weapons. The tension in the courtyard didn’t dissipate entirely, but it eased slightly as the men of the Night’s Watch were released.

Horpe stepped forward, placing himself between Jon and Rurik. “Stannis Baratheon will decide what happens here,” he said, his tone making it clear that this was not up for debate. “These men are envoys. They came to Castle Black to speak with the King, not to shed blood. If Slynt drew his blade first, then the fault lies with him.”

Jon bristled at Horpe’s words, his anger flaring. “I never claimed to have love for Janos Slynt but he was a member of the Night’s Watch, and justice must be served. I won’t have men killing each other in the shadow of the Wall.”

“And you won’t have men defying the King’s justice, either,” Horpe countered, his gaze hard. “Or have you forgotten Stannis Baratheon is the one in charge here, especially if the matter is related to his envoys ?”

Jon’s jaw tightened, his anger simmering just below the surface. This incident would become a hard prickle on his command. He did not like one bit how Alliser Thorne was bristling at the mouth as he still did not sheathe his blade. And the brothers would surely talk about the effectiveness of their newly elected Lord Commander if an outsider could just murder one of their own without a consequence. He hadn’t forgotten his oath either, but that didn’t mean he would stand by and let a murderer walk free. But as much as he wanted to press the issue, he knew that he was outnumbered, outmaneuvered. Horpe was right—Stannis would have the final say, and for now, Jon would have to trust that the King would dispense justice.

“Take them to the King,” Jon said finally, his voice low but firm. “But this isn’t over.”

Horpe nodded curtly, then turned to Rurik and his men. “You’ll come with us to see the King. He’ll see if this was a just defense or a cold-blooded murder.”

Rurik met Jon’s gaze one last time, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I'll see you shortly Lord Commander. We have much to talk about.”

As the men of Stannis’s retinue escorted Rurik away, Jon stood in the courtyard, the cold wind now biting savagely at his exposed skin. Rurik's men were retreating back to their quarters. The men of the Night’s Watch gathered around their Lord Commander, their faces a mix of confusion, anger, and relief while Thorne and his cronies sulked away. Dolorous Edd rubbed his neck where the dagger had been pressed, his usual sardonic expression replaced by one of lingering fear.

“That was too close,” Edd muttered.

Jon nodded, his thoughts churning. He had come within a hair’s breadth of disaster, and though the immediate danger had passed, the ramifications of what had happened would ripple through Castle Black and beyond. Slynt was dead, a man Jon had hated, but his death would not go unremarked. Stannis would have to decide how to handle the situation, and Jon would have to live with whatever decision was made.

“Go back to your duties,” Jon ordered his men, his voice rough. The men of the Watch began to disperse, though the tension in the air lingered like a foul smell. As they left, Jon stood alone in the courtyard, his mind racing.

Rurik and his men were different and dangerous. They planned this death from the beginning, he could see that now. Separating Slynt at a corner, somehow enticing him to draw his blade, immediately taking hostages...This was no ordinary fight. They had come to Castle Black with a purpose, and Janos Slynt’s death was only the beginning.

Rurik Asheart, VIII

The wind cut through the mountain pass like a knife, sharp and relentless, carrying with it the scent of snow and the promise of a harsh winter. The North was turning into the land of unyielding cold as it would always be in the middle of the winter, where the wind seemed to pierce the very soul. The mountains loomed like ancient sentinels, their jagged peaks clawing at the sky. This was a place where only the hardiest of men could survive, and those who did were forged from the same stone and ice that shaped the land. These were the lands of my kin from grandmother's side, where the blood of the mountain clans ran through my veins, beside Hornwood forest's legacy of strength and defiance.

We were deep in the northern mountains, far from the warmth and comforts of Ironrath, but that suited me just fine. The mainland of the North had turned into a land of treachery and deceit as Boltons and their allies held sway, where words were as sharp as blades and men smiled as they twisted the knife in your back. The mountains on the other hand, though harsh and unforgiving, were a land where men lived by their strength, where honor and loyalty still held meaning. Here, in these high, cold places, men I could respect were born and bred, shaped by the land into something harder, something stronger than the average Northman.

The journey through the mountains had been long and arduous, the cold seeping into our bones and gnawing at our resolve. The rocky mountain paths were as treacherous as ever. But we pressed on, driven by a purpose that was stronger than any discomfort. The sight of the holdfast of Clan Norrey brought a warmth that no fire could provide. The holdfast was a small, humble place, little more than a collection of stone buildings huddled together on the mountainside, surrounded by a wooden palisade that had seen better days. Smoke rose from the chimneys, a sign that life clung stubbornly to this harsh land, refusing to be extinguished by the cold.

As we approached, I could feel the eyes of the mountain clansmen watching us from the shadows, their gazes wary and suspicious. Strangers were not always welcome in these parts, and the mountain clans had learned to be cautious, to trust no one who was not of their blood. But I was no stranger to these lands nor these people. My grandfather had married Brandon Norrey’s sister, and though many years had passed since then, blood ties still held meaning here. The Norreys knew of House Asheart, and they knew the strength of the blood that flowed through my veins.

"Hold!" A voice rang out as we neared the gates, sharp and commanding. Several men emerged from the shadows, armed with spears and bows, their eyes hard and suspicious. They were tall and lean, their faces weathered by the wind and the cold, their gazes sharp as they took in the sight of us—twenty men, armed and dangerous, who had come unannounced.

I raised my hand in greeting, my breath misting in the cold air. "I am Rurik," I called out, my voice carrying across the distance. "My grandmother was cousin to your chief, Brandon Norrey. We come seeking shelter for the night. We mean no harm."

The men exchanged glances, muttering among themselves. One of them, a tall, gaunt man with a scar running down the side of his face, stepped forward. "Kin or no, you come too close to our holdfast without an invitation. State your purpose, or turn back."

I met his gaze unflinching. "We seek shelter from the cold and the night. We have coins to pay for our keep if need be, but I’d rather settle as kin than as strangers."

The man studied me for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Wait here," he said, before turning and disappearing through the gates. The others kept their weapons ready, watching us with the wary eyes of men who had seen too much of the world.

Sharp Tom, ever the suspicious one, shifted his weight, his hand resting on the trigger of his crossbow under his cloak. "Are you sure about this, Rurik?" he muttered under his breath. "These mountain men can be prickly bastards."

I gave him a sidelong glance. "So can everyone," I replied. "But they’re also bound by blood and honor. As long as we don’t give them a reason to think otherwise, we’ll be fine."

Tom grunted, clearly unconvinced, but he held his tongue. The others—Triston, Sebastian, Warin, and Asher—stood silently, their eyes scanning the surroundings, ever vigilant. We were a long way from home, and while the mountains might offer some familiarity to me, the rest of my men were out of their element.

The wind still howled through the pass, carrying with it the scent of cattle, snow, and ice. The cold almost made bones frozen but we stood firm, waiting in silence. The Norreys were a proud clan, as proud as any in the North, and I knew they would not make us wait long.

After what felt like an eternity, the gate creaked open, and the gaunt man returned, flanked by two more clansmen. "The Norrey will see you," he said. "But keep your weapons sheathed, and your tempers in check. The winter is nigh, and food is scarce. Not all in the clan will be happy to share what little we have."

I nodded in understanding and signaled to my men to follow. We passed through the gates and into the holdfast. The buildings inside were as sturdy as the men who built them—stone and wood, built to withstand the harsh elements. The courtyard was small and crowded with livestock, tools, and the few inhabitants who had not sought the warmth of their homes.

The whole holdfast was a reflection of the Norreys themselves—rugged and unyielding. The main living quarters were low and squat, their walls thick and made of stone, with thatched roofs that were covered in a layer of snow. The wooden palisade that surrounded the holdfast was old and weathered, the wood darkened by age and the elements, but it remained firm, a testament of strength and longevity over looks.

As we made our way through the courtyard, I could feel the eyes of the clansmen upon us, watching our every move with suspicion. They were wary people, distrustful of outsiders, and I couldn’t blame them. The war had proved that alliance was a fickle thing and men would turn on each other easily given the chance. The Norreys had learned long ago to trust only those of their own blood, and even then, trust was a rare and precious commodity.

We were led to the largest building, a long hall where the chief and his family resided. As we entered, the warmth from the hearth hit me like a wave, and I could feel the tension in my muscles begin to ease. The hall was dimly lit by the flickering firelight, the air thick with the scent of wood smoke and roasting meat. The walls were adorned with the trophies of the hunt—skulls of bears, antlers of elk, and the pelts of wolves, all reminders of the clan’s mastery over their environment.

At the far end of the hall, seated on a wooden chair that served as his throne, was Chief Brandon Norrey. He was an older man, his hair and beard a mix of gray and white, but his eyes were sharp, and his posture betrayed the strength that still remained in his bones. He looked up as we entered, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Asheart," he said, his voice warm despite the weariness that lined his face. "It’s been many years since I’ve seen one of your blood. Come, sit by the fire, and warm yourself."

I approached the hearth and took a seat across from the chief. My men followed suit, though they remained slightly apart, ever mindful of their surroundings. There were two fireplaces inside, a larger one for the common men and a smaller one with a clay chimney set aside for the chief and his council. Asher and I went for the smaller fireplace while the rest of our company took around the larger one, leaving their cloaks to dry out and helping themselves with ale and food.  The chief’s men watched us closely, but for now, the tension had eased. We were guests, after all, and the laws of hospitality still held sway here.

"It’s good to see you, Lord Norrey," I said, inclining my head in respect. "The road has been long, and the cold unforgiving. We’re grateful for your hospitality."

Norrey waved a hand dismissively. "You’re kin, and kin are always welcome here, no matter how thin the winter stores might be. But tell me, what brings you and your men so far north? The last I heard, your Brotherhood was in the Bolton lands, raiding the lands of the Dreadfort."

I smiled faintly. "The Boltons have been brutalizing the folk of Hornwood. And they’ve declared those of us as outlaws who seek justice for Lady Hornwood."

Brandon Norrey’s eyes narrowed as he studied me, his expression hardening at the mention of Lady Hornwood. “Aye,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, as if the words were torn from deep within. “Her death was a bitter blow. Many weeps for her still, though few dare to show it.”

His gaze, piercing and thoughtful, lingered on me. “So you’ve taken it upon yourself to seek justice?”

“Aye. Justice for Hornwood and for our family. Your family. The Boltons have much to answer for, and my men have made them pay in blood every time we met. We’ve struck at them near Ironrath, defeated a force five hundred strong, and word of that victory is spreading. But this is far from over.”

Brandon Norrey’s face remained impassive, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something—pride, perhaps, or understanding. “The Boltons have always been a scourge upon the North,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “They’ve overreached themselves, and sooner or later, the other lords will rise against them. But such uprisings have not happened yet. How will you fight the Boltons and their allies when Roose returns home?" 

“I’ve heard whispers of Stannis Baratheon,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “He’s taken the Wall, saved the Night’s Watch from the Wildlings. They say he’s gathering strength, preparing to march south against the Boltons. If he’s willing to help us, if he’s willing to fight, I’ll offer him the loyalty of those who are willing to fight—the Forresters, the Mormonts, the Hornwoods. But to do that, I need to show him that the North is with him.”

Brandon Norrey’s eyes gleamed with something akin to approval. “I have heard much of this Southoron King. They say Stannis is a hard man,” he said. “I bet he’s no fool as well. If you offer him the loyalty of the North, he might just be the man to lead the charge against the Boltons. But you’ll need something to give him in return. Something that will make him see your worth.”

“Victory,” I said simply. “A victory that will turn into a rallying point for our people. We need to strike at the Ironborn and take back Deepwood Motte. The Boltons will have their eyes on Winterfell, on the South, but if we can defeat the Ironborn, we’ll send a message that the North is rising.”

Brandon was silent for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. “Deepwood Motte,” he mused. “Aye, that’s a prize worth taking. But you’ll need more than just a handful of men to do it. And if you fail…”

“I won’t fail,” I said, my voice firm. “But I won’t ask you to commit your men to this fight—not yet. All I ask is that you prepare, and gather supplies, weapons, and horses. When the time comes, we’ll need them. And if we succeed, the Norreys will have their share of the spoils.”

Brandon’s eyes narrowed slightly as if weighing the risks. “You ask a lot, Rurik. If the Boltons learn of this, they’ll mark us as enemies. And winter is coming. Supplies are scarce, food even scarcer.”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving mine. “But you’re kin. And blood means something, even now. Your mother was kin to me and I would see her avenged. My sister would wish the same. We’ll do as you ask. We’ll prepare. But remember this, Rurik—if you fail, the consequences will be dire. Not just for you, but for all of us.”

I understand,” I said, inclining my head in respect. “This is personal, Brandon. Between me and the Boltons. I’ll see it through. All I ask is that the Norreys stand ready when the time comes.”

Before Brandon could respond, the doors to the hall creaked open, and a gust of cold air blew in, along with a tall, broad-shouldered figure. Brandon the Younger strode into the hall, his boots thudding against the stone floor, his wild mane of brown hair and matching beard dusted with snow. His eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the room before settling on me.

“Rurik Asheart,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he approached. “I came running as soon as I heard the madman from Hornwood was here." 

“Brandon,” I clasped his forearm in a firm handshake. The young Norrey was more familiar to me than his father as we had met and traded many times in Hornwood's market. “It has been too long. Too long by half.”

Brandon the Younger nodded to Asher Forrester, who had remained silent by my side. “Forrester,” he said, with a nod of respect. “It’s good to see you too. What brings you this far north?”

“The same thing that can bring true men all together now,” I replied, my tone serious. “The Boltons. And the Ironborn. We’re gathering strength, preparing to strike at Deepwood Motte. But we’ll need allies, and we’ll need a leader.”

Brandon the Younger’s eyes flicked to his father, who was watching us with a keen gaze. “You’re thinking of Stannis. Aren't you?” he said, his tone thoughtful. “He’s at the Wall. I've just seen him a few days ago.”

“Aye,” I said. “And he’s looking for allies in the North. If we offer him our support, he might just be the man to lead us.”

Brandon the Younger’s brow furrowed slightly as he considered my words. “Stannis is a hard man,” he said. “But he's said to be a man of his word. If he says he’ll help us, he will. But it won’t be easy.”

“Nothing worth doing ever is,” I replied, my tone firm. “But if we can take back Deepwood Motte if we can drive the Ironborn from the North, we’ll show the rest of the North that the Boltons aren’t the only one with strength.”

Brandon the Elder, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke. “They’ve thought this through,” he said, his tone approving. “They’ve got a plan, and it’s a good one." 

Brandon the Younger nodded. “Then it is settled. We’ll take the fight to the Ironborn and then to the Boltons. We'll shove our spears up to Roose Bolton's bunghole and use his corpse as a standard!!”

His voice was high and full of anger. It brought a roar of approval from the surrounding clansmen and Brotherhood men. With all of us banging our cups and stomping feet, calling for vengeance and blood. 

The hall of the Norreys was warm, the fire in the hearth crackling and sending flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of roasting meat mingled with the earthy aroma of the pine logs that burned bright, driving away the cold that clung to the bones outside. Brandon Norrey the Elder leaned back in his chair, a tankard of ale in his hand, while his son, Brandon the Younger, refilled his own cup with practiced ease. The conversation, though serious, was accompanied by the clinking of cups and the occasional scrape of a knife against a wooden trencher.

“Rurik,” Brandon the Younger began, his tone more casual now that they had agreed on the plan. “Do you know of Jon Snow?”

I shook my head slightly. “I know only that he’s Eddard Stark’s bastard and now Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

Asher Forrester, who had been quiet for most of the exchange, chimed in, his voice thoughtful. “I met Jon Snow once, long ago during a harvest feast. He was just a boy then, but even then, he seemed like a young Eddard Stark—quiet, brooding, but strong at the same time, with a sense of duty.”

Brandon the Younger nodded, his expression one of approval. “Aye, you’ve got the measure of him, Forrester. The Norreys trade with the Night’s Watch regularly—mostly food and furs, things they need to survive up there on the Wall. I’ve heard tales of Jon Snow’s skill with a sword and his capability as a commander. He’s earned the respect of his men, and that’s no easy feat, considering the lot they get up there.”

I took a sip of ale, letting the warmth spread through me as I considered the information. “A Stark in all but name it seems,” I murmured. “If he’s half the man his father was, then the Night’s Watch is in good hands.”

The conversation shifted slightly, the men exchanging stories of the Wall, of the hardships faced by the Night’s Watch. There was talk of the Wildlings and the battle that had raged not long ago, of Stannis Baratheon’s arrival and the way he had turned the tide.

Brandon the Younger, his eyes gleaming with the light of the fire, leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile playing on his lips. “There’s an interesting sort at the Wall now, besides Jon Snow. A man named Janos Slynt.”

The name tugged at something in my memory, but it was faint, like a shadow in the fog. “Janos Slynt…” I repeated, frowning slightly. “It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

Brandon the Elder grunted, his expression darkening. “You should remember that name, lad. Janos Slynt was the man who helped arrest The Ned before his execution. He was the Captain of the Gold Cloaks in King’s Landing, but he’s a traitor through and through. He was given a lordship for his part in Stark’s downfall, Harrenhal of all places, but he lost that when Joffery died. He’s been a thorn in the side of many a good man.”

As the older Brandon spoke, the pieces began to fall into place. The fog lifted, and I remembered hearing the name in whispers and curses from those who had fought in the War of the Five Kings. “So, he’s at the Wall now?” I asked, a dark edge to my voice.

“Aye,” Brandon the Younger confirmed, his tone matching mine. “He was sent there after he fell out of favor in King’s Landing. There was talk of him becoming the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, but the other fort commanders came together and chose Jon Snow instead.”

The thought of a man like Slynt commanding the Night’s Watch made my blood boil. “And what of him now?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice calm.

Brandon the Elder shrugged. “He’s still there, still scheming no doubt. But Jon Snow’s got the measure of him. I wouldn’t be surprised if Slynt met with an accident, given the way things work on the Wall.”

I nodded, but inside, my resolve hardened. Jon Snow was someone to be admired, a man who had stepped up to fill the role of his father’s legacy, even if he didn’t carry the Stark name. But Slynt… Slynt was different. He was a man who had betrayed one of the North’s greatest lords, a man who had played a role in the death of Eddard Stark and, by extension, in the tragedy that had befallen the Stark family and the North as a whole.

I didn’t say much more after that, letting the conversation flow around me as the men continued to talk, their voices growing more animated with each cup of ale. But as I sat there, my mind was racing, the list of names of those who had wronged the North growing longer by the moment.

Janos Slynt. The name burned in my mind like a brand. He was a man who had escaped justice for too long, a man who had betrayed everything the North stood for. And now, he was within reach.

The thought of Slynt at the Wall, scheming and plotting even in the frozen wastes, filled me with a cold determination. The Boltons were my immediate concern, but I couldn’t ignore the opportunity that presented itself. Slynt was a man who deserved to pay for, and if I could make that happen, I would.

Chapter Text

Jon

The solar was dimly lit, the faint glow of the hearthfire casting flickering shadows against the rough-hewn stone walls. The room had the same cold stillness that seemed to creep through Castle Black like a living thing, the biting wind from the Wall seeping through the narrow cracks in the stones, gnawing at Jon’s skin. It was a cold he'd long grown accustomed to. The North bred men to endure, and Jon Snow, despite all the red blood in his veins, learned to ignore the chill as all the men who come to the Wall must do at the end. But today, the chill seemed deeper, sharper, gnawing not at his flesh but his very spirit.

He sat behind the old table in the Lord Commander’s solar, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, fingers pressed together as though he could squeeze the tumult of thoughts from his mind. Janos Slynt's headless body still lay somewhere below, stiffening in the cold, blood congealing in the cracks between the stones. A grim reminder of how fragile order was at Castle Black, how quickly violence could erupt, even amongst those sworn to stand together.

Jon’s eyes fell on the dark wood of the table, its surface worn smooth by years of use, the marks of those who had come before him—Jeor Mormont, Qorgyle, and the countless other Lord Commanders—etched in its grain. He wondered what they would have done in his place. Would they have stopped it? Or, like him, would they have stood, watched, and done nothing? Rurik, that envoy from House Glover, had taken matters into his own hands and ripped the head of Slynt like twisting off the head of a practice dummy. Jon had not moved to stop him. Could not move, it had seemed.

He should have acted. Should have raised his voice, should have drawn his sword, done something. But the words had frozen in his throat, and now Janos Slynt lay dead, and the blame, the responsibility, was his to bear. A man cannot be Lord Commander and do nothing, he told himself. His hand flexed over Longclaw’s pommel, the Valyrian steel blade that had been his since Jeor Mormont’s death. You chose this. The men chose you. And now they watch to see what you will do next.

A sharp knock at the door broke through his thoughts. Jon’s eyes flicked to the entrance just as the heavy wooden door creaked open. Ser Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh, and Othell Yarwyck stepped inside, their faces grim as death. Maester Aemon was already in the solar, sitting quietly near the hearth, the warmth of the flames doing little to ease the cold in his old bones. His blind eyes stared ahead, yet Jon could feel the weight of his presence. Clydas hovered nearby, pouring the maester another cup of hot tea, his face lined with worry.

Thorne wasted no time. "A fine mess you’ve let unfold here, Lord Commander," he sneered, his black eyes gleaming like chips of ice in the firelight. His voice was sharp, the disdain unmistakable, and Jon could sense the contempt radiating from him like the bitter winds beyond the Wall. Ser Alliser had circled like a carrion crow since the day Jon had been elected Lord Commander, waiting for the moment he could sink his claws in and for Jon to falter. And now, it seemed, that moment had come.

Jon said nothing, though his fingers clenched tighter together. He could feel the tension building in his chest, the weight of every gaze in the room pressing down on him. This was the moment Thorne had been waiting for, the opportunity to undermine Jon’s command in front of the other officers. Ser Alliser was clever and ruthless. He knew exactly how to provoke Jon.

"Janos Slynt was a brother of the Night’s Watch, for better or worse. You let some savage butcher him like a pig." Thorne’s lips curled in a thin smile. "Is that how you mean to run things? Let anyone who feels like it to murder a brother under your roof, and you stand by like a craven?"

"Careful, Ser Alliser," Jon said, his voice rough and firm. His words came out sharper than he intended, but he did not care. Thorne had called him craven before, and Jon had ignored it, had swallowed the insult like so many others. But not tonight. Not after this.

Thorne’s smile widened as if Jon’s reaction had been exactly what he wanted. "Craven? No, Lord Commander, I’m not the one being insulted here. It’s the entire Night’s Watch you’ve shamed. If any man can murder one of our own without consequence, then what does that say about you? About the strength of your leadership?"

Jon held his gaze, refusing to be drawn further into the trap. Thorne was trying to provoke him, to goad him into anger, into rash words. But Jon would not give him the satisfaction. Not this time. He had learned patience from the Old Bear, from Maester Aemon. Words were weapons for schemers in the halls of the Night’s Watch, and Thorne wielded his with as much precision as a sword. But Jon had learned to deal with words too.

Bowen Marsh, who had remained silent until now, cleared his throat, his eyes flicking uneasily between Jon and Thorne. "Ser Alliser speaks sharply," Bowen said cautiously. "But the matter is serious, Lord Commander. Janos Slynt was sent to us by King’s Landing. His death... it could be seen as an affront to the crown."

Jon stiffened at the mention of King’s Landing. The crown. That pit of vipers. The very place where Slynt had earned his reputation as a traitor, a coward, and a butcher. Jon could still see in his dreams the man’s smug face when they had dragged his father before the boy king. Could still guess his lies, his cowardice. 

The crown. What did they know of honor? What did they know of the oaths men swore when they took the black? Slynt had been no brother. He had never been a brother, never known the true weight of the vows he had sworn. But Bowen’s words were true. The Watch needed the crown’s favor, or at least their silence. They could not afford to make enemies in King’s Landing. Not now, not with the Long Night looming and winter closing in around them like a fist.

"If word of this reaches them," Bowen continued, "we could find ourselves in a difficult position. We’re already short on supplies. If the crown were to withdraw what little aid they’ve promised from Reach and Dorne... it could mean starvation, Lord Commander. Or worse."

"Worse," Thorne echoed, his voice dripping with malice. "They could decide we need a new Lord Commander altogether."

The implication hung in the air like a sword over Jon’s head. He could feel the eyes of the room on him—Thorne’s gaze full of barely concealed triumph, Bowen’s anxious, Othell Yarwyck’s troubled. Even Maester Aemon, though blind, seemed to sense the tension, his face creased with thought.

Jon’s jaw tightened. Slynt had been a traitor, a coward. The man had let men die at his command, had turned on his brothers, had sold his honor for gold and titles in King’s Landing. There was no doubt in Jon’s mind that the world was better off without him. But the world didn’t care for the truth. The world cared for politics, for power, and Janos Slynt, dead or alive, had connections in King’s Landing that could stir trouble for the Watch.

"He drew his blade first," Othell Yarwyck said quietly, speaking for the first time since entering the solar. "Under our roof, no less. He meant to kill the Northerner. I’m not saying it was right, but... Slynt wasn’t innocent in this." Othell shifted uneasily, clearly uncomfortable being caught in the middle of the argument, but his words were steady, his conviction clear.

Thorne scoffed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "So, we let outsiders provoke our men and when they act in protest, freely butcher them? Is that it, Yarwyck?"

"I didn’t say that," Othell replied, his face reddening. "But Slynt drew steel. He knew what he was doing. He wasn’t some innocent lamb led to slaughter."

The silence that followed was thick with tension. Jon’s thoughts raced, weighing the choices before him, but outwardly, he remained still, his expression unreadable. He could feel the pull of the situation, like standing at the edge of a cliff, teetering between justice and politics, between honor and survival.

It was Maester Aemon who finally broke the silence, his frail voice carrying a weight that stilled the room. "We must tread carefully." His words were slow but full of wisdom. "This is not a matter to be decided in anger, nor should it be. Stannis Baratheon is a man of justice. He will see this situation for what it is, and dispense justice accordingly. Janos Slynt was no innocent man, and his past is known to many. He drew steel within the walls of Castle Black for a man staying under our roof, and for that... there are consequences."

Jon let out a slow breath, the tension coiling in his chest easing ever so slightly at Maester Aemon’s words. The old man’s voice had a way of cutting through the storm, of grounding the room in reason when all else seemed to spin out of control.

"Stannis will pass judgment. Janos Slynt may have friends in King’s Landing, but we’re not beholden to the crown. Our duty is to the Watch, to the Wall, and to the realm we swore to protect. Not to kings or queens. Not to politics."

His gaze swept across the room, pausing on each of the men before him—Thorne’s sneer, Bowen’s uncertainty, Othell’s quiet resolve. "Rurik will be taken to Stannis for judgment, along with his men. We will hold to our honor, as we always have. This was not murder. It was the consequence of Janos Slynt’s own actions."

Thorne’s sneer deepened. "And what of the crown’s response? What will you say when they demand to know why you let a rebellious Northerner butcher one of their own?"

Jon met his gaze without flinching. "I will say that the Night’s Watch takes no sides in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms. We serve the realm, not its kings. And I will remind them that Janos Slynt swore an oath when he donned the black, the same as you or I. An oath that he broke the moment he drew steel against an unarmed envoy beneath our roof."

For a moment, the room was silent, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Then Bowen Marsh cleared his throat again, his tone cautious but resigned. "Very well, Lord Commander. If you believe Stannis will deal with this... then so be it."

Othell nodded in agreement, though his face remained troubled. Ser Alliser, however, did not back down so easily.

"You’re a fool if you think Stannis will clean up this mess for you, Snow," Thorne spat. "He has his own wars to fight. His own ambitions. He cares nothing for the Night’s Watch or our traditions. Mark my words: when this reaches King’s Landing, they might even ask someone to take your head next."

Jon’s face hardened. He had heard enough from Thorne. "Thank you for your counsel, Ser Alliser," he said coldly, "but the decision has been made."

Thorne stared at him, his mouth twisting into an ugly smirk. "We’ll see how long that decision lasts. I'll see to Stannis as well when he passes his judgment." He muttered under his breath before turning on his heel and storming out of the solar.

Bowen Marsh lingered a moment longer, his brow furrowed with concern. "I hope you’re right about this, Lord Commander. I truly do. The Watch cannot afford to lose what little support we have left." With that, he too turned and followed Thorne out of the room.

Othell Yarwyck remained by the door, his expression unreadable. He gave Jon a brief nod before departing, leaving only Maester Aemon and Clydas behind.

The weight of the silence that followed was immense, but Jon felt strangely calm. The decision had been made, and now all that remained was to see it through. He walked over to the hearth, staring into the flames for a moment, watching them dance and flicker, casting long shadows across the room.

"That was not an easy thing to do," Maester Aemon said softly, sensing Jon’s inner turmoil. "But it was necessary. Leadership often requires us to make decisions others will not understand. You did well, Jon."

Jon gave a small nod, though the words did little to ease the tightness in his chest. "I can’t help but wonder... if I made the wrong choice."

"All choices have consequences," Aemon replied. "But the burden of leadership is not in knowing which path is right—it’s in being willing to walk it, despite the uncertainty. You have chosen the path of justice. That is not something to regret."

Jon turned to look at the old maester, whose clouded, sightless eyes seemed to see more than most men ever could. "What would you have done, Maester?" Jon asked quietly. "If you were in my place?"

Aemon smiled faintly, his wrinkles deepening around his mouth. "I was once faced with choices, not unlike yours, Jon. Choices that tore at my heart, that tested the very limits of my honor. In the end, I chose duty, as you have. And though the weight of those choices remains with me to this day... I do not regret them. For they were made in service to something greater than myself."

Jon nodded, absorbing the wisdom of Aemon’s words. "Thank you, Maester," he said quietly.

The old man gave a small nod, folding his frail hands in his lap. "You are welcome, Lord Commander. But remember this: the Wall is more than stone and ice. It is a symbol, and it is the men who stand upon it that give it its strength. The Watch must remain united, even in the face of conflict. Do not let division fester, or you will lose more than one brother."

Jon knew those words were meant as a warning. The Watch was fragile, and the tensions between the men—between himself and Thorne, between the wildlings, the brothers, the Southerners, and now Northerners—were cracks in the foundation that could spread if left unchecked

"I will keep that in mind", Jon said, though he knew it would be easier said than done.

Maester Aemon sat quietly for a long moment, his blind eyes gazing sightlessly at the fire. Clydas moved about the room, refilling the maester’s cup of hot wine and offering Jon a cup as well, which he accepted gratefully.

"Wise words, Maester," Jon said, after a long silence. "But I'm thinking of Stannis. What if he sees the need for support from Northern Houses more prevalent than the need for justice?"

Aemon smiled faintly. "Stannis is a hard man, but not an unjust one. He will listen, especially if you speak the truth. Janos Slynt was no stranger to cruelty. His death may trouble some, but there are few who will mourn him deeply. And if you show that you acted with the Night’s Watch in mind, Stannis will respect that."

Jon took a sip of the hot wine, feeling it warm him from within. "Thorne was right in his bleatings though. We’ve lost a brother to violence within our own walls. It makes me look weak."

"It makes you look human," Aemon corrected softly. "You are not a god, Jon Snow, nor are you infallible. But you are Lord Commander, and that carries weight. The men will follow you if you show them strength. Strength doesn’t always come from the sword. Sometimes it comes from wisdom."

Jon nodded, though doubt still gnawed at him. "I never wanted this command, Maester. I never wanted any of this."

"Few who are fit to rule ever do," Aemon said. "It’s the ones who seek power who should never have it."

Jon thought of Robb, of his brother’s crown and the heavy price it had demanded. "I often forget you were once in line for a crown yourself."

Aemon smiled again, though there was sadness in it. "I have seen enough of kings and crowns to know their weight. And I have known enough of men to know that you are not alone in your burdens, Jon. You have those who will stand with you, even when the path is dark."

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the door opened. It was Devan, Stannis’s young squire. He bowed quickly, his face red due to cold. "Lord Commander," he said, "the king will see you now."

Jon stood, the weight of his responsibilities pressing him down once more. He glanced at Maester Aemon, who gave him a reassuring nod.

"Go, Jon," the old man said. "Remember what we spoke of. Justice, not vengeance."

Jon nodded, straightened his cloak, and followed Devan out the door. The firelight flickered behind him, and the shadows loomed ahead.

********************************************************************************************

The wind was blowing more than usual as Jon Snow trudged through the narrow, snow-laden paths of Castle Black. Thorne followed closely behind him, his heavy boots crunching the icy ground, though his silence felt more oppressive than any snowstorm. A dark cloud hung over the courtyard since the brutal killing of Janos Slynt, and it was deserted. But clarity had proven as elusive as summer, especially now that Stannis Baratheon and his men had entrenched themselves at the Wall.

Stannis’s presence had shifted the fragile balance of power in Castle Black. Some of his knights held themselves apart from the men of the Watch, sometimes looking down on them with thinly veiled contempt, and it hadn’t taken long for tensions to flare. Thorne had always been a sharp-edged man, but around Stannis's army, his nature had earned him a certain reputation—one that made today's gathering even more delicate.

Jon approached the King’s Tower, where two Baratheon guards, King's men, stood watch. He recognized them by their black-and-gold cloaks and the stag sigil sewn on their breastplates. Their faces were pinched from the cold, but they straightened at Jon's approach. They had grown used to seeing him in Stannis’s company, as the king had made frequent use of Jon’s counsel, or at least his knowledge of the North.

Jon halted, unsheathing Longclaw and presenting it to the guard with the hilt first. The man nodded curtly, took the sword, and allowed him to pass. A second guard, younger than the first but just as stern, gave Jon a cursory pat down before waving him inside.

Behind him, Jon could hear Thorne approaching, his breath heavy in the cold. As Thorne reached the guards, the mood shifted. The older guard stepped in front of him, barring his way.

"Hold," he said sharply. "Weapons at the door."

Thorne scowled, but did as he was told. He removed his sword belt and handed over his dagger, but when the guards continued to scrutinize him—more thoroughly than they had Jon—his temper flared.

"Is this how knights are treated by the men of a king?" Thorne spat, his lip curling in disdain.

The younger guard stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he ran his hands over Thorne’s cloak and tunic, searching for hidden blades. The guard’s hands were rough, and his inspection was anything but dignified.

"Knights?" the younger guard mocked. "Didn’t realize the Watch still had any left."

Thorne’s face turned crimson, but he said nothing, seething under his breath. The humiliation was clear, and Jon could feel it radiating from him. But Thorne had earned this reputation among Stannis’s men—through words said too carelessly, and sneers offered too freely. Stannis’s soldiers were not of the forgiving sort.

When they were finally allowed to pass, the two men entered the tower’s main room, its walls draped in the banners of House Baratheon. The warmth inside was a relief from the biting cold outside, though it did little to thaw the icy atmosphere. Stannis sat at the head of the chamber, his back straight, his face grim as ever. He gave the room a commanding presence, as if his very will shaped the space around him. Richard Horpe, his ever-loyal second, stood beside him, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk searching for prey.

On the opposite side of the chamber sat Rurik, his wolfish features calm but sharp. The man who had killed Janos Slynt was no ordinary brigand; his movements, his gaze, everything about him spoke of dangerous intent. Beside him was Asher, who had proven himself to be just as capable—and just as deadly—as his companion.

"Lord Commander," Horpe said, motioning for Jon to take his seat. "Have a seat."

The chair he was offered was placed a good distance from Rurik, a subtle reminder of the danger that lingered in the room. Jon took the seat, his face impassive as he assessed the situation. Ser Alliser Thorne, however, was not given a chair at all. He remained standing, the slight obvious, though he knew better than to voice it.

Stannis wasted no time. His voice cut through the silence like the crack of a whip. "Rurik, tell us what happened."

Rurik’s gaze was steady as he spoke. "I asked Janos Slynt why he betrayed Eddard Stark, a man loved by all Northerners, commoner and noble alike. Betrayal is a sin, especially when committed by a man of power. I called him what he was—a traitor. Slynt didn’t like it. He drew his dagger on me. I had no weapon, Your Grace. I defended myself as any man would."

His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, though Jon could sense the underlying tension. This was no ordinary defense. There was calculation in Rurik’s words, a rehearsed cadence that suggested he had prepared this story well in advance. Jon studied him, but said nothing, choosing instead to let Stannis direct the conversation.

Thorne, however, could not hold his tongue. "Janos Slynt was no traitor," he snapped. "He was a nobleman, a lord! It’s not like him to attack an unarmed man without good cause. This man is lying!"

Rurik’s face remained impassive, though his lips curled into a small, humorless smile. "I might've called his mother a whore with the clap."

The vulgarity hung in the air like a stone dropped into still water. Thorne’s face twisted in fury, and Jon could feel the tension in the room spike. The insult was calculated, deliberate—a push designed to see how far Thorne could be provoked.

"How dare you—" Thorne began, but Stannis raised a hand, silencing him.

"The words of men mean little when blood is spilled," Stannis said coldly. "What matters is the truth. And the truth is this: Even if Rurik was unarmed, it was a violation of decency and honor to seek out a brother of the Night’s Watch for a fight. Janos Slynt had taken the vows, forsaking all allegiances. You provoked him, Rurik, under the roof of the Watch, no less."

Stannis's gaze hardened as he regarded Rurik. "I expect better from those who claim to be my envoys."

Rurik did not flinch under the king’s scrutiny. His voice was as steady as ever. "We came to meet with you, Your Grace. Not the Night’s Watch. The laws of the Guest Rights do not apply here. Even so, when I talked with Slynt I left out all of my weapons. To show precisely that bloodshed was not my intent. But still, I am the one who was attacked first."

Jon’s eyes flicked toward Rurik, his mind racing. Stannis had a point—this was no ordinary situation. But Rurik’s calm, almost indifferent demeanor was unsettling. The man was dangerous, and yet he acted as if the rules did not apply to him. The very fact that he had killed Janos Slynt in broad daylight suggested either arrogance or confidence—or both.

Thorne stepped forward, his voice rising again. "I don’t care what Rurik’s justification is. He’s a murderer. Plain and simple."

Rurik smiled then, but it was not a smile of joy or amusement. It was a predator’s smile, cold and sharp. "The laws of men support me, Ser Thorne. And I have many witnesses who will back my account of the events. But since you don’t agree..." Rurik’s voice lowered, the challenge clear in his tone. "Perhaps you should fight me yourself. A trial by combat will settle the matter once and for all."

The room fell into a heavy silence. The words lingered in the air like frost on a winter morning, and Jon’s gaze flickered toward Asher. The man was watching him intently, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way he looked from Jon to Thorne that made Jon’s stomach twist.

Asher’s eyes darted toward Thorne, subtle but purposeful. He was pointing to Thorne with his gaze, though Jon did not understand the meaning behind it. What was Forrester trying to say?

Thorne, meanwhile, had taken the bait. His face twisted with anger, his pride clearly pricked by Rurik’s challenge. "A trial by combat? Is that what you want, murderer? You think a sword will absolve you of your crime?"

Rurik’s smile remained fixed. "A sword is justice in the eyes of the new gods, Ser Thorne. If you believe I am guilty, then fight me. Or are you afraid to test your steel against mine?"

Jon’s mind raced. He could feel the tension in the room building like a storm about to break. Asher glanced at him again, then back at Thorne, his silent message becoming clearer. Thorne was being provoked—and Jon could use this to his advantage. Thorne had been a constant thorn in Jon’s side, always questioning his authority, always challenging his decisions. This trial by combat could rid him of that problem once and for all.

But the question lingered—was it right?

Jon swallowed, his throat dry. He was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and his authority had been tested more times than he could count. Thorne’s defiance had always undermined him, and here, in this moment, Jon saw a way to end that once and for all. But it was not an honorable solution. It was a political move, one that his father may never make. 

Jon opened his mouth, his voice steady despite the doubt gnawing at him. "The trial by combat is an excellent idea." He forced his voice to sound completely calm and as the voice of reason. "Ser Alliser Thorne, if you accept, the matter will be settled. If not, the accused will probably go free. This is the way of justice."

Thorne’s jaw tightened, and Jon could see the conflict written plainly across his face. He hated Rurik, despised him with every fiber of his being, but at the same time, he feared him. Jon had already seen Rurik’s capability for bloodshed, and he had no doubt the man was a formidable opponent. Thorne’s pride was great, but was it enough to risk his life?

Thorne hesitated. Jon could see it—the wariness in his eyes, the way his hand flexed, his fingers itching for a sword that wasn’t there. The idea of facing Rurik plainly unsettled him, and Jon couldn’t blame him for that. He had seen the man's skill firsthand, how effortlessly he had dispatched Janos Slynt. Rurik’s cold, calculating nature made him a killer, and Jon suspected there was more to this stranger than he let on. But the wheels had been set in motion. Thorne’s pride was his weakness, and Jon had pressed it at just the right moment.

Thorne’s voice, though tight, carried all the arrogance Jon had come to expect. “I will face him,” he said, his tone sharp, though there was a tremor beneath his words, faint but present.

Rurik’s smile deepened, though he said nothing. His victory, for the moment, was secured. Whether through the blade or another means, he had found a way to provoke a confrontation on his terms. It was a dangerous game, but Rurik clearly thrived on such risk.

Stannis leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. He had allowed this trial by combat, though Jon sensed the king found little honor in the decision. Stannis was a man of the law, rigid and uncompromising, and this spectacle felt beneath him.

“It is settled then,” Stannis said, his voice carrying the finality of a royal decree. “Ser Alliser Thorne and Rurik shall face each other in trial by combat. This is not the justice I would ordinarily dispense, but given the question of self-defense, it is fitting. The combat will take place today, as soon as both men are ready.”

Thorne stood rigid, his face a mask of barely controlled fury, but there was something else beneath his anger—fear. Jon saw it, even if the others did not. The man had accepted the challenge out of pride, but now, with the reality of the situation closing in around him, doubt crept into Thorne’s features.

Stannis turned his gaze to Jon, his piercing blue eyes cutting through the room like the chill of a winter’s wind. “Lord Commander, does the Night’s Watch accept this ruling?”

Jon inclined his head, though the weight of the decision pressed heavily on him. “The Watch accepts your judgment, Your Grace.” His voice was even, betraying none of the turmoil swirling inside him. He knew what he had just done. By suggesting the trial, Jon had used his position to rid himself of an enemy, but at what cost?

Was this what his father would have done?

Eddard Stark had always spoken of honor, of duty, of doing what was right no matter the cost. Jon had tried to live by those principles, but here, in the cold shadows of Castle Black, honor and duty often clashed. He had made a choice—a calculated, political move to protect his command. But was it the right one? Could he justify it in the eyes of the gods of his father?

“Very well,” Stannis said, his tone dismissive. “Go and prepare yourselves. The matter will be settled before the day is out.”

With that, Jon rose from his chair. The air felt thick with tension, a heaviness that hung over the room like the gathering of a storm. He could feel Rurik’s eyes on him, sharp and predatory, though Jon refused to meet his gaze. Thorne, too, was watching him, his face pale and tight-lipped.

As Jon turned to leave, his mind spun with doubt. He had played his part, moved the pieces on the board, but now he had to live with the consequences. The weight of his decision pressed down on him with every step he took.

Thorne stepped forward, ready to follow Jon out, but Stannis’s voice cut through the room once more, stopping him in his tracks. “Ser Alliser,” the king said, his tone commanding, “you will remain.”

Thorne looked back, his face taut with frustration, but he bowed stiffly and stepped aside. Jon didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold, the biting wind greeting him like an old foe. The sound of the door closing behind him echoed in the empty courtyard, and for a moment, Jon was alone with his thoughts.

The cold felt different now—less of a physical sensation, more of a weight pressing down on his shoulders. He had made a decision, one that could change the course of his command, but was it the right one? He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just played into someone else’s hands.

The trial by combat would happen. Thorne and Rurik would face each other, swords drawn, and only one would leave the battlefield alive. If Rurik won, Jon would be rid of a rival in Thorne, but at what cost? Rurik was not a member of the Night’s Watch. The man was ruthless, calculating, and Jon had little doubt he had come to the Wall with his own agenda.

And if Thorne won? Jon wasn’t sure that would be any better. Thorne was a thorn in his side, but he was still a brother of the Watch. He had his flaws—too many to count—but Jon knew Thorne’s ambition well enough to fear what might happen if he emerged victorious. He would not forget this slight, and the enmity between them would only grow deeper, festering like an open wound.

Jon exhaled, his breath fogging in the cold air. He was playing a dangerous game, and he knew it. But what other choice did he have? The Night’s Watch was hanging by a thread, caught between the wildlings, the dead, and now the forces of Stannis Baratheon. Every decision he made felt like another move on a chessboard where the rules kept changing.

Would his father have made the same choice? Jon didn’t know. Eddard Stark had been a man of unyielding honor, but in the end, that had led to his downfall. Jon had seen firsthand what honor could cost a man in this world—sometimes, it wasn’t enough. Sometimes, a man had to make choices that went against the grain of everything he believed in. But still, the question gnawed at him.

Honor or duty?

Jon pulled his cloak tighter around him, the weight of his position pressing down heavier than the snow itself. He had tried to follow the example his father had set, to lead the Watch with integrity and fairness. But Castle Black was not Winterfell, and here, the lines between right and wrong blurred with every passing day. Would his father have made the same decision? Would Ned Stark have manipulated the situation to rid himself of a rival?

Jon wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

***********************************************************************

Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the small patch of dirt that served as the makeshift arena, where two lives would hang on the edge of steel and bone. The yard was filled with the black brothers of the Night’s Watch, Stannis’s soldiers, and Rurik’s men—three forces brought together by the grim necessity of survival. This was not just a trial by combat; it was a reckoning caused by political moves and counter-moves. The stakes felt higher than they had in years, the consequences more palpable.

From atop the platform, Jon Snow watched, standing beside Stannis Baratheon. The king sat stiffly in his plain wooden chair, his face a mask of stone, unyielding and unmerciful, as if carved from the very ice of the Wall itself. Beneath them, the tension was thick enough to choke on, every man present knew what this fight represented: a test not only of skill but of authority. For Jon, it was the culmination of weeks of pressure, doubt, and fear. Ser Alliser Thorne, the embodiment of everything Jon loathed about the Watch’s old order, would face Rurik—a man who had appeared out of the vast Northern wilderness like some ancient force of violence, cold and deadly as the winters beyond the Wall.

Thorne entered the circle first, encased in gleaming plate from head to toe, a suit of armor that made him look like a steel fortress. His longsword hung at his side, and in his left hand, he carried a large iron-banded shield. The weight of the metal clanked with every step, an audible reminder of his protection, but also his burden. Thorne moved with the stiffness of a man accustomed to fighting in lighter armor and lightly armed opponents, his every motion laborious. The plate made him seem larger than life, but it also made him slower.

The crowd watched him in silence, but Jon could feel their mixed emotions. Some of the brothers respected Thorne for his years of service, his brutal dedication to the old ways. Others, especially the newer recruits, despised him for his arrogance, his cruelty. And then there were the men like Jon himself—those who saw Thorne as a relic, a threat to the fragile unity Jon was trying to maintain. Yet today, Thorne was the Watch’s representative, its enforcer, and whatever enmity Jon bore him, he knew that in this moment, the man deserved respect.

Then came Rurik.

The muttering began the moment he stepped into view, and Jon understood why. Where Thorne’s armor gleamed in the pale light, Rurik was dressed in simple mail. His hauberk hung loose past his waist, iron greaves protected his legs, and his head was covered by a spectacle helmet that left his cold eyes visible through the narrow slits. But it wasn’t his armor that surprised the crowd—it was his weapon.

Rurik carried no shield, no longsword. Instead, his hands gripped a heavy falx—a wickedly curved blade, the likes of which few in Westeros had ever seen. It was a weapon of older times, designed to split shields, shatter bones, and slice through armor with terrifying ease. The blade glinted with malice as Rurik approached the center of the circle, his movements light and predatory.

Jon noticed the looks passing between the men of the Watch, between Stannis’s soldiers, even among Rurik’s own. Most of them had expected a brutal brawl, but this… this was something else entirely. The falx was a weapon of slaughter, not duel, and Rurik carried it with the confidence of a man who had used it to end many lives. Jon’s mind flashed with doubt. He had allowed this, arranged this spectacle, but now, watching Rurik’s calm, almost detached expression, he wondered if he had unleashed something far worse than Thorne’s old cruelty.

As the two combatants faced each other in the circle, Jon stepped forward. His voice carried over the murmuring crowd.

“The rules are simple. The fight continues without breaks, until one man is defeated—be it by death or yielding.” His eyes swept over Thorne, then Rurik. “Do you both understand?”

Thorne gave a stiff nod, his jaw set behind the visor of his helm. He was all tension, all controlled fury. His pride, Jon knew, would not allow him to back down. He would fight to the last breath, and if need be, die with his honor intact. But Thorne was not a fool, either. Jon could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes. He knew, as everyone knew, that Rurik was faster, younger, and carried a weapon designed to cut through mail armor, dangerous also for plate if it found the gaps in the links.

Rurik, on the other hand, smiled beneath his helmet. It was a small, almost imperceptible smile, but Jon saw it. The man’s eyes gleamed with savagery, and Jon felt a knot tighten in his gut. This wasn’t just a fight for Rurik—it was a game in which he thought he was winning and Jon could see that he was already enjoying it.

“Are you ready?” Jon asked, stepping back.

Thorne raised his sword, bracing behind his shield. His face was hidden, but his stance was clear: he would not make the first move. Not against a weapon like that. He would wait, let Rurik come to him, and rely on his armor and shield to protect him.

Rurik nodded slowly, his smile widening. “I’m ready.”

The words had barely left his lips before he moved.

Rurik was on Thorne in an instant, his falx swinging through the air with terrifying speed. The crowd gasped as the curved blade struck Thorne’s shield with a deafening crack. Thorne staggered back under the impact, the force of the blow reverberating through his armor. But he held, his shield absorbing the brunt of the attack.

Jon’s breath caught. The fight had barely begun, and already Rurik was pressing Thorne with a savagery that bordered on animalistic. He moved like a predator, fast and relentless, his falx a blur as it hacked at Thorne’s shield and armor. Thorne, for all his training, for all his discipline, could do little more than defend himself, retreating step by step as Rurik advanced.

The crowd murmured, some men shouting encouragement for Thorne, others placing quiet bets on how long the knight could last. But Jon wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on the two men, his mind racing.

Rurik’s strikes were brutal but precise. He wasn’t swinging wildly; every blow was calculated, aimed at the weakest points in Thorne’s defense. The falx curved around Thorne’s shield, testing the gaps in his armor, seeking flesh. Thorne’s plate protected him for now, but Jon knew it wouldn’t last. The falx was a weapon designed to cut through. All Rurik needed was a first good hit to make Thorne bleed.

Thorne, to his credit, fought back. He swung his longsword in wide arcs, forcing Rurik to retreat for a moment. But it was only a moment. Rurik was faster, his falx parrying Thorne’s sword with ease, the curved blade sliding past the steel with terrifying efficiency. The crowd gasped as Rurik’s falx connected with Thorne’s shield again, this time with enough force to splinter the wood.

The shield cracked, the iron bands bending under the force of the blow. Thorne cursed, throwing the ruined shield aside and gripping his sword with both hands. He swung again, but Rurik was already moving, his falx flashing out to parry the blow before driving forward in a brutal clothesline that sent Thorne crashing to the ground.

The crowd erupted in gasps and shouts. Jon watched in stunned silence as Rurik stood over Thorne, his falx raised high. For a moment, it seemed as if Rurik would strike the killing blow, and end the fight with a single, brutal swing. But instead, he drew a dagger from his belt, crouching down over Thorne’s prone form.

The dagger pressed against Thorne’s faceplate, right over the slit where the knight’s terrified eyes stared out. Rurik’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried over the stunned silence of the crowd.

“Yield Or I’ll put this blade through your skull.”

For a long moment, Thorne said nothing. His chest heaved beneath the dented plate, his breath ragged. Jon could see the fear in his eyes, the understanding that he had lost, that Rurik could end him in a heartbeat. The pride that had carried him this far warred with the terror of death, but in the end, survival won out.

“I yield,” Thorne whispered, his voice barely audible.

The crowd erupted in noise, a mixture of relief, excitement, and shock. Rurik stood slowly, sheathing his dagger as he looked down at the defeated knight. There was no gloating, no taunting. He simply turned and walked away to his men, his falx resting on his shoulder, as if the fight had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Stannis rose from his seat, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Rurik is the victor. The matter of Janos Slynt is settled. There will be no more talk of it.”

The king’s words were final, and the crowd knew it. Men murmured among themselves, some nodding in approval, others whispering in disbelief. But there was no denying the outcome. Rurik had won, and with that victory came a strange sort of respect. The Night’s Watch, for all their misgivings about him, could not deny his strength. And by sparing Thorne’s life, Rurik had earned something far more valuable than fear—he had earned their goodwill.

Jon watched as men congratulated Rurik, clapping him on the back, murmuring words of praise. Even those who had doubted him before seemed to look at him with new eyes. It was clever, Jon thought. Rurik had not only won the fight, but he had won the Watch’s favor, something that could prove far more useful in the days to come.

Thorne, on the other hand, retreated to his chambers, his presence diminished. The man who had once commanded the room with his arrogance and cruelty was now little more than a shadow, his defeat plain for all to see. Jon knew that Thorne’s influence in the Watch had been broken. Whatever power he had once wielded was gone, shattered like his shield.

Jon’s own position as Lord Commander felt more secure than it had in weeks. Rurik’s victory had removed a thorn from his side—both literally and figuratively. But as Jon watched Rurik leave the yard, called to Stannis’s side once more, a knot of unease twisted in his gut. Rurik was clever, yes. Dangerous, undoubtedly. But there was something else about him, something Jon couldn’t quite place. Rurik helped him out in a well-planned way and made Jon indebted to him purposefully.  No doubt he would try to collect his debt soon.

Chapter Text

Stannis Baratheon

The winds howled against the thick stone walls of the King’s Tower as King Stannis Baratheon stood near the hearth, staring into the flames that danced and crackled. Despite the fire’s heat, no warmth reached him. The cold of the Wall seemed to sink into his bones, the bitter bite of the North’s relentless winter a constant reminder that he was far from his home. Far from where a king should sit, in his rightful seat of power. But Stannis had long learned to live with discomfort. He had grown used to the harshness of his surroundings, just as he had learned to accept the coldness of men’s hearts. He was not a king who ruled through love or affection. His kingdom, such as it was, was one built on duty.

And duty had brought him here. Duty kept him standing in this frozen wasteland, surrounded by men of the Night’s Watch and wildlings who barely knew his name, let alone respected his claim. His jaw tightened, the firelight casting harsh shadows across his furrowed brow. A king by right, he reminded himself, clenching his fists behind his back. Not by love. Not by choice. Not by wants or needs. And again, Never by love.

The door creaked open behind him, and the sound of boots echoed against the stone floor, a rhythm of heavy footsteps that snapped him from his thoughts. He turned slowly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he watched Rurik, a vassal of House Hornwood and Asher Forrester enter the chamber. Rurik was a typical Northman in everything—rough, blunt, with eyes that held no fear and little regard for titles. Asher Forrester, on the other hand, carried himself with a measured grace, a man forged by his travels of Essos as much as Westeros. These two men had apparently been fighting the Boltons and their allies for quite a while, but he knew better than to place his trust easily. 

Rurik stopped a few paces from the hearth, his broad frame still, but his gaze steady, unblinking. Asher lingered a little behind, his hand resting idly on near his waist where his sword would be, more out of habit than any real threat. It seemed despite Rurik being the less noble at the birth of the two, he was the leader. Behind them, Richard Horpe, his second-in-command, stood with his arms folded, his pockmarked face etched with a mixture of skepticism and suspicion.  

"You summoned us, Your Grace," Rurik said, his voice as rough as the snow-crusted stones outside, low and gravelly, like the rumble of an avalanche before it struck.

Stannis inclined his head ever so slightly, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I did," he said, each word deliberate. "You have come to Castle Black seeking my aid. That is not a matter I take lightly. It is only fitting that before we speak further of any help or alliance, you swear your loyalty to your rightful king." He emphasized the word ‘rightful,’ his gaze never leaving Rurik’s face.

The northerner’s lips twitched, a faint, almost mocking smile curving at the edges of his mouth, though it never reached his eyes. "An honorable man swears loyalty, yes," Rurik said slowly, his tone neutral. "Even so, my king was Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. I already swore my sword to him."

Stannis’s eyes flared with sudden fury, the mention of the dead boy king striking a nerve. His fists tightened at his sides, his knuckles turning white beneath the fur-lined sleeves of his cloak. Robb Stark. The Young Wolf, a boy who had claimed the North and led a rebellion, only to die like a fool at the Red Wedding. Betrayed by men who should have been his allies. Stannis respected duty, but he had no patience for foolishness. And Robb Stark’s rebellion had been little more than a child’s folly, undone by his own arrogance and misplaced trust.

"Robb Stark is dead," Stannis snapped, his voice sharp as ice. "And with him, his claim. He was no king. Not in law, not in right." He stepped closer, his gaze hard, unyielding. "I am the rightful king of Westeros, by the law of the land, by the strength of my claim. And the duty of any man—any honorable man—is to swear fealty to his rightful king."

Rurik met his gaze without flinching, his smirk fading into a more neutral expression. "Our "rightful King" Robb Stark may be dead, but we have a saying, Your Grace: The North Remembers," he said calmly. "We remember who fought for us, who led us. A man doesn't forget that easily." He paused, his eyes flicking to Asher briefly before settling back on Stannis. "But we’re not here to speak of the dead. We’re here because we need your help badly. And in return, we’re prepared to offer you something far more valuable than words."

Stannis felt a flicker of impatience rise in him. He had no time for games, no time for men who sought to play him like a pawn in their schemes. He was a king, not a beggar.

"What is it you want?" he asked, his voice clipped, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. "Speak plainly. I have little patience for men who dance around their needs."

Asher Forrester, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, his movements measured. "We need men, Your Grace,". "The ironborn holds Deepwood Motte, and, our overlord, House Glover remains their prisoner. Without some much-needed help, we can't free them. But with your support, that would be possible. We can rally the whole of the Wolfswood and the Stony Shore to your cause. We can raise a thousand men from that region if there's a respectable leader men would follow." 

Stannis’s eyebrow arched slightly, though his face remained impassive. "Why should I divert my strength to help you take Deepwood Motte?" he questioned sharply. "My enemies are south, in Dreadfort, and north, beyond the Wall. I am almost between the hammer and the anvil here. Every man I send to fight the ironborn weakens my position. By the time, I manage to rally your one thousand men, the wildings may very well overrun the Wall." 

Rurik crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Because without Deepwood Motte, House Glover can’t pledge loyalty to you. And without House Glover, you lose the loyalty of the Wolfswood. That’s a big part of the North, Your Grace. Many others may soon follow if you succeed."

"Many others," Stannis repeated, his tone incredulous. What many others? He paced slowly in front of the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes narrowing as he weighed the situation. He saved the North once already and all they have given is silence and defiance in return. "I came to the North for loyalty, to save it. I destroyed the great wildling host for your people and all I have seen are excuses. Delays. House Mormont refuses me. House Glover remains captive. Hornwoods are all dead except for a bastard. The Boltons control most of the land, unchallenged." His voice grew harder with each word, his frustration clear.

He reached for a letter on the table near the hearth and thrust it toward Rurik. "This was one of your people's responses," he said bitterly. "Read it. Lady Lyanna Mormont, speaking for her house."

Rurik took the letter, his eyes scanning the words. His lips quirked into a small grin as he read the defiant words of the young Mormont girl. "If every man in the North had the loyalty of Lady Lyanna Mormont," he said with a snort, "things would be very different."

Asher stepped forward again, drawing a second letter from his cloak. "Perhaps this will change your mind, Your Grace," he said, offering it to Stannis. "From Alysane Mormont, Lady Lyanna’s elder sister. Her loyalty is with you now, if you aid us."

Stannis took the letter, breaking the seal and reading its contents in silence. Alysane Mormont's words were clear: her house would stand with Stannis Baratheon I, provided he continued to show resolve against the Boltons and the ironborn.

"The Mormonts have always been loyal to House Stark," Stannis muttered as he folded the letter, though his tone was less skeptical now. "But they refused me once before. Why should I believe this changes anything?"

Rurik met his gaze steadily. "When Lyana Mormont wrote that letter, Your Grace, her older sister, Alysane was fighting with us in Ironrath against the Boltons. Her words were bold and true but she remains a child nonetheless.  Lady Alysane, however, knows now that you destroyed the great wildling host, thus saving us from an invasion. We are all grateful for it. If Your Grace can give us another much-needed aid, all of us including the Mormonts are ready to swear fealty to you." 

Stannis frowned, suspicion flickering in his eyes. "You ask for much, for men especially which I don't have plenty," he said slowly. "Men for your war, my support, and the royal proclamation of Larence Snow as Larence Hornwood. In exchange, you offer me the loyalty of House Glover, House Hornwood, and House Mormont." He paused, turning over the offer in his mind. "And yet, I wonder. Is that loyalty enough? You hate Boltons that much is clear. But what about afterwards?" These Northerners may not betray him with a direct sword in his back but just as easily they could give him the cold shoulders after using his help. 

Before either man could respond, Horpe stepped forward. "Wherever their loyalties might reside, I say it is still not a good course of action, Your Grace. If we divide our forces, it will weaken us a great deal. We must focus on our goal with what secure number of men we have." 

He did not respond immediately. He knew Horpe spoke the truth. He had learned the hard way not to trust promises alone. He needed certainty. Pacing slowly in front of the hearth, his fur-lined cloak trailed the cold stone floor, casting a long shadow in the flickering firelight. The offer from Rurik and Asher was bold, and while it had potential, it was far from enough to sway him. 

"I am not unsympathetic to the cause of House Forrester and Hornwood," he said finally, a king speaking more from duty than compassion. "Your houses have suffered, no doubt. But my strength is needed elsewhere. The realm stands on the edge of chaos, and I must attend to more pressing matters." He turned his head, his piercing blue eyes meeting Rurik's with a sharp, calculating gaze. "My enemies are not just in the North. They are everywhere. Even beyond the wildling lines. You would better keep resisting the Boltons like you have been doing. I'll deal with them in my own way in time."  

Rurik stiffened, though his eyes remained steady. Asher shifted beside him, his expression tense, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. Rurik, however, did not quiet down. Instead, his voice dropped lower, almost a whishper, as if he were hesitant to speak the next words.

"So, the rumors… about the White Walkers. They're true, then?" Rurik asked hesitantly, though he tried to keep it steady. There was no humor in his words now, no bravado—only a quiet, almost reluctant curiosity. He glanced at Asher, who said nothing but had gone noticeably pale at the mention of the Walkers.

Stannis’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. He gave a curt nod, the fire casting long shadows across his stern features. "It is all true. If you have doubts, ask the Lord Commander and the brothers of the Watch. They’ve seen it with their own eyes. The dead are rising, and they are marching south."

Rurik and Asher exchanged glances, but neither spoke. Their faces, however, told the story. Both men’s expressions shifted from curiosity to unease and then to something closer to fear. Rurik, despite his tough exterior, seemed to pale slightly at the confirmation. Asher's hand instinctively went looking for the hilt of his sword, though what comfort cold steel could offer against the dead was anyone’s guess.

Stannis watched them closely, his eyes narrowing. He had seen that look before—the look of men trying to mask their fear with stoic expressions. But no one could hide the terror that came with facing the unknown, the Others. "I have the support of some Northern houses," Stannis continued after a tense silence, "and that is enough for now." 

Rurik, still visibly unsettled, cleared his throat and spoke again, his voice betraying just a hint of hesitation. "May we know what houses those are, Your Grace?" he asked, trying to regain his composure.

Stannis's gaze flicked toward him, sharp and suspicious. "House Karstark". He turned back toward the fire, as though dismissing the question as a minor concern. But the flicker of unease that crossed Rurik’s face did not go unnoticed.

Rurik and Asher exchanged another glance, and this time Stannis caught it—the subtle flicker of something between them, a shared thought, a suspicion perhaps. His expression hardened.

"What is it?" he demanded.

Rurik hesitated, glancing at Asher once more before stepping forward. "We… captured a man from House Bolton during an attack on Ironrath," he began carefully, watching Stannis’s reaction. "After Boltons and Whitehills attacked, this man swore to us that Arnolf Karstark and Whoresbane Umber had already sworn loyalty to House Bolton."

For a moment, the room seemed to grow even colder, as if the flames themselves had dimmed in response to the words. Stannis’s eyes flashed with fury, his fists tightening at his sides. The betrayal cut deep. Arnolf Karstark, swearing loyalty to the Boltons? Stannis’s face twisted in barely controlled anger, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might lash out at his guests in his fury. His thoughts churned, suspicion flaring in his mind like wildfire. If this were true, then his position was more precarious than he had realized. 

"Are you certain of this? Do not dare lie," he asked, his voice dangerously low, the fire crackling behind him as if feeding off his growing fury. His hands twitched, as though longing to draw Lightbringer and deliver justice right there and then.

"As certain as we can be," Rurik replied. He could see the anger in Stannis’s eyes, and he knew the king would not take this lightly. "The man had no reason to lie, not with his life hanging in the balance. He spoke of a meeting between Arnolf Karstark, Whoresbane, and the Boltons. If you want more proof, your grace, just look at who is speaking for House Karstark. By right, the Lady of the House is Alys Karstark. I know this for certain because Lady Alys was supposed to marry Daryn Hornwood, my liege lord's heir. With all of his brothers except Harrion dead, this Arnolf is surely trying to usurp Lady Alys's seat." 

Stannis’s mind raced. If Arnolf Karstark had truly betrayed him, then his entire strategy for the upcoming campaign could have been compromised. He had counted on the loyalty of the Karstarks, their men, and their resources. Now, that trust was crumbling before his eyes. He turned away from the men, his jaw clenched as he wrestled with the implications. He would never make common cause with a traitor, much less a usurper, the same creatures that plagued him and the realm. 

Rurik took the opportunity to speak again, though his tone was more cautious this time. "There's something I must add. When we came to Castle Black, we hoped for Jon Snow to swear fealty to you, Your Grace," Rurik ventured. "It surprised us when we heard he hadn’t. After all, he is well-respected for his defense of the Wall. He carries Eddard Stark’s blood. If anyone could rally the North to your cause, it would be him."

Stannis’s face tightened with annoyance at the mention of Jon Snow, his jaw working as though he were grinding his teeth. "I offered Jon Snow Winterfell. Offered him legitimacy, offered him everything he would need to take the Stark name and rule the North. And that hardhead refused." The irritation in his voice was clear. "He chose his vows to the Night's Watch over his birthright."

Rurik paused for a moment, weighing his words carefully. "What if I can bring him to swear fealty?" Rurik asked, his voice gaining a touch of confidence. "What if Jon Snow bends the knee to you, in exchange for your aid against the ironborn? With Jon Snow at your side, the Northerners would rally to you in droves. They loved Eddard Stark—Jon Snow is his last son, for all intents and purposes."

Stannis stared at Rurik for a long moment, his eyes narrowed in deep thought. The very idea that Jon Snow would change his mind seemed far-fetched. He had already tried and failed to sway the boy. "That is not likely to happen. I have tried, and Jon Snow is stubborn. He is a man of duty, and his duty is to the Watch." His voice grew colder as he spoke, but he added, almost a challenge, "But you are welcome to try."

Rurik did not miss the underlying tone in his words—a mix of challenge and dismissal. But the man was undeterred. "I want the word of the king. If I can bring Jon Snow to swear fealty to you, then you will help us against the ironborn. That is the bargain I propose."

Stannis stared hard at Rurik, his gaze intense, weighing the offer, searching the man’s face for any sign of weakness or deceit. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant howling of the wind outside.

Finally, he gave a curt nod, his expression still stern, but he had gained some measure of respect for the man in front of him. Rurik was not even a direct member of House Hornwood but here he was, fighting tooth and nail on his liege lord's name. That is something he could respect. "You have my word," he said at last. "If you bring Jon Snow to swear fealty, I will aid you against the ironborn."

Rurik smiled faintly, the firelight glinting in his eyes. "Then we have an accord, Your Grace."

As they turned to leave, Stannis remained by the hearth, watching them go. His thoughts were heavy, his mind racing. The North was a land of secrets and betrayals, of cold hearts and colder steel. He could not afford to trust easily. But for now, he had given his word. And Stannis Baratheon, for all his faults, was a man who did not break his word.

Rurik

Stannis Baratheon was as frigid as the winds that tore through Castle Black, though he was fiercer than any winter storm. His eyes had burned, not with warmth, but with the kind of fire that sears all softness away. Even as I returned to the room we had been given, I couldn’t shake the look he had given me when he made his demands. Like he was trying to look through me, to see what was inside my mind. 

Jon Snow must bend the knee.

I stood by the fire now, letting its flames attempt to thaw the ice that seemed to grip my bones. It wouldn’t work, of course. No fire could probably ever warm me after the words Stannis had spoken. The fate of the North rested on Jon Snow, and on us. Against The Boltons, The Freys, The Others. My fingers curled into fists at my side, nails digging into the rough leather of my gloves. If we failed, it wouldn’t just be the North that suffered. The Walkers would see to that. I stared into the flames, trying to see some glimmer of a future where we might still win.

Asher was already in the room, sharpening his sword with the steady, measured scrape of steel on stone. His eyes flicked up to me as I entered, but he said nothing at first. That had become typical of him—he was happy to wait, to let the moment stretch until it snapped. The death of his brother and that issue with Gwyn Whitehill had hardened him, burning away most of his brash youthful nature. He was waiting for me to speak, to share whatever ideas I could produce from that frozen courtyard.

Triston and Sebastian, my cousins, sat nearby. Sebastian was leaning forward, his hawk-like face reflecting the fire’s glow as he watched me with a sharp gaze, his mind already trying to piece together whatever strategy I had returned with. Triston, the youngest of us, was more relaxed in his chair, but there was a tenseness in the set of his jaw. He wouldn’t admit it, but the boy was frightened. We all were, in our own ways. The White Walkers, the Boltons, the fate of the North—it was too much for one man’s shoulders, but somehow, we had to bear it.

I took my time before speaking, letting my eyes sweep across them. Asher’s sharpening stopped for just a second. I didn’t miss it. He was waiting for me to tell them how dire the situation was. But I knew I had to start with a lie of sorts, a tempered truth.

"Stannis will help us," I began, pacing toward the table, my voice flat and without emotion. I’d learned long ago not to let them hear fear or uncertainty in my tone. If my men sensed it in me, it would spread through them like a sickness. "But only if we bring Jon Snow to his cause. No oath from Snow, no soldiers from Stannis."

"We have a head start on that," I added. "The man we captured during the battle. I have not told Stannis about bringing him here and Arya Stark yet. When we reveal this information to Jon, that just might convince him to wear a new cloak." 

Asher’s face darkened. "If Jon Snow knows that his sister is to be given to a monster like Ramsay, I bet it’ll be enough to drive him mad."

"Mad enough to act maybe," I agreed. "But it’s not enough to rely on anger. Snow has been proven to be a man of duty. He may not break his vows for revenge alone."

The room grew quiet, the tension thick. They all understood what I meant. The Night’s Watch was more than just a brotherhood. It was a chain, binding men to their duty until death. Jon Snow was bound by that chain, and honor besides. He had already given up the promise of Winterfell and the title of Warden of the North. Would he not be moved by the plight of his sister? The brutality of Ramsay was well known throughout the country. No brother would surely be able to sit quietly, knowing his sister would be at the mercy of such a monster. Half-sister. I reminded myself. 

"So what’s the plan?" Asher asked, cutting through the silence. He was staring at me, the edge of his sword catching the firelight, gleaming like the cold steel of his eyes. 

I took a deep breath, letting my gaze sweep over the faces of my companions. Information was what we needed desperately. We were strangers at the end of the world, without any firsthand knowledge about the people here. Everything we knew came from Young Brandon Norrey and even he knew less than half the picture. 

"We need to play this carefully. We need to know what motivates Jon Snow—what might push him to act against his vows. And we need his friends in the Watch to help us figure that out."

Sebastian shifted in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "And how do we convince the brothers to talk? We held knives to some of their throats when you killed Slynt, remember? After his death would many really be eager to lose their tongues in front of us?" 

I allowed myself a small smile. "Everyone has something they want. And everyone has a weakness. You’ll meet with Jon Snow’s friends—talk to them, drink with them, gamble, find out what makes Snow tick. If words don’t work, there’s always that raspberry wine we brought from the Norreys."

Asher grunted, leaning back in his chair. "Good wine always loosens a man’s tongue, that's true enough. Especially when it’s the only good thing he’s tasted in months."

Triston looked uncertain, his brow furrowed. "And if they don’t talk?"

"They will," I said firmly. "Everyone talks eventually. You just have to know what buttons to press."

"And what about you?" Asher asked, his gaze still fixed on me, his sword forgotten for the moment. "What will you be doing while we cozy up to Snow’s friends?"

I turned back toward the fire, hoping to let the warmth seep into my bones. The wildlings, their King and the princess  Stannis had captured was another thing of concern. The word around the castle was the wildling princess was quite a beauty and Stannis was hoping for some kind of alliance by using her hand. If I had to guess, I would say to match Snow's hands. But he probably refused her as well. What exactly did Stannis ask Jon Snow to do in exchange for all that he offered? Mance Rayder, the wildling King was another intriguing character. And so were his people. If an alliance was to be forged, these savages could provide us with some much-needed manpower, the first line of defense on the Wall. But could they be trusted? There was a lot to think about. 

"I need to know more about Stannis, this Mance Rayder person, and Jon Snow. There's a lot more going on than seems to be seen on the surface. I will try to find out what Stannis's plan really is about the upcoming war. What Snow's plan is about the war. And how all these are connected. When we know what is going on for certain by putting our noses in nooks and crannies, we may have a chance to make things go our way." 

Asher let out a low whistle. "You’re banking on a lot of maybes, my friend."

I shrugged. "It’s all we have. But sometimes ‘maybe’ is all we need."

The room fell into a tense silence once again. Triston and Sebastian exchanged a glance before standing, clearly understanding their orders. They knew better than to raise unnecessary questions when a plan was in motion, especially now that the stakes were so high.

But Asher lingered. He seemed to have other things in his mind, and as Triston and Sebastian left the room, he remained seated, staring at the fire with a glint of something between curiosity and wariness.

Finally, he reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled letter, sliding it across the table toward me. "News arrived from home by way of Norrey's keep. There’s something else you need to see."

I unfolded the letter, scanning the familiar handwriting. It was from Rodrik Forrester. He was asking our opinions on his future course of action. Gwyn Whitehill had come to Ironrath, it seemed. She wanted to offer gold in exchange for her father’s and brother’s release. A peace offering of sorts, as far as the Whitehills were capable of peace. My lips tightened into a thin line. There was more here, though, Rodrik wasn’t sure if Gwyn was really interested in peace or she was spying around for Boltons, and he wanted our advice.

"What is this portion here about your sister, Mira? She's in King's Landing, right?"  

Asher’s face darkened another shade greyer. "We have received no words yet. She is a handmaiden of Queen Margaery Tyrell. Maybe that ought to keep her safe. But by now, Lannisters probably know that we are in open rebellion. It’s been too long. I don’t like it."

I nodded, folding the letter back up and setting it on the table. It would be hard to get Mira back to the North if It's the Lannisters are holding her prisoner. It would require quite some proposal with heavy impacts to do so. A trade offer perhaps? No. That's too predictable. Maybe a marriage prospect for peace would do the trick. 

"Write back to Rodrick. Tell him to accept the proposal." 

Asher raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?"

"On one condition," I raised a finger. "Gwyn must agree to marry you."

His eyes widened in shock, his voice rising with disbelief. "Marry her? After everything the Whitehills have done? Rodrick would jump off a tower before he agrees to it. He never liked my relationship with Gwyn before. And Now it would be like asking a snake and rabbit to make peace." 

"And," I continued, ignoring his protest, "Mira should be allowed to marry Gryff Whitehill. Two marriages, two alliances. That should secure peace, at least for a time."

Asher slammed his hands on the table. "You have finally lost it. Rodrik would never agree to this as well. Do you think he’s forgotten what Ramsay did to Ethan? Whitehills had an active hand in that. That’s a slap in the face to our brother’s memory."

I sighed in disappointment. Asher failed to see the real meaning behind my words. "It’s not a real alliance, you moron. It’s a ploy."

"A ploy?!"

"I have no interest in making true alliances with traitors. This is a temporary solution. For a marriage to take place, Mira needs to be back in the North. Meanwhile, we hold Ludd and Gryff prisoners and Lannisters will think we are ready to accept King's peace as it is a good deal. Once Mira is back in the North, we’ll rescue her—by force if necessary. But until then, the Whitehills will think they’ve won, and they’ll be pacified. It may take months for Mira to return. By that time, the war in the North could be over, and we’ll have all the leverage we need."

Asher stared at me for a long moment, his hands still resting on the table. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, and he chuckled, raising a toast for me.  "Sometimes I wonder if you’re not half a fox in human skin, Rurik. Always scheming, always thinking several steps ahead."

I allowed myself a true smile despite all the problems rising one after another. "Trust me, I learned it the hard way in the Red Wedding. When dealing with snakes, you bite them in the back as soon as the chance arises before they get to do it." 

I raised my goblet for a toast as well. "Here's to backstabbing our foes and having revenge." 

Jon

Jon Snow sat in his chair, elbows resting on the arms, his gaze fixed on the flames. The warmth they gave was meager, but it wasn’t warmth he sought. He stared into the fire as if it could offer him some sort of clarity, some answer to the countless burdens that weighed upon his shoulders.

Two days had passed since the murder of Janos Slynt and the duel of Alliser Thorne and Rurik. Two days of relative calm at Castle Black, a rare and fragile thing. The usual murmurs of discontent had quieted. The brothers who had once grumbled against Jon’s decisions, who had sided with Slynt and Thorne, now kept their tongues behind their teeth. Slynt was dead, his blood stained the snow, his body buried in the cold earth. As for Thorne, Rurik had seen to it that his spirit was broken along with his pride. His duel in the training yard had ended in humiliation, and though he still walked, his influence had withered like autumn leaves beneath the frost.

The quiet that followed their downfall had brought with it a strange unity. For the first time in what felt like weeks, the brothers of the Night’s Watch were not openly bickering like cats and dogs. There was no talk of unrest, no sneaking words exchanged in the mess hall. Even the men loyal to Thorne had kept to themselves, casting furtive glances at Jon as if waiting for the sword to fall on them next. Uncertainty had settled over Castle Black like a shroud, and Jon knew too well that doubt could be a dangerous thing. It festered in the dark, turned men against each other, and broke brotherhood as easily as glass.

But for now, that shadow of doubt was useful. It kept the brothers in line. The numbers of Stannis Baratheon’s soldiers loomed large over the Wall, their presence a constant reminder that Jon had support more closely than any troublemaker. Rurik Asheart and his men had helped cement that fact as well. 

Jon’s fingers tightened around the goblet in his hand, the metal cool against his skin. The action of the Northern envoys had brought peace to Castle Black, but it was a peace built on blood and fear. How long could it last? How long before the next challenge came? His position and The Wall was strong, but not invincible. And winter was coming.

The weight of command pressed down on him like a heavy cloak, and in moments like these, Jon felt the absence of his friends keenly. He missed the easy camaraderie of Grenn and Pyp, the way they could turn even the darkest of nights into something bearable. He missed Samwell’s quiet wisdom, the way he always managed to find a solution to the problems Jon couldn’t see past. But most of all, he missed Ygritte.

Her memory haunted him, her voice echoing in his mind at the most unexpected times. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.” The words were a dagger, sharp and biting. He had loved her, broken his vows for her, and now she was gone, a part of the past he could never reclaim. It was better that way, he told himself. Ygritte belonged to the wild, to the free folk. She wouldn’t have fit in this world of stone walls and iron vows. But knowing that didn’t make the ache in his chest any easier to bear.

With a sigh, Jon set the goblet aside and rubbed his temples. The letters from Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower lay unopened on his desk, each one likely bringing more grim news. Provisions were not stored enough, winter was creeping closer, and the wildlings, amassing near the gorges of Shadow Tower and the distant shores from Eastwatch were seeing more and more wildling rafts or rough shapes resembling ships. Stannis Baratheon was acting like a stoic old mastiff, constantly gnawing on demands of land, castles, supplies, or oaths. Jon was feeling like being in the middle of a fierce snowstorm with no end. 

Pushing back his chair, he stood abruptly, the legs scraping against the stone floor. He needed to get out of this room, away from the endless paperwork, away from the suffocating weight of command. Maybe some food would do him good. Maybe the company of his friends. He hadn’t broken fast with Grenn or Pyp in days, and even Dolorous Edd’s bleak humor would be welcome tonight.

Grabbing his cloak, Jon left his chambers, the cold air of the corridors biting at his skin as he made his way toward the mess hall. The Night’s Watch was quiet tonight, the sounds of swords clashing in the yard distant, the low murmur of voices and the clang of metal on metal faint in the air. When he stepped into the hall, the warmth hit him immediately, along with the familiar smell of stew, meat, and ale. The crackling laughter of brothers at ease filled the space, a stark contrast to the silence that had permeated the halls for so long.

His eyes swept the room, searching for his friends. Grenn, Pyp, and Edd were gathered at a table near the hearth, playing dice with some of Rurik’s men. Samwell sat nearby, red-faced and swaying slightly, clearly deep in his cups. Asher Forrester, one of Rurik’s closest allies, sat beside him, though he seemed far more sober, his sharp eyes watching the game unfold with a knowing smile. In the corner, Triston Mallister played a soft, mournful tune on a harp, his voice rising and falling with the music as he sang a song about someone named Ethan The Bold. The words were sad, brave, and sweet. It had drawn a small crowd of brothers, mostly Northerborns, their faces intent, hands clenched into fists as if the music had cast a spell over them.

His final words, faced with the sword
Chilled Ramsay to the bone
You will not have her,
For I am Lord And I protect my own!

Fight on, fight on, Ethan the Brave,
Old gods bear steel with you.
Our lord, my twin, a hero's grave.
So iron grows anew. 
Still iron grows anew!

Jon made his way toward the officers’ table, but as he did, his ears caught a conversation from across the room, one that made his stomach tighten.

“So, Grenn,” Rurik’s voice was smooth, the hint of amusement in his tone unmistakable, as he poured another cup generously. “Is it true what they say about Lord Snow’s wildling girl? Ygritte, wasn’t it?”

Jon froze, his jaw tightening. He glanced over at Grenn, who flushed, clearly uncomfortable. Pyp, the mummer, leaned in with a grin. “Oh, Ygritte? Aye, she was something, from what I’ve heard. Not that Jon ever says much, but you know him. Tight-lipped as ever.”

Jon’s hands stiffened on the table. They didn’t mean any jab or hurt, not really. But hearing Ygritte’s name bandied about in idle conversation felt wrong, like something sacred being tarnished or deep secrets being openly discussed. 

Rurik chuckled, rolling the dice in his hand. “I heard she had red hair,” he continued, his manners idle and friendly, but Jon could sense the underlying curiosity. “And that she was quite the fighter. They say Lord Snow broke his vows for her. Is that true, Grenn?”

Grenn shifted awkwardly, glancing around as if seeking some kind of rescue. “I… well, I don’t know about that,” he mumbled. “Jon’s not one to talk about it.”

Rurik laughed, shaking his head. “Ah, but there’s always a story behind every silence, isn’t there? I wonder what keeps him up at night. The Wall’s a cold place for warm thoughts.”

Jon felt extremely annoyed. He had no idea why Stannis's envoys were nosing around about him with his friends but he didn't like it one bit. But he knew better voice his feelings about it. All it would do is, raise more voices and words about the matters that he would rather see dead and buried. 

He caught Satin’s eye from across the hall and beckoned him over. “Bring my food to my quarters,” Jon said quietly. He had lost his appetite for the mess hall, for the laughter and the warmth. 

Satin nodded and hurried off to fetch the meal, and Jon turned on his heel, leaving the mess hall behind. The sounds of laughter and dice rolling faded into the background as he retreated to his chambers, the cold stone corridors a welcome contrast to the warmth of the hall.

*********************************************

The next day dawned the same cold and grey, the wind howling over the Wall like the breath of some great beast. Jon spent the morning making his rounds, speaking with Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, and Iron Emmett about the state of the Watch. Supplies were not coming as generously by ships as he prayed, and the winter was closing in faster than they had anticipated. They had barely enough food to last a few years, and with a thousand wildlings now penned up North of the Wall, the strain on their resources was becoming unbearable. Jon had done his best to negotiate with the nearby Northern houses, to ensure that they contributed to the Watch’s stores, but the possibility for a hungry future remained high. Many of the brothers still saw the wildlings fit for the gallows, and old grudges didn’t die easily.

Mance Rayder’s people would probably accept the King's justice and peace, but Jon knew that their loyalty was fragile at best. The free folk valued their independence above all else, and though they would bend the knee to survive, there would always be whispers of discontent. What would happen when Stannis secured his claim to the North? Would the wildlings still honor their oaths, or would they turn against the Watch once more?

By the time Jon finished his rounds and came back to his chambers, his mind was heavy with thoughts of the future. The fire in the chamber had burned down to little more than embers, casting a dim, flickering glow over the room. The stone walls seemed to absorb the heat, leaving the chill of the Wall to creep back in through every crack and crevice. The night had fallen deep, and the cold felt sharper, more invasive, as though the Wall itself was reminding Jon of the weight of his duty. Even Ghost, lying by the hearth, had pulled his thick white fur closer, his tail twitching in restless sleep.

Jon sat at his desk, staring down at the papers spread before him—letters from Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower, reports of wildling movements beyond the Wall, supply shortages, and complaints from his brothers. It all felt so trivial now, so small compared to the threat of the Others and his own personal demons. He was the Lord Commander, the man who had to make the impossible decisions. But tonight, his thoughts were elsewhere, far from the Wall, far from the Night’s Watch.

They were in Winterfell.

Jon’s hand tightened around the quill in his grasp, so tight that his knuckles whitened. He had told himself, time and again, that his Stark blood no longer mattered, that his place was here, with the Night’s Watch. He had taken the black, sworn his oaths, and left the realm’s politics behind. The Wall was his life now. Yet, in the quiet moments, when the duties of command had subsided and the world was still, his mind wandered back to Winterfell, back to the North. To his family.

To Robb. To Arya. To his other siblings. 

The memory of Robb was a sharp, bitter ache, one he tried to keep buried but which always rose when he least expected it. Robb had been more than just his brother; he had been his closest friend, his king. Jon had never felt prouder than when he heard the news that Robb had been crowned King in the North. But that pride had turned to grief, to rage, when the news of the Red Wedding had reached him. The image of his brother’s body, mutilated, desecrated, with Grey Wind’s head sewn onto his neck… was a nightmare that haunted Jon’s waking hours as much as it did his sleep.

And Arya…

Jon shook his head, forcing the thoughts away, but they clung to him like shadows. She was probably dead like the rest of his family. Like Uncle Benjen. They have all left him, one by one. Or was he the one who left them? What if he never joined the Watch in the first place? With him and Ghost in Winterfell, would the Ironborn be able to take the castle so easily? All the thoughts he had buried so long deep inside his mind, seemed to come crashing down tonight.  

“Lord Commander,” came the voice of his door guard. “Rurik and Asher Forrester are here, asking for an audience.”

Jon set the letter down, rubbing his temples once again. He should have expected this. Whatever Rurik was after, he was sure it wasn’t something simple. With a final glance at the unread letters, Jon stood and called out, “Send them in.”

The door creaked open, and the two figures stepped inside—Rurik Asheart and Asher Forrester. Both men carried themselves with the quiet confidence of warriors, and Jon had learned enough in his time as Lord Commander to recognize the weight of prowess in the way they moved, the way they watched the room as if always expecting danger. Rurik’s eyes lingered on Ghost, who still lay by the hearth, his red eyes gleaming faintly in the firelight. Ghost was awake now, though silent, watching the newcomers with that same unblinking gaze that unnerved so many.

Lord Commander,” Rurik with a voice that spoke of his common birth and soldier life, yet quite well-mannered. “We appreciate you taking the time to see us at this hour.”

Jon nodded, keeping himself neutral, despite his concerns related to these two.  “You said it was important. What is it you want?”

Rurik’s gaze flicked to Ghost again, and Jon could see the flicker of old familiarity in his eyes. The man gave a short nod as if acknowledging something unspoken. “It’s strange, seeing another direwolf after all this time. Grey Wind… he was something to behold. I remember his howls that started the first blow. And watching him in the Whispering Wood, tearing up the Lannister riders like a shadow with teeth.”

Jon felt a jolt at the mention of Grey Wind, of Robb. His brother’s direwolf had been legendary, just as Robb himself had been. The stories of their victories, of how Grey Wind had led the charge, were things Jon had clung to in the early days after leaving Winterfell. They had given him hope that Robb would win, that the Starks would prevail. But those hopes had been crushed under the weight of the Bolton betrayal.

“Ghost is not just a wolf. He is a part of myself, of who I am. I am sure much was the same with Robb." 

Rurik nodded, a faint but true smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Aye. I fought under the Direwolf banner, for King Robb Stark, from the Whispering Wood to the Twins. I saw him lead men into battle, saw him inspire the kind of loyalty you rarely see. It was the bravest, the most inspiring thing we, young men saw in our life." 

Jon’s chest tightened with conflicting emotions—pride, grief, and a stab of jealousy he couldn’t quite suppress. Robb had been the heir, the King in the North. The one to have the fame, the glory, and the crown. Jon had been the bastard, sent to the Wall and to serve. But Robb was dead now, and Jon was here, still breathing, still fighting battles for someone else's war. 

“And the family I was sworn to, House Hornwood. They fought bravely as well. Fought and died in his name,” Rurik continued. “But we were betrayed. Stabbed in the back while we were promised hospitality. My grandfather and many of my friends died for him at the Red Wedding. Many died with swords on their hands but most were butchered like cattle. Those men deserved better.”

Jon swallowed, his throat dry. He had heard the tales of the Red Wedding, but hearing it from someone who had been there, who had fought and bled for Robb, made it all the more real. He could see it in Rurik’s eyes—the pain, the anger, the sense of loss that mirrored his own.

Asher, who had remained silent until now, spoke up. “I wasn’t there. I was in Essos when the war came. But my family fought. My father, Lord Gregor Forrester himself and many of our men gave their lives for House Stark. Ironrath still remembers those who fell for the King in the North.”

Jon’s gaze flicked to Asher, and he saw the same pride and grief reflected in the younger man’s face. They were all bound by the same loss, the same ghosts of the past.

“I have heard of what happened at the Red Wedding,” Jon said quietly after a moment. “I know how Robb’s bannermen died for him. But I’m not sure why you’ve come to me with this now. I’m a brother of the Night’s Watch. The Lord Commander by the brothers's choice. My place is here, at the Wall. I don't know what I can do to help you." 

Rurik’s face clouded with deep frustration. “Aye, we can you’ve taken the black, and we respect that. But you still have Stark blood, Lord Commander. The Boltons hold Winterfell. They’ve taken the North, and they’re bleeding it dry. Killing our people as they please. We can’t let that stand. We’re here because we thought we would see House Stark and Baratheon united again, standing against a common enemy.”

Jon’s jaw clenched. The Boltons. The name alone was enough to set his blood boiling. Few acknowledged it, but it was an open secret that Boltons had a hand in orchestrating the Red Wedding. No doubt on the order of the Lannisters for a royal pardon and the promise of ruling the North. But what could he do? He was no king. He was no lord. Had no army to raise. He had taken the black, and his place was here, at the Wall, guarding the realms of ignorant men, who did not even believe in the things he swore to guard them from. 

“I’m not a Stark,” Jon said the words like he did hundreds of times in his life. 

Rurik stared at him for a long moment. With a look of annoyance and frustration that looked was so much like Stannis himself. “Maybe not by name. But by blood, you are a son of Eddard Stark. You may wear the black, I doubt you’ve forgotten where you came from. And we haven’t forgotten either. My lord, are you really going to pretend that you do not want revenge?”

Jon had little to reply to Rurik's words. He did want revenge. Oh yes. He wanted to wrap his fingers around the throat of Roose Bolton and choke the life out of him. And the Freys. And the Lannisters. And anyone who had the slightest of things to do with the Red Wedding. But what could he do? Was the need for his revenge bigger than the call to defend the realm? Family or Honor and Duty? 

"How much do you know about what happened at Winterfell with the Ironborn? " Rurik leaned forward to see Jon silent. 

That was another sharp stab. Winterfell gone and burned. And somewhere in that ruin, the bodies of his little brothers were hung. Jon took down a gulp that threatened to choke him with emotions. "The Ironborn put it to the torch. What of it?" 

"Well, here's the thing, my lord. It seems like a lie as well," Asher Forrester spoke up. "Many a survivors from the battle at Winterfell fled to the Wolfswood. Some even found their way to our home at Ironrath. They all say that it was the Boltons who attacked your Castellan, Ser Rodrick Cassel's men treacherously. They are the ones who sacked Winterfell and put the castle to the torch." 

Before Jon could overcome his shock at this news, Asher rose from his seat and moved toward the door. “There’s more news for you. We caught a prisoner. He was with the Boltons when they attacked Ironrath. He’s told us things… things you need to hear firsthand. Perhaps that would help you to decide." 

Jon felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. “What things?”

Asher stepped outside, and when he returned, he led in a man in chains. The prisoner was hunched over, his face mostly hidden by a large, tattered cloak. But Jon could see the scars—his nose had been broken and poorly healed, his teeth crooked and yellowed. His eyes, darting and wild, spoke of fear and desperation.

Rurik stepped forward. “This man claims that Ramsay Bolton had taken women and children from Winterfell.  He brought them to the Dreadfort, where he… tortures and mutilates them. For his own pleasure.”

The words hit Jon like a punch to the gut. His vision swam with red for a moment, and his hands clenched into fists. He could barely breathe, the rage rising so fast and so hot it nearly consumed him. Women and children, taken from Winterfell, his home. Mutilated. Tortured. His hands shook, and he had to fight the urge to draw his sword right then and there, to take this man’s head off and ride south to the Dreadfort himself.

Ghost stirred beside him, sensing his master’s anger. The direwolf’s red eyes gleamed in the firelight, his snarl menacing.

“There’s more," Rurik said softly to see Jon's reactions to their words. He looked away as if the words pained him. “This who served at Dreadfort claims… the Lannisters have found Arya Stark. They plan to give her to Ramsay Snow, to marry her to him. You would not want to hear the things Ramsay Snow does to women in your nightmares, my lord." 

Jon shot to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His mind went blank for a moment, his body moving on instinct. Ghost sprang to his feet, his snarl deepening, and the prisoner let out a terrified whimper. Jon barely noticed. All he could hear were those words echoing in his mind: Arya. The Lannisters. Ramsay Snow

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be true. But what if it was? "If you are lying to turn me in, tell me right now. I will pretend this conversation never happened and forget everything. I..... " 

“We wouldn’t lie about something like this,” Rurik interrupted before he could finish the unspoken threat. “We didn’t present this man to Stannis because we wanted you to hear it first. You deserved to know the truth.”

“What you do with this man is up to you,” Asher continued. “We’ve kept our promise. He’s yours now. If you want to drag out the truth from him, feel free." 

The prisoner shrank back, his eyes wide with terror. “Please,” he whimpered, “please, I was promised… I was promised I wouldn’t be killed—”

Rurik’s eyes were cold as he looked at the man. “We promised you that we wouldn’t kill you. But what Lord Snow does is up to him.”

With that, Rurik and Asher turned and left the room, closing the door behind them. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the hall, fading into the distance.

Jon’s heart was pounding, his vision still hazy with rage. Arya. His little sister is in the hands of Ramsay Snow. He wanted to tear the man apart, to drag every ounce of information out of him, to know whether he was lying or telling the truth. But the Night’s Watch… his oaths. He had sworn to be different, to put aside his family, and his name, for the good of the realm.

But this was Arya.

He stared down at the prisoner, the man shaking like a leaf, cowering in fear. Ghost had him cornered now, his teeth bared, his silent snarls almost reverberating through the chamber. The fire crackled softly, the only sound in the heavy silence.

Jon felt the cold steel of the dagger at his belt, the weight of it heavy in his hand. He could end this man’s life in an instant. He could have Ghost tear his throat out, or he could drag the truth from him, one bloody piece at a time. It would be so easy. So easy.

But there was another voice in his head, quieter, but persistent. His father’s voice. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. His father had always believed in honor, in justice, in doing what was right, no matter how hard it might be. And Jon had always tried to live by that code, even here, at the Wall.

But this wasn’t just any prisoner. This was someone who might have answers about Arya. Could he really afford to be honorable now? Could he afford to show mercy when his sister’s life might be on the line?

The anger burned inside him, fierce and unrelenting. His hand tightened on the dagger.

Jon took a step forward.

Chapter Text

Rurik IX

A full day had passed, and still, Jon Snow had not given an answer.

The silence of it was heavier than the burden of revenge and duty I was carrying. I have waited on battlefields with bated breath, with hands gripping hilts and shields, knowing that hesitation meant death. But here, in the cold halls of Castle Black, with the snow all around, it was a different sort of waiting—one that can put a man at edge or gnaw at his bones like the long northern winters. 

Jon Snow had not left his chambers, had not spoken a word of the prisoner, nor had he sent word of his decision to the King or us. One of my men told me the prisoner was brought out by Snow's guards and thrown in the cells, his limbs broken and bloody. And that was all that happened. 

I left the chambers The Watch assigned to us behind and strode into the yard, my boots crunching the ice-packed snow. The wind howled over the Wall, thick with the scent of cold iron and smoke. It slapped me on my face like a pail full of ice water. So much so that I had to raise my hood to cover my head and face. The men of the Watch moved about their duties unbothered, silent save for the occasional murmur, their shoulders hunched against the wind, their breath curling in the frigid air. A few of them muttered under their breath as I passed, though whether it was out of respect, suspicion, or simple unease, I did not know.

It did not matter. I had my own concerns for this morn. 

War loomed ahead. With or without Stannis, we would have to fight. If this plan of enlisting Stannis's help failed, the Forrester-Brotherhood-Mormont alliance would act according to our own plans. Boltons held a good part of the North in their bloody grip, and Deepwood Motte was still in the hands of the Ironborn. When the time would come to climb the walls of Deepwood, I would need weapons fit for siege warfare, weapons that could cleave through the mail and helm of those Ironborns. My falx, Reaper, had served me well in even battlefields—it was quick, vicious, and a terror to any man foolish enough to face me with light armor. But going against ironclad foes in a siege from the ground up, it was not the best tool. No, I needed something heavier, something that would break shields and bones alike, and a sword for close-quarter heavy impact combat. 

The armory stood near the old forge, its stone walls darkened with years of soot. It had once been a place of steady work, where the Watch’s blacksmiths hammered out steel for all of Castle Black. But the true master smith had died in some battle against the Wildlings, and now, in his place, there was only a red-faced boy, barely old enough to call himself a man. He was strong, I’d give him that—his arms thick from wielding the hammer—but there was hesitation in him, the kind that stood out in this grim place like a sore thumb. 

I pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping inside. The warmth of the forge hit me first, a welcome reprieve from the bitter air outside. The boy glanced up from his work, wiping sweat from his brow, his face flushed with heat.

“I need some weapons,” I said.

He frowned. “Weapons ain’t free.”

“I’m not asking for gifts. I want to trade.”

The boy hesitated, glancing around the empty forge as if expecting someone else to step in and make the decision for him. “I ain’t got the right to make trades. That’s the quartermaster’s job.”

I huffed. “And where is the quartermaster?” I made a show of looking around as if he could be hiding underneath a table or behind the forge. “Nowhere? Then I suppose that means you’ll have to do.”

The boy shifted uneasily. “If I trade without permission, I could be punished.”

“If the trade favors the Watch, who’s going to punish you?” I reached into my cloak and pulled out a sword—a fine, southern long-blade with a gold pommel, its hilt inlaid with the snarling head of a lion. A Knight’s sword, taken from the corpse of a Lannister bannerman in the Riverlands. Beautiful, yes, but wasted on me. “This alone is worth two fine swords. I’ll take a heavy axe and a short blade in exchange.”

The boy’s eyes widened. He licked his lips, torn between his caution and the unmistakable lure of gold.

I pushed him farther, putting down half a dozen tin coins on the table. “You could melt down that pommel and forge three new blades from selling that gold alone. Or trade it for enough coin to arm five men. Do you think your sworn brothers will scold you for making a fair trade? Here, your next round on the dice is on me." 

The hesitation cracked. The boy nodded. “Pick what you want.”

I moved through the racks of weapons, my hands brushing against cold steel. The watch had a great collection of arms and armor, though a good portion of it was blunt or unfinished. Seemed like the Master Smith had passed before finishing a lot of his projects. Soon I found what I was looking for: a short stabbing sword, good for close combat, and a heavy axe with a thick blade and a cruel spike on the other end. 

The sword was one and half feet double edged blade with a wicked sharp point, excellent for shield and sword combat or poking holes through mail. The ax blade was quite heavy, enough to break bones underneath armor, and the spike would suit to poke holes through helmets. I tested their weight and balance in my hands. Satisfying.

The boy took my golden sword with something close to reverence and pocketed the coins greedily. “You best not tell anyone where you got this.”

I smirked. “I keep my own secrets, boy.”

I sat by the whetstone, sharpening my weapons, letting the rhythm of steel on stone guide my thoughts. My conversation with Maester Aemon the night before lingered in my mind. The old man had been frail, his voice barely more than a whisper, but his words carried weight in this place. He had spoken to me at great length about Mance Rayder, of the Wildlings, their motives, the history against the Watch and realm. Instead of trying to glaze the old scholar, I asked him honest questions, coming clear about my motives. It was clear, even though The Maester was an ancient man, he was by no means slow witted.  The talk offered me some good ideas about how to deal with this complex situation between the Watch, Stannis, and wildlings, but before any of that could happen, I needed to know where Snow stood. 

When I stepped back into the courtyard, weapons honed and ready, I saw the commotion at the main gate.

Jon Snow had finally emerged.

He was dressed for travel, his black leathers fitted tight, a heavy cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Ghost padded beside him, silent as death, his red eyes watching everything. The Lord Steward Marsh was protesting, his voice sharp with concern.

“You cannot go alone, Lord Commander! The forest outside is dangerous enough, but beyond it—”

Jon cut him off with a look as cold as the ice that made up the Wall. Lord Commander of The Watch was in no mood for arguments. “I won’t be gone long. Open the gate.”

The steward hesitated. “But—”

“That was an order, my lord.”

I stepped forward. I wanted words with Jon before he vanished into the wilderness. And to add my concerns. But his wolf uncharacteristically turned toward me, lips curling back in a sharp, warning snap

Jon met my eyes. “No one is to follow. I will be back soon." 

And with that, he turned and rode through the open gate, vanishing into the frozen lands beyond. 

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the place where he had disappeared. Wondering what I should do. Then, slowly, I turned toward the stables.

The hardhead could easily get himself killed or ambushed at the Haunted forest. It was common talk around Castle Black that wildling warbands had merely been beaten back, not totally defeated. They could be lurking just around, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike back. 

I saddled Crimson, throwing a heavy cloak over my shoulders, packing what food and gear I could. The guards moved to stop me, but I paid their inquiries little mind. 

“I am no sworn brother of the Watch,” I reminded them. “You have no command over me or what I do." At a loss, they had to let me pass.

***************************************************

The sky stretched vast and endless above me, a dull, leaden gray that bled into the horizon, where the black trunks of the trees stood like the ribs of some ancient beast left to rot in the snow. The Wall had vanished after some time from sight, swallowed by the mist and distance as a light snow began to fall, yet the cold still clung to my bones like a shroud. I thought I knew winter from my years in the Hornwood forest. But beyond the Wall, it was the kind of cold that numbed the fingers and burned the lungs, a cold that almost started to make me question whether I was truly alive.

I had been following Jon Snow for miles, keeping about an hour of distance, judging from the tracks. My horse, Crimson, moved with steady footing but uncertain steps through the snow-laden undergrowth. Snow had taken an old mare for his ride. The steps of his horse were straight, and he didn’t stop to check directions or tracks. A man certain of his destination, I thought. This was not just a ride to clear his head. 

Snow was falling in slow, lazy drifts, light enough that it did little to obscure the faint impressions of Jon’s passage—the broken twigs, the disturbed patches of white, the deep prints of Ghost’s paws. Suddenly, the hoof prints began to get closer, indicating Jon had slowed down. Perhaps he had come closer to his destination. 

Instead of confronting him when he stopped, I decided to circle around his position, giving him a wide space and hoping to catch him from the opposite direction.  I caught sight of him after another hour of riding around, just a dark figure in the snow, framed against the crimson leaves of an ancient weirwood tree. Its branches were gnarled and twisted, its bark pale as bone, its face carved in solemn judgment, weeping thick red sap like blood.

He was kneeling beneath it, his head bowed, one gloved hand resting against the trunk, as though hoping for some answer to be whispered through the wood. Ghost sat beside him, still as a shadow, his red eyes burning in the dim light.

I did not move closer.

There were few places more sacred than a godswood to us Northmen, even out here beyond the Wall, where the Heart trees grew wild and untamed. Snow had come for guidance, and I was in no mind to disturb a man seeking the wisdom of the gods.

Instead, I turned my horse away, letting him have his prayers.

Another grove of trees stood a short ride from the weirwood, their branches thick and tangled, forming a natural canopy that broke the wind. Beneath them, half-buried in the snow, I found a crude hovel—little more than a mound of stones and earth, with a small, soot-stained opening that suggested some past fire had burned here. It was old, abandoned, but it would serve.

Dismounting, I led Crimson under the shelter, tying his reins to a low-hanging branch before setting to work. A fire would be needed. The air was too cold, too still, and I had no desire to lose my fingers to frostbite while waiting for Jon to finish his prayers.

The wood was damp, reluctant to catch, but after a few strikes of flint and steel, sparks took to the straw kindling, and the fire sputtered to life, sending thick, curling smoke into the air. I pulled my cloak tighter around me, settling onto a fallen log, my hands stretching toward the heat. I melted some snow, dropping mint leaves and ginger roots in, along with a few pieces of dried meat to make a quick broth. 

The wind carried the soft groan of distant trees, the rustle of unseen movement in the underbrush. I sat in silence, sipping the soup I had brewed, feeling the warmth seep back into my chest.

Then, faint a sound.

A branch snapping.

I went still.

Carefully, I shifted, eyes scanning the treeline, fingers tightening around the hilt of my falx. The fire burned on, steady and bright, its flickering light casting long shadows against the snow.

I moved quickly. Using a broken branch, I propped up my cloak beside the fire, giving the illusion of a man hunched against the cold. Then I slipped away, circling around the hovel, making my boots no sound in the fresh snow.

The figure emerged not long after, creeping toward the fire, moving with the hesitancy of someone uncertain whether they had walked into safety or death.

I came up behind him in an instant, blade cold against the man's throat.

"Move, and I open you from ear to ear," I said. 

He took a sudden sharp breath, trembling. Then, the figure spoke, the voice small. "Please," a female voice whispered. "I meant no harm. I am just cold." 

A girl.

I eased the blade away, turning her by the shoulder to face me.

She was young. Younger than I had expected. No more than thirteen, maybe fourteen, dressed in furs that were too thin for the weather, her cheeks raw, lips chapped with the bite of the wind. Her hair was tangled, dark, and matted, her eyes wide with hunger.

"You are one of them wildlings," I said.

She nodded pitifully, eyeing my falx, though there was no defiance in it. "I just hoped for some food. Please, I haven’t eaten in days. I mean you no harm." 

Her voice was hoarse, cracked from thirst. She looked at me not with the gaze of a warrior but of a starving child.

I kept my grip firm on my falx, though I lowered the blade. "Who else is with you?"

"My mother," she said quickly. "And my two little brothers."

"Where?"

She pointed back toward the trees, her breath curling in the frigid air. "Not far. Near the godswood."

I studied her, searching for the lie, but found only desperation. Sighing, I stepped back, sheathing my blade.

"Take this," I pulled a strip of dried meat from my saddlebag. "Eat it slow, or you’ll make yourself sick."

She took it greedily, biting into it before she could think better of it.

I watched her chew, silent. "You should find shelter before winter truly sets in. Without food, without fire, you won’t last long."

The girl nodded, still swallowing. "You are not one of them crows. Are you truly from the South?" 

"Yes." I brought Crimson back from behind the hovel with a mind to check up on Snow. One wildling lurking around meaning, there could be easily more in the woods. And who is to say they will not try to ambush both of us? 

The girl grabbed at my legs while I tried to spin Crimson around. "Can you take us back with you?" 

I blinked. "What?"

"Take us south. Past the Wall. Please."

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temple. I was hoping she would not ask me that.  "That’s not how this works. There’s no food to spare at Castle Black. The Night’s Watch isn't looking for any new mouths to feed. They won’t take you in. And even if they did, you’re a wildling. You’d have no friends there."

She hesitated, then took a step closer, lowering her voice. "I’ll do whatever you want," she said. "Anything. I can warm your bed if that’s the price."

I almost laughed. Even though her words gave my cock a twitch. It had been quite some time since I had laid with a woman. Not since Aly Mornmont. But this girl here was not even of age. 

Instead, I shook my head. "No. I prefer my women older and with some meat on them. I have no interest in bedding a child."

She pleaded. "I’m not a child! I’ve seen three winters. This will be my fourth."

I sighed, giving her pale face and small body another look. "That makes you what? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Old enough."

A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the crackle of fire.

"You’re not like the others," she said at last.

I raised my brow. "The others?"

"Men from south of the Wall. Armored men on horses. You don’t look at me like I’m some beast. You are speaking to me like… like I’m just a girl."

I studied her. In truth, despite what I thought of the wildlings, as any Northerners do, I felt no hatred towards her, no burning animosity. This was just a girl, hungry and afraid, no different from a Northman’s daughter starving in a burned-out village.

I sighed. This is going to be a mistake. Who knows what the guards at the gate will say when I bring four more mouths in tow. "If you and your family can walk, I’ll take you to Castle Black. I’ll vouch for you. But it’s up to the Night’s Watch if they let you pass."

Her eyes lit up. "Truly?"

I nodded. "But no promises."

She gripped my arm. "Thank you."

I exhaled, pulling her up onto my horse. "Show me where they are."

I did not turn back when I heard the girl’s breath hitch behind me. Her fingers were ice-cold where they clung to my cloak, her grip fragile, desperate, and yet reluctant—as if, at any moment, she expected me to vanish into the night like some cruel trick of the gods. I could feel her shivering against my back, though whether from cold or fear, I could not say. Perhaps both.

The wind had risen again. Along with it, another fall of snow. Being from the Hornwood forest and all, I managed to stay on the saddle and the track. But the girl was not made of such stern stuff. Wrapped in tattered furs that barely held warmth, she was little more than a shadow behind me, frail and hollow-eyed.

She had told me her name—Lyessa. She was wildling-born, though there was none of the sharp defiance in her that I heard so many of her kin had. No snarling proclamations of freedom, no pride in the old ways. Only hunger. Only exhaustion.

When I finally came upon the grove, I found that Jon Snow had already found her family there. 

He stood beneath the weirwood, his black cloak billowing faintly in the wind, a brooding specter in the pale light of the moon. At his feet, huddled in the snow, was a woman with two small children pressed close to her chest. They were even thinner than Lyessa, wrapped in furs so worn and ragged they may as well have been dressed in rags. The woman clutched something in her trembling hands—food, I realized, dried meat that Jon must have given her.

One of the boys had eaten too fast. He was coughing now, choking, and his mother’s shaking hands moved to steady him, to pat his back, to soothe him as best she could.

A strange thing, mercy. To those who need it. It costed nothing or little, and yet it was often withheld as if it were the rarest treasure in the world.

I swung down from the saddle, lifting Lyessa with me. She did not run to her family at once. She hesitated, her gaze flicking between them and me, not sure of the situation. 

Jon met my gaze then, his expression unreadable. If he was surprised to see me, he did not show it.

"I knew someone was on my trail," he said at last, his voice flat, tired. "Ghost did not act suspicious. So I let it be." 

"Venturing alone beyond the Wall like that, not a good choice for the Lord Commander of the Watch. Considering what happened last time." 

Jon exhaled, a thin plume of mist curling in the cold air. He turned back to the woman and her children. "They can come with us," he said. "Castle Black is no refuge. They will be held in the pen, but it’s better than dying out here. At least they won't starve." 

I studied Jon Snow carefully. His face was drawn, his lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders heavy with unspoken burden. If the gods had offered him guidance, it was not enough for him to take a final decision. He was in the same dilemma as before. 

There were only two horses and six of us. The girl’s mother and her two sons were too frail to make the journey on foot, their limbs trembling from hunger and cold, their breath thin and ragged. The little one could barely keep his head upright as his mother stroked his hair with fingers that looked more bone than flesh. Even Lyessa, despite the sturdiness that came with hardship, still clung to the saddle as though she feared the wind might snatch her away.

Jon did not protest when I suggested that he and I walk while the others rode double. He merely nodded, accepting it without complaint. Ghost padded alongside him, his breath misting in the air, crimson eyes gleaming like embers in the darkness. The beast made no sound, no growl, no whimper, only the quiet, measured crunch of his paws on the snow. 

The wind had turned even more bitter by then, cutting through even the thickest of furs, sharp as a freshly honed blade. The sky had darkened further, the moon shrouded in clouds, its pale glow struggling to pierce the endless black. The snow beneath our boots crunched with every step, though at times, it swallowed our feet whole, forcing us to trudge through knee-high drifts. The world around us was nothing but white and gray, an ocean of frost and silence, broken only by the distant howl of some unseen wolf, which made us make our pace even faster. 

I tried to check if I could figure out what Snow was thinking, but the attempt proved to be futile. He did not wear his thoughts where others could see them. He kept them locked away as if speaking them aloud might make them real. A mistake, I had always thought. Silence did not keep the darkness at bay. It only let it fester. 

If I did not speak first, I knew he would hold his silence for the entire journey.

"If I may ask, my lord" I said at last, finally breaking the silence, "what exactly did Stannis Baratheon want from you?"

Jon’s jaw tightened at the question. He let out a slow breath, white mist curling into the frigid air. He did not answer right away.

I waited.

Patience was a skill I had learned well over the war, and I had come to understand that silence often revealed more than words. Snow had yet to fully trust me. Oddly enough, I was of the same mind. Not of his commitment to his cause, but rather his hardheadedness and capabilities. When a man hesitated, when he weighed his response before speaking, it was not always because he was uncertain of the truth—it was because he was uncertain of how much of it he was willing to share.

At last, he spoke.

"He wanted me to marry Val, Mance Rayder's goodsister."

I raised a brow. "And become his Warden of the North, I assume?"

Jon shot me a sharp look, irritation flashing in his grey eyes, though whether at me or the situation itself, I could not say. "Yes. And Lord of Winterfell."

A dry chuckle escaped me before I could help myself. "What men would give for such an offer. Yet, here you are.....heaping scorn at it.." 

Jon’s scowl deepened. "It would be a good choice whether I accept it or not—if it did not come with conditions."

I tilted my head slightly, already suspecting the answer from the gossip around Castle Black. "And what conditions are those?"

His gloved hand curled into a fist at his side, the leather creaking under the strain. "He wanted me to burn the weirwood grove at Winterfell," Jon said at last, his voice barely louder than the wind. "And take his fire god as my own."

I did not respond immediately.

The old gods did not demand temples, sacrifices, nor worship as the southern faiths did. They asked only for remembrance. The faces carved into the weirwoods were their eyes, watching, listening, silent but ever-present. To burn their sacred trees was not simply an act of desecration—it was an act of finality, an erasure of what had come before, an act of treason and betrayal to land as well. The North might be fractured, its people scattered, but if one thing remained constant, it was their faith.

Jon looked away, his expression guarded. "You see my dilemma."

I sighed, the breath heavy in my chest. "I do." No Northman, unless a faithless degenarate would dare to bring axe and fire to the sacred groves. It would make every soul in the land spit at him, from the highborn lords to basest scum. 

"So you’ll refuse him again, then?" I asked after a moment.

Jon did not answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze drift out over the endless expanse of white, the dark outline of distant trees barely visible through the snowfall. His hesitation spoke volumes.

"I don’t know," he admitted at last.

That was the truth of it, then.

Jon Snow was not a man afraid of sacrifice. He would set aside his own desires for the sake of duty; he would suffer for the good of others without complaint. But this—this was more than duty. This was something rooted deep within him, something he could not simply cast aside like a cloak he had outgrown.

"What will you do about the Boltons then?" I pushed, even though I could see he was not in a good mood to share. "Now that you know Ramsay Bolton is to wed your sister?"

His expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I don’t know that either," he admitted. "There is too much at stake at the Wall than my desire for revenge." 

I nodded slowly. "If you leave with Stannis to fight the Boltons, you leave the Wall undefended."

Jon closed his eyes briefly as if the thought alone exhausted him. "Yes."

"And what of the wildlings?" It was common knowledge on the Wall that the Lord Commander had spent considerable time with the wildlings and didn’t see them as animals fit for butchering. Perhaps too much time, if half the talk was true. 

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face as though trying to wipe away his own weariness. "They need a leader. Stannis wants to burn Mance Rayder for desertion, but Mance is the only one who could bring them together. If I could keep him alive…"

I watched him closely. Seemed like Snow had a mind to recruit the Wildlings to reinforce the Wall. It would be a good enough trade, sword and spear for them in exchange of shelter and food. That is if only they could be trusted. 

"If Mance could unite them," Jon continued, "they might help hold the Wall against the Others. But if I leave, and the Wall falls…" He shook his head. "None of it will matter anyway."

He was right.

It was a precarious balance, a scale that refused to tip in any one direction without consequence. If Jon accepted Stannis’s offer, he might reclaim Winterfell, he might save his sister from the hands of a monster, and I would get my revenge and finally finish my duty. But he would leave the Wall without a Commander wise enough to make common cause with the Wildlings to hold it against the Others. 

But if he refused…

If he refused, he would remain here, bound by the oaths of the Night’s Watch, while Ramsay Bolton did as he pleased with his sister. The Wall might stand, but it would stand over a North still held by the Boltons, a North that would probably try to tear itself apart in the coming Winter. 

"You’re right," I said finally. "It’s more complicated than I thought."

Jon let out a dry, humorless breath. "That’s an understatement."

I ran a hand through my beard, thinking.

There had to be a way to thread the needle, to find a path that did not demand one sacrifice over another. Stannis Baratheon was a man of rigid principles, but even he must have understood the value of compromise when the stakes were this high.

"You don’t have to decide tonight," I said at last. "Don’t act harshly. Take another day to think it through."

Chapter Text

Jon 

The King's Tower had always felt colder than the rest of Castle Black, ever since King Stannis Baratheon, First of His name took it over. A strange thing, that—snows and wind were constants at the Wall, but the chamber where Stannis Baratheon held court had a deeper kind of chill. It was not the cold of snow on flesh or ice in the lungs, more like standing in a room where King's judgment was passed, and blood of the guilty alone might thaw the floor.

Jon Snow climbed the stairs two at a time, the leather soles of his boots silent on the stone. The summons had come with the dark warnings, immediate and heavy. King's squire had brought it—no seal, just words, that Stannis demanded his presence. Jon had not needed more.

At the landing, two knights flanked the heavy oak door, their armor rimed with cold. One was Ser Godry Farring, his bulk like a tree trunk molded from iron. The other bore no sigil Jon knew. They didn’t speak. Just waved him in.

He pushed open the door and entered.

Inside, the room was lit only by the fire at the hearth and a trio of high-standing candles that guttered in the draft. Stannis Baratheon sat behind a thick oak table cluttered with maps, ravenscrolls, and a goblet of untouched wine. His face, sharp as iron, betrayed nothing—yet burned those cold eyes. Fury, or perhaps disappointment. Jon couldn't tell how he might have done offended the King today.

Ser Richard Horpe stood to the King's right, face stern and unmoving. To the left were Rurik Asheart and Asher Forrester, stalwart men, Northern loyalists. Behind the King, still and silent, stood Melisandre of Asshai. Red robes, red eyes, red lips. A flame cloaked in flesh.

They were all watching him.

Jon went to one knee, lowering his head. “Your Grace.”

He expected to be told to rise. Instead, found silence. Stannis watched him for a long moment, the crackle of flame filling the void.

“You will listen carefully, Lord Commander,” the King chewed the words out. “For I will not repeat myself.”

Jon said nothing, remaining bowed.

Stannis’s words came sharp and deliberate. “Mance Rayder’s life is forfeit. By law, by oath, by his own betrayal. Yet… I have chosen to stay my hand. For now.”

That drew Jon’s eyes upward, even if his body stayed knelt. He blinked.

“There will be a trial,” the King went on. “Mance shall speak for himself. If he gives me what I need—command of the wildlings, their oaths to settle in peace, and loyalty sealed in blood—he will live. In chains. Under guard. As a prisoner of the Watch. After the War, he may get his freedom back. His son will remain a hostage of the crown till then.”

Jon felt something shift in his chest, too complex to name. Mance, spared? It seemed impossible. Just last week, Southerners were betting on how much the King Beyond the Wall will scream when he burns. Jon had steeled himself to do what duty demanded, to watch a man burn for choices that he himself might have made, had his path bent another way. Mance was a traitor no doubt, but even he didn't deserve to go out like that, screaming and clawing at his own flesh.

And now… Stannis had chosen mercy.

“My men will remain,” Stannis continued. “Fifty are already at Eastwatch, guarding my queen. I shall leave another fifty at Castle Black, and same at the Shadow Tower. That ought to be enough to give you the much needed help to bolster your defence. The Night’s Watch will no longer stand alone when I leave to deal with my other foes."

Still Jon stayed silent, absorbing the generous offer.

“You may rise.”

He stood slowly. Melisandre’s eyes burned into him like coals. Rurik and Asher looked strangely hopeful. Horpe’s hand rested lightly on his sword, casual, but not careless.

Stannis’s eyes never left him.

“All of this, Jon Snow, is yours. The protection of the my men. The strength of the wildlings if you can get them to help you defend the Wall. The forgiveness of the King for them. Settle in peace. In return, you will swear your sword to me. Here. Right now.”

Jon’s breath caught.

“You will kneel and rise as Jon Stark. Lord of Winterfell. Warden of the North. The gods you cling to may remain yours if you must keep them. That much I will allow. Even I can't turn a stubborn goat into a horse, no matter how much I try."

Even Melisandre blinked at that. It was surely her idea to make Jon accept the Lord of Light as his god. But Stannis had crossed out that demand.

Jon’s mind raced the same as the first time Stannis said those words. To be Jon Stark. To have the Stark name, Winterfell, a future. To wield the strength to change things—not just survive them.

Yet even as temptation pulled him forward, duty held him back. His shame held him back. Deep in his heart, he knew he desired it once. To be Robb. To have his father's approval. But all of them are gone now.

“Your Grace—” he began.

Stannis’s fist came down like a hammer on the table, sending parchments flying. Everyone flinched. Even Melisandre.

“I’ve had enough of begging. Enough of half-answers and false starts. I have enemies on every side. The Freys hold the Trident. The Lannisters poison the South. The Boltons suck the marrow from the North. And beyond the Wall waits death.”

His voice dropped.

“If you will not help me, Jon Snow, I will take what I must. Castles of The Watch. The Gift. All of it. Those sixteen castles along with their lands will give me the currency I need to raise a greater army. Ambitious Northmen, hedge knights and sellswords alike will flock to my banners once the news of good land along with castles spread. It is not the most dignified way for a King but if I must, I will swallow my pride and see it done. I will not sit idle while duty is shirked.”

The room was silent but for the whisper of the fire. Jon’s thoughts churned like a winter gale. The wall, the Watch, his oaths. Mance Rayder, spared. The wildlings, given land. The Gift, opened.

Stannis had offered him everything. And demanded more than Jon knew how to give.

“I need some more time,” Jon said at last. “To think.”

Rurik stepped forward, voice hoarse. “My lord,—please. This is the only way. The Boltons grow stronger each day we spend here. Without Starks and Baratheons united together once again, the land will tear itself appart. The cry for vengeance for your brother will wither out. At the end, the Wall will fall even if you stay here."

Jon looked to the man, surprised at the plea. There were raw emotion in Rurik’s voice. The man almost begging Jon to take up Stannis's offer.

He looked to Stannis.

“Sire, I swore an oath. To the Night’s Watch. To guard the realms of men. I never had any intention to rule them. If I turn back to my oath, men may call me an oathbreaker. An userper of my brother's seat."

Stannis’s face did not change. “The hell with the bleatings of fools. You were born to be more than that. You know who you are. Unless you are a simpleton you must know Who you must become. Only if you care about your people and the realm that is."

Jon felt the weight of it pressing down. The ghosts of Winterfell stirring in his heart—Eddard Stark's quiet strength, Robb’s warhorn laugh, Arya’s fierce eyes. Ghost would’ve felt it too, had he been here. But Jon had left the direwolf outside. This decision was his, and his alone.

To become Jon Stark would be to forsake the vow he had made at the foot of the Weirwood. But to refuse could mean watching the Wall crumble and the North vanish in fire and snow.

He was torn between duty and blood. Between the past and the future.

Stannis turned over an hourglass on his table. The sand began to fall. A thin stream, pale as powdered bone, whispering into the glass globe beneath. The room was silent save for that hush of falling time.

"You have about three hundred counts,” Stannis said, his voice as cold and sharp as the Wall itself. “Use them well.”

Jon’s gaze drifted to the hourglass. Time trickled, indifferent.

He clenched his gloved hands tighter, leather groaning with the strain. Words warred within him like sword blows exchanged in a storm. He was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He had taken the black. He was the sword in the darkness, the watcher on the walls, the shield that guards the realms of men. His life was not his own. It belonged to the Wall, to the ancient oath that bound him.

And yet...

“Your Grace,” he said slowly, each word chosen with care, heavy as iron, “if I give you my oath... will you swear that the Wall will be held until we return from our wars in the North?”

Stannis’s mouth drew tight. His eyes, hard as frozen river-stone, narrowed. “Are you questioning a king’s honor?”

Jon shook his head, though the weight behind it was not light. “I ask not to offend, Your Grace. I seek certainty. The Wall must not fall.”

“You want assurances,” Stannis said flatly. “Very well. Listen this then: I am not here for mere conquest. I am here because of my duty as King. The Iron Throne means little if the darkness devours us. The Wall will stand. I will see it defended, manned, reinforced. That is my duty—as much as it is yours. I have not forgotten it.”

Jon inclined his head, but the knot in his chest did not ease. The fire popped behind Stannis, casting red light across the stone.

Arya.

Her name slid into him like a blade. Ramsay Bolton was to wed her—or so they claimed. The bastard of the Dreadfort, skin-flayer and sadist, reeked of cruelty even in name. Ramsay Snow no longer. Ramsay Bolton now, raised high by royal decree and Roose Bolton’s dark will. He was the one who burned Winterfell, not the Ironborn. Jon believed it in his marrow now. The entire Wolfswood whispered of it—the cries of women in the woods, the scorched stones, the flayed corpses left to twist in the wind.

The godswood. The crypts. The grey stone walls—his father's walls—reduced to ash and carrion.

Your sister. Your home.

The sand continue to fell.

Robb’s face returned to him, pale and slack, a crown shattered, his wolf’s head sewn crudely onto his still-warm body. Catelyn, screaming until her throat bled, her voice lost to the Twins and the Trident. Sansa—gone, perhaps dead. Bran and Rickon—murdered by Theon, it was said. Jon did not want to believe it, but no news came to prove otherwise. All of them. Winterfell was a haunted ruin, and House Stark turned into a dying flame.

The fire cracked, but Stannis said nothing. He watched Jon like a man measuring wheat, waiting for a weight that would tip the scale. He hated to wait. He hated hesitation most of all.

Jon drew a breath. “The Wall is my duty. My oath—”

“A man’s duty,” Stannis cut in sharply, “is to his people. The realm needs the North whole again. The Boltons are no true lords. They are butchering and burning your people as we speak. You were born a Snow, aye, but your blood is Stark. You can do what your brother could not—restore the North. For the realm. For your kin.”

The sand was halfway gone.

The oath had been his life. He had spoken the words with sincerity, believed them. But who did it serve if the realm fell into the hands of flayers and murderers?

He thought of Maester Aemon, his voice as frail as parchment, as wise as winter. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Let the man be born.

Jon stood slowly. His knees felt like they had turned to stone, but he forced them to move.

“I will swear, if I must. Not because I want it. Rather so that it was the only way for me to uphold my vows,” he said, his voice carrying a shake but certain. “To you, Stannis Baratheon. As king.”

Rurik exhaled, the breath of a man unburdened. Asher Forrester’s smile grew, all teeth and pride. Ser Richard stood straighter. Melisandre smiled, though whether it was for Jon or for the flames, he could not say. It might have been prophecy fulfilled, or some darker delight.

Stannis rose like a glacier breaking loose from the ice. “Kneel, then.”

Jon knelt.

Stannis drew Lightbringer. The sword flared red and gold, its light flickering like fire across a battlefield. The light it cast did not comfort—it threatened.

He touched the blade to Jon’s shoulder, first right, then left. The steel was cold and heavy.

“In the name of the old gods beyond counting, and the Seven—though I hold them false—and by the fire of R’hllor, Lord of Light, I name you Jon of House Stark. Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, answering to House Baratheon, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”

The weight of it was like snow upon his back. Jon bowed his head. The sword lingered a moment longer, then withdrew.

“You may rise, Lord Stark.”

He did. The name settled on him like a second cloak—one heavier than the black. It did not warm him. It chilled him.

Rurik stepped forward first, going to one knee. “I swear to you, my lord,” he said, voice coarse with feeling. “By bronze and iron, earth and water, body and soul. House Hornwood will follow until the last of us falls.”

Asher knelt beside him. “House Forrester stands with House Stark, as we have for hundreds of years. The North remembers its rightful ruler..”

Jon took them both by the arms and raised them. “I have nothing on me to reward your vows right now. You have been loyal to House Stark even when everyone else had turned their back. I won’t forget this. Ever."

Stannis gestured for Devan, who returned with wine and a chair. The king motioned.

“Sit. Drink. You’ve bought yourself a kingdom with this new pledge. Now we must hold it.”

Jon sat. The cup was heavy in his hand. The wine burned its way down, harsh as truth.

“What now, Your Grace?”

“Now,” said Stannis, settling behind the desk once more, “We prepare. Not only for battle. For newer alliances. For oaths. For every measure of war. Swords alone do not win kingdoms.”

“How do you propose we make the Free Folk accept and hold a new oath? Our way is not their way, I have told you many times, Your Grace."

Stannis gave a humorless smile. “Then I shall do it with a marriage. With Yours and Val's hand united. The wildling princess. Their people follow strength and honest legacy, or so they say. If we are to make peace, they must see their side honored. That one of them will be the wife of Warden of The North."

Jon tensed. He had not thought of Val in some time. She was proud, fierce, beautiful. There had been Northern pride, free and wild, in her eyes, something no one could not tame—even Stannis.

Children, he thought suddenly. I am expected to have children with her. A son named Robb... perhaps.

He crushed the thought. Such dreams had no place on the Wall, nor in war.

Stannis waved a hand. “If the girl does not suit you for some reason, you need not lie with her immediately. Though I heard she is quite beautiful. Only accept the match. That is enough for now.”

Jon drank again. “And what of Mance Rayder?”

Stannis frowned, fingers drumming the table. “We shall proceed with the trial. He will speak. If he cooperates, he may live—under watch. If not, the flames await him.”

“Mance is stubborn,” Jon said. “Clever too, far more than he lets on. You will not get easy obedience.”

Stannis looked to Rurik, who had stepped forward.

“I will see that Mance follows your orders, Your Grace. I just need some time to speak with him. With preferably his son present.”

Jon frowned. “The babe?”

“Yes,” Rurik said. “His son. Traitor or turncloak he may be, but even men like that love their sons. Let me speak with Mance. Give me a half-hour alone, and he’ll dance for you like a puppet with strings tied to his limbs." 

Stannis’s brow furrowed. “The child is a hostage. A valuable one. He is not to be harmed. In any way."

Rurik raised both hands. “I will not harm a hair on that babe's body. I swear it. I only mean to talk. To show him what is at stake here. That is all.”

Jon looked at him. “And how will you persuade Mance?”

Rurik smiled, huge and wolfish. “I will reason with him. Much like I have reasoned with you. And with His Grace. There’s always a key, my lord. You just need to know how to turn it to open the lock.”

Stannis considered the man a moment, then gave a sharp nod. “You have until midnight.” "Devan". He turned to the squire. "You go with this man. Tell the guards that he has King's permission to get whatever re requires."

Rurik gave a bow. “I need only half that time. It’ll be done.”

He turned to leave. Stannis watched him go, then looked back to Jon.

"You understand what comes next. The Watch must have a new Lord commander.”

“They’ll need someone they can trust,” Jon said quietly, as if the fire might carry his words to the Others, waiting out in the snow.

“They’ll need someone we can trust,” the king corrected him, flatly and without pause. “You are a Stark now. You cannot wear two cloaks.”

Jon looked down, then up again. “No. I guess not. But I can help choose the man who will.”

Stannis’s mouth curled into something between a grimace and a nod. “Then help wisely. The Wall must not fall into the hands of fools or traitors. We are far from done here, Lord Stark.”

The name still sounded strange in Jon’s ears, as if spoken about someone else. He had heard it in dreams before—Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, riding out with a wolf-banner behind him, his father’s sword at his side. But this was no dream.

He turned his thoughts to the matter at hand. The Night’s Watch had been reduced to rags and bone. Thinned by desertion, starvation, war, and worse. Too many had died at the Fist, or on the ice, or on that doomed ranging beyond the Wall. The voices that remained were loud, but few, and often at odds.

“Thorne is out of the question. He still bears the scars of his defeat by Rurik, and the younger brothers despise him. He has no love for wildlings, nor for you, and even less for me.”

Stannis gave no sign of surprise. “On that we are agree. He's a capable Knight, but he's no leader."

“There’s Cotter Pyke, as you know,” Jon offered, reluctant. “He commands Eastwatch. Strong. Seasoned. He will fight with fire and fury in his heart whatever confronts him. Man knows no fear or hesitation."

“But?” Stannis pressed.

“He’s stubborn,” Jon said. “Born a bastard, like me. And proud of it. He’ll spit in your cup before he drinks to a crown.”

Stannis snorted. “A baseborn sailor who hates highborn ways? A poor choice for alliance. Even if the Watch sees strength in him, he’ll never bend compromises."

Jon gave a small shrug. “Even so, he’s loyal to the Watch. He’ll stand his ground and fight.”

“Loyal to his own sense of law, no doubt,” Stannis muttered. “And what about the other commander?”

“Ser Denys Mallister. Commander of the Shadow Tower. He’s older than most. I do not know how many years he has in bim. But he is still sound in mind and hand. Highborn. A knight, trained in the ways of honor and chivalry. He commands great respect within the ranks."

“A Tully man,” Stannis mused. “Haughty, but not blind. He’ll be more likely to heed reason. Better a knight with a spine than a bastard with a sword, if this front of war is to stand strong."

Jon nodded. “Ser Denys will listen, if not bend. He understands what’s at stake. If we can make him see reason and how it benefits the Watch, he'll agree to our measures."

Horpe stepped forward then, his arms crossed on his chest. “Rurik has kin on the Mallister line I believe. Two young cousins from a cadet branch, but still blood. They could help ease him to our cause. The old man will be happy to see his kin at the end of the world.”

Stannis’s mouth twitched. “Good. Let us use what strings remain before winter snows bury us forever. You will write to both Cotter Pyke and Ser Denys. Tell them the King summons them to Castle Black, to confer on the realm’s survival and oversee this trial of Mance Rayder. Add that they are to receive more men from me. They will keep their posts even if I leave. This will give me a good excuse to thin out some of the weeds in my army. With fresh soldiers stationed at their towers, they’ll have fewer reasons to refuse.”

Jon nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. The promise of men may ease their ire. Even Pyke won’t turn down more spears.”

“And tell them to start working on the  walls,” Stannis added. “By decree of the crown, the Watch may now build defenses. Pallisades. Ditches. Earthworks. Walls, if they have the stone and skill. They will soon get new workers. The wildlings will serve for now. A castle without walls is no castle at all. We will not meet war with open gates.”

“I don't know if we can manage that now, Your Grace. The Watch has lost a good portion of it's manpower. Every hand we have is needeed to hold the walls. Assigning them to other duties means less eyes to watch the forest line."

“You will order the Watch to reinforce all it's keeps,” Stannis snapped. “Every tower still standing. Every ruin worth rebuilding. If I had my way I would have prepared every keep between here and Umber lands. This place is not just a mere line on the map—it’s a frontier. I want ditches deep enough to bury a horse and sharpened stakes to line every yard. Let the Watch dig or die if war with Others doesn’t go our way..”

Jon inclined his head. “As you say.”

"Your brothers may ask about new orders. Might find contradicting to Your previous methods. What will you tell them?"

Jon hesitated. “They will not follow me Once they learn I have a new name. I must wear the black till we have Wall secured. Until the choosing.”

Stannis gave a single nod. “Let no man say otherwise. Your allegiance is your own—for now. Do not speak of your new vows . Not yet. Not until Mance stands before us.”

The fire popped in the hearth, and Jon felt its warmth dim as he stepped back. He had thought the weight would lessen once the vow was spoken. But it had not. If anything, it had grown heavier.

“You have your orders. You may go.”

He turned, the floorboards creaking faintly beneath his boots.But then a rustle of silk stopped him.

Melisandre stood at the doorway, pale and bright beneath her crimson robes, her ruby glimmering like a fresh wound at her throat. Her eyes—red and endless—held his with unnatural calm.

“Lord Stark,” she said, her voice smooth as oil on fire. “Will you see me to the yard?”

Jon hesitated, then nodded. “As you wish.”

The yard outside was quiet, but not still. The wind whispered through the eaves like a dying breath, and somewhere high atop the Wall, a horn blew once—low and lonesome. Snow drifted in slow spirals from a grey sky, cloaking the stones in pale silence.

“You wear a new name now,” Melisandre said beside him, her feet silent on the snow. “Jon Stark. The flames whispered it to me long before you knelt. Yet you refused his grace's offer. I must say this contradiction surprised me."

“I do not recall hearing your whispers,” Jon said, drawing his cloak tighter against the cold.

“You did not need to hear. The fire shows much, but only to those who listen.”

They passed beneath the armory, where black brothers worked in silence, hammering spearheads and mending shields. Ghost padded through the shadows behind them.

“I saw a vision once,” Melisandre said. “A burned Winterfell. Buried in snow. I did not know what it meant. Now I do.”

Jon paused. “Winterfell still burns, in a way."”

“No longer,” said the Red Woman. “Now it's waiting. Beneath the ash, beneath the snow, the flame lingers. Someone to come and lit back It's fires. Lord of Light has chosen his vessel.”

Jon turned to her. “You think me that vessel?”

“I do not think,” she said. “I know what I saw."

He said nothing. Snow fell between them like the silent passing of years.

“You were born of ice,” she said softly. “But fire calls to you. You have your father’s face, but not his path. Your steps lead elsewhere.”

Jon stared at the Wall rising behind them, a jagged blade of frost dividing the world.“I’ve heard enough of destinies. I would much rather live as a man, not as a prophecy.”

Melisandre smiled, red lips curling like smoke. “You may deny it, but it will not deny you. The night is long, Jon Snow. But your fire has not yet burned.”

They walked on, past stables and storage sheds, the quiet hum of the black brothers behind stone walls.

“The gods are not done with you,” she said. “Nor is the darkness. You have heard of the shadows in the deep darkness. But you have not yet faced them. You will soon."

“You better keep these prophecies. I am no king. And I’m no god’s chosen. I’m a man. That’s all.”

“Not all,” Melisandre said. “You are what you choose to be.”

And with that, she turned back toward the tower, leaving Jon at the threshold.

He looked up. The Wall loomed overhead, black and white and endless. The snows fell harder now. Each flake a memory, each gust a whisper of the past. He touched Longclaw’s hilt and felt the old weight of his father’s words.

"Winter is Coming."

Rurik

The wind bit sharp as wolf’s teeth when we stepped out of the King’s Tower. I squinted into it and drew my cloak tighter, but the cold didn’t reach me. Not truly. Not tonight. I felt warm, gods help me. Alive. For the first time since my family died and the Hornwood banners fell, I had hope.

Jon Snow—no, Jon Stark now—had bent the knee. He bent it to the right king. And in doing so, he bent fate. We were no longer whispers in the woods, scattered wolves yipping at carrion. No. The North had a true heir now. Stark blood still ran in it.

Asher fell into step beside me. We didn’t speak at first. No need. His grin mirrored mine, half-hidden under his beard. That alone told me he felt it too. We had walked through the dark long enough. Perhaps, just perhaps, we’d found the dawn.

Devan Seaworth waited for us in the yard, cheeks red with cold, face stiff with duty. “Come,” he said with all the enthusiasm of youth. “We’re to see the wildling prince. The King’s seal is with me.”

We followed him through Castle Black’s dark corridors, boots crunching over hoarfrost that crept between the stones like some white fungus. Brothers of the Watch moved aside at our passing, their gazes down, silent as ghosts.

Val’s chambers lay in the upper keep, a suite hastily converted from a prince's quarters, with broken battlements. Two seasoned man-at-arms guarded the door, hands on hilts. Devan raised the king’s seal—Stannis’s stag crowned in fire. The elder of the two nodded and opened the door.

Warmth met us like a punch. Braziers glowed on all sides, burning pine resin and old straw. The room was simple—fur rugs, roughspun curtains, a cradle carved from driftwood—but it felt more lived-in than half the barracks of Castle Black. The scent of warm milk clung to the air.

A girl sat on the pallet, cradling the infant to her breast. Gilly, the wildling girl. Wide-eyed and trembling, her hands trembled with every breath. Beside her, stood a plump, timid-looking boy in Night’s Watch blacks—Samwell Tarly, Jon's friend. The one who’d helped Jon with the wildlings, the ravens, the Old Bear’s books. Tarly had the look of a man who was afraid of almost everything. Even of Gilly. I was so giddy with happiness that a childish thought crossesd my mind; how would the fat boy react if I suddenly got to his face and started barking? Probably piss his britches. It took me quite some willpower to not to prank Tarly. 

And then there was Val.

She stood tall near the hearth, wrapped in white-and-gray furs that clung to her like a wolf’s own pelt. Hair like gold was braided behind her head, fastened with bits of antler and bone. Her face was as still as carved marble, save the blue eyes—sharp, proud, wild. Eyes that made you think of frostbitten lakes and knife-thin ice cracking underfoot.

She did not curtsey. Did not flinch either. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Asher stepped forward with his usual careful grace. “We’ve a need for the child, my lady. By the king’s command.”

Gilly clutched the boy tighter, her eyes wide, darting between us as if she might vanish into the stone walls through sheer fear alone. Her fingers curled around the babe like roots clinging to earth. Samwell Tarly stepped between us with trembling hands and an uncertain brow, his girth blocking little and offering less. A brave man in the wrong skin. Or a coward playing at a hero’s game.

Val looked like none of that. She stood taller than I expected, chin lifted, long golden hair falling over her shoulders in untamed waves. 

"Are you going to burn him, then?" she asked, voice a knife’s edge, rough with anger and yet cold with something colder than rage. "Is that it? To feed the flames of your red witch?"

"Of course not, my lady." I assured her as best I could. "We merely have a use for him. He won't be harmed in any way." 

"Why take him, then?"

"To see his father."

She stilled, not a flinch—but a stillness I knew well. The same stillness I’d seen in hounds before they leapt for the throat. A twitch in the neck. Breath held. The chill before the pounce. She was considering if she could grab something sharp and stab me with it. 

"Mance is to die. Is he?" she said. "You’re giving him his son so he can see him before the fire swallows him."

"Just the opposite. The king has a proposal. Mance may yet live. Seeing the boy might sway him."

Her arms folded across her chest, though her fists remained clenched. "And if he refuses? Will you kill them both?"

"We don’t kill babes," I said.

"The red witch might."

The room froze at that, even the hearth fire seeming to dim for a moment.

"Not today. Not this one." I stepped closer, careful not to startle Gilly or draw Sam’s panicked hands toward any weapon he didn’t know how to use. "The King wants the King-Beyond-the-Wall to speak words of peace. To kneel. Seeing his son may make him do it."

"You know nothing of Mance Rayder," Val said. "You think the sight of a suckling babe will make him bend?"

"No. But the sight of his son might make him see reason. Unless he is a damn fool, that is." 

She studied me. She had a wildling’s stare—honest in its own hard way. Honest and unforgiving. As if she’d already judged me and found me just barely worth the breath I was stealing.

"Swear to me. If you are a man of honor," she said at last. "Swear he’ll come back. Whole. Unharmed. Or someday I’ll find you and take out your heart with my bare hands."

"I swear." I let my words fall with the weight of steel. "On my name. Rurik of House Asheart. On the old gods. Yours and mine. He will be returned to you. Safe."

Asher stepped forward and raised his hand as well. "I swear by old the gods too. We’re men of the North. We keep our oaths."

She turned to Gilly. "Let him go."

The girl whimpered. "He’s not done nursing—"

"He will eat again. Hand him over."

Gilly moved like a woman in a trance, slow, shaking, all instinct and no thought. She wrapped the babe in a bundle of rough wool and held him up. I took him from her, gently, cradling him the way I had seen my sister had once cradled her son before the war. He was smaller than I expected, but solid, a soft warmth against my arms. The kind of warmth that could melt hard men, if you let it.

The child blinked up at me. His eyes were dark grey, unreadable. 

"A good looking child," I murmured. "Strong. He’ll do."

Devan finally stirred from his corner. He had the King’s seal, and looked relieved that where no steel had been drawn—yet.

As we turned, I felt Val’s gaze follow me, heavy as chainmail. She didn’t believe me, not fully. But she believed the child was safer in my arms than in Melisandre’s fire, and that was enough for her. 

We left the chamber. The door thudded shut behind us, sealing in the heat, the tension. The corridor outside was colder than I remembered. Wind slithered through the cracks in the stone like ghosts. The weight of the child in my arms made me keenly aware of every step I took. One stumble, one careless trip on those icy black stairs, and kingdoms might fall.

Asher matched my stride, boots crunching softly over the frost-laced floor. "You going to play soft, then?" he asked. "Show Mance the boy and beg him to see reason?"

"I will not beg."

"No, you will try to reason. I just do not know if that will work."

"If he is not a stupid man, it will work."

"And if he is not?"

"Then I do what I must."

"You’ll threaten the babe."

"Only if I have to." 

He gave me a long look, the kind he gave before riding for an ambush or laying steel to a man’s throat.

"You will have to break him then."

"I will do whatever is necessary to win. At least in this case."

There was nothing else to say. We walked in silence, the torches throwing flickers of orange light against black stone. The scent of oil, damp wool, and old blood lingered like a second skin in these halls.

The child stirred, his lips smacking softly, eyes fluttering but not waking. His skin was pale but healthy, his cheeks touched with just enough red to mark life’s fire. A beautiful boy. It had been so long since I had seen a newborn babe. It reminded me of my nephew in Mallister lands. I hope they were safe. My sister and her family. I didn't have the heart to tell her of mother's death yet.

The deeper we went, the fewer guards we passed. The old part of Castle Black hadn’t been used much in years, but it suited Stannis’s sense of judgment—stone walls, silence, and the scent of cold steel. If men were broken here, no one would hear.

The guards outside the chamber were sour-faced men, hard-eyed and cold as the wind off the Bay of Seals. They wore the crimson of Queen’s Men and bore their bronze stags like a brand, their gazes sharp with suspicion.

“He’s chained,” one of them said when we halted before the heavy oaken door, “but he’s got space to pace. Arms and legs are fettered, but he can move well enough to piss in the pot.”

I nodded. “Good. It was wise to let him keep his dignity, what little’s left.”

Asher shifted beside me, the child in his arms wrapped tight in wool and fur, his tiny breaths misting in the cold air.

“You wait here,” I told him. “Outside. I will call you when I need to. If he’s of a mind to gut someone, let it be me.”

The chamber smelled of boiled meat and damp wool. A small brazier burned, not enough but the walls held warmth somehow—perhaps from the furs lining the stone or from the man himself. He sat on a threadbare rag that might once have been a cloak, arms resting on his knees, shackles clinking when he moved. His hands were broad, knuckles scraped. The iron bit into his wrists.

Yet he was not broken.

He looked up as I stepped in, sharp-eyed, weary, but not cowed. A few lines marked his face, hair shot through with grey, but there was a stubborn vitality in him, like a mountain that refused to crumble. His eyes reminded me of Jon Snow’s—cold and keen, with grey granite strength s behind them.

“Who are you?” he asked.

I let the silence hang, letting my gaze take the full measure of the man. He looked more innkeeper than king, truth be told. A bit lean, perhaps, but not starving. Stannis, it seemed, did not mistreat his prisoners. A pot was faintly in the corner, likely cabbage soup, and furs blanketed the far wall. Not comfort, but not cruelty either.

“A Northman,” I replied at last. “That’s all you need know.”

He snorted. “You smell of pine and cold earth. Aye, Northman then. What do you want?”

I stepped further in and crouched near him, tossing a fur down before sitting cross-legged. As I did, a silver stag slipped from my sleeve and clinked onto the stone.

He didn’t move. Didn’t glance at it. His eyes stayed fixed on mine. Hmm. Jon Stark was right.

I reached into my satchel and pulled out a skin of wine. “A drink?”

He gave a lopsided smile. “If it’s not poisoned.”

I pulled the stopper, took a swig myself, then held it out. He accepted it, slow and watchful, sniffed, sipped. A small noise escaped his throat. “Northern raspberries. Proper wine.”

“Proper soil too,” I said. “Cold makes it sweeter, so they say.”

He drank again, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not why you’re here, though. Stannis has an offer, doesn’t he?”

I didn’t answer. Just watched the way his face moved—creases by the mouth, a twitch at the brow. He was waiting, but he already knew. The former King was smart. Men like Mance Rayder don’t wait to be told. They play the tune before the piper calls.

“We talked him out of burning you,” I said. “For now.”

The smile dropped like a stone in a pond. “Burning?”

“Aye.”

He looked down, lips pressed thin. “Not how I thought it would end. Bad way to go. But better than the gibbet, I suppose. Cleaner.”

“It does not have to be the end. Not yet.”

I leaned forward, took the wineskin back, and drank. The wine had gone lukewarm in the chill, but the bite remained.

“He’ll offer mercy,” I said. “Of a sort. You deny your kingship. Tell your people to bend the knee. Admit your crimes—raiding, killing, thieving. You yield, and they live. They settle in the Gift, behind the Wall. They will help the Watch to hold it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And me?”

“You stand trial. You’ll be sentenced. Imprisonment, not death. But your boy...” My tongue clung to the roof of my mouth, as though the words had frozen there. “He stays with the King. A guest, they’ll call him. A hostage, more truthfully.”

A long pause. Mance looked past me, toward the flickering shadows the brazier casted on the stone. Fingers drummed once against his chain. Then again. Like a man marking time before a leap into deep waters.

“And if I say no?”

“Then the flames come back into it.”

A flicker in his eyes then. Not fear—not yet. The same look I’d seen on the face of condemned men who’d tried to sing in their final hour and found the tune lost to their throat.

The silence stretched between us, long and brittle. Finally, his voice returned, low and rough. “And what of Jon Snow?”

I met his gaze and nodded. “He has bent the knee. He’ll marry Val.”

The firelight played against his cheekbones, shadowing the anger that bloomed behind his eyes. For a moment I thought he might scream, or strike me with his chained hands, or curse the gods. But all he did was let out a long, heavy sigh, and lean back against the cold wall like a man with nothing left to lean on.

“It’s a noble offer,” he said at last.

I waited.

“But I won’t take it.”

I should have expected it, but somehow, I hadn’t. I felt my jaw tense, and heat creep up my neck.

“You’d let your people die when you know your actions could save them? Men, women, children, old folks. All?" 

“I’d rather let them decide.” He said it quietly, but firm. “They chose me because I didn’t kneel. Because I wouldn’t kneel. I can’t bring them this sort of servitude. Not now. Not after all we’ve been through.”

I curled my hand into a fist around the wineskin. “Whole lot of them will die. Those who will follow your principle and let their pride get in the way. Proud fools, yes. But they won't stay dead. They'll rise back with blue eyes and cold dead hands." 

He shook his head. “Not all. Most will take the offer, once I’m gone. Once I’m out of the way. Better that, than be remembered a traitor.”

“You were their king. Their leader. Do the right thing. Just as Starks did when the Targaryen whores threatened them with dragons. They swalloed pride for their charges survival." 

“Aye. That’s why I can’t do it. If I take this offer, I’m no longer their king. I’m a traitor who turned cloak for safety. All Free Folk would spit on a man like that." 

“A dead king does no good to anyone.”

He shrugged, a rustle of chain and fur. “A dead man still has honor.”

“You’ll be remembered as a fool.”

His laugh was bitter and without warmth. “Worse things.”

I rubbed my temple. “Gods.”

These Free Folk thought themselves clever, thought their pride and stubbornness would carry them through ice and fire both. But pride didn’t fill bellies or hold walls. It didn’t warm babes at night. It didn’t stop steel or flame. I’d seen proud men bleeding out in the snow, dying with a curse on their lips and a sword too heavy to lift. Every corpse I’d buried north of the Neck had some measure of pride to rot with.

“All men kneel,” I tried my best to convince Mance. “To land. To love. To lord or to legacy. Free Folk say they don’t, but that’s just a song. A pretty one, sung over the bones of children.”

He said nothing, and the silence returned, thick as smoke. The chamber seemed colder than before. The fire in the torch had shrunk to a whisper. Even the stone felt old.

I took one last pull of the wine and stood. My knees cracked as I rose.

“I’ll ask one more time.”

He looked at me, and in that look was everything. Ice, grief, pride, defeat. A man about to lose all and too stubborn to bargain for even a splinter of it.

“I’ve answered.”

I sighed, and it felt like something inside me cracked, just a little. “Asher,” I called. “Bring him in.”

The door groaned open. Asher stepped into the light, his boots quiet against the stone, the child in his arms a bundle of wool and breath.

Mance saw the shape in his arms and straightened, chains rattling like dry bones.

The babe squirmed, little fists rising. He made a soft noise—half cry, half gurgle. A newborn sound. Fragile and full of promise.

Asher came close, slow, like approaching a wild beast. “He’s yours.”

Mance stared at the child as though he were looking through time itself. His eyes traced the boy’s face, the fluff of dark hair, the twitching hands. He did not blink.

He said nothing.

I watched him. I waited for something—rage, tears, a plea, anything. There was none. Only stillness. Only the long, slow erosion of a man who had kept his spine straight through war and death and winter, now being undone by the weight of silence and blood.

“Think on his future,” I said. My voice caught a little at the edge. “He’s got one, if you choose it.”

Still he said nothing. Not a sound.

His eyes never left the boy.

“He will never know you. If you die here,” I went on. “He’ll grow up a guest among enemies, raised by men who’ll tell him his father was a fool who chose pride over blood.”

A blink. A shift of the jaw. Still nothing.

“I’m not here because I believe in mercy,” I said. “I came because I’m desperate. We need you to do this. Because if you say yes, we might hold the Wall. Because if you say yes, we might save a thousand lives. Your people. Mine. The boy’s.”

His breath hitched, just barely. The chains trembled. The babe whimpered.

“I don’t have time to come back again. I need an answer, Mance. A proper one.”

The fire guttered in its sconce, and for a moment the shadows swallowed his face. He looked not like a king then, not even a man—just a weight, just a silence too thick to carry.

And still, he said nothing.

Asher shifted his stance, glancing at me with a question behind his eyes.

“I had hoped,” I finally said, voice raw from wine and weariness, “you’d see sense. You haven’t. And if you’re no use to me, your boy’s even less. Unless…”

The flames crackled in the brazier. Not a great fire—barely more than embers lapping at dry wood—but it was fire nonetheless. It drew the eye.

“…perhaps a little pain would make you reconsider." 

Mance turned slowly. No jest in his face. No sneer. Just silence, and the hard ticking of thought behind his eyes. He did not speak. I didn’t expect him to.

“I don’t want to harm the babe,” I went on. “But I will. If I must.”

The words tasted of iron. I almost spat them out. Cold, cruel, and ugly—more threat than promise, more knife than tongue—but they were mine. And worse, they were true. I saw it in myself, in that moment. The man I could become. The man I already was. It chilled me more than the frost crawling down the Wall. 

Mance's gaze dropped to the fire. He saw it too.

He moved then. A sudden lunge, like a bear broken loose from its trap, rusted links shrieking as he threw himself forward. But he was slower than he must have been, slower than his prime, healthy state. The chains held fast, and so did I.

I met him with a hard right, knuckles crunching bone. His jaw gave way beneath it. He crumpled like wet parchment, landing flat and dumbstruck on the stone.

“That,” I muttered, shaking the sting from my hand, “was a stupid fucking idea..”

The child whimpered again from Asher’s arms. I didn’t need to look to know Asher had stepped back in.

“Give him to me.”

Asher hesitated. I could feel his stare boring into my back, but he handed the boy over all the same. The babe squirmed in my grip, too small to fight, too loud to ignore.

I brought him to the fire.

Not close enough to burn—not yet. Just enough for the heat to kiss the cloth. The first threads began to curl, blackening at the edges like old parchment catching candlelight.

“Tell me, Mance,” I said, voice steady now, “will you doom your son to fire and pain? Or will you yield, and let him live in peace?”

He stirred on the ground, groaning, the taste of blood thick in his mouth. His head lolled for a moment, then snapped up. His eyes found mine. Then the child. Then the fire.

The cloth caught. Flame licked up the swaddling, eating at the wool.

The babe screamed. Not whimpered. Not cried. Screamed. And that scream—it shook something. Not just in Mance. In me.

I’d seen men die. I’d killed. Cut throats in the muds of Riverlands, held brothers as they bled from arrow wounds in the guts. But none of it sounded like that. That wail was smaller, rawer. It had no pride, no dignity. Only pain.

Mance struggled upright. His chains rattled, dragging at wrists and ankles.

“Stop,” he rasped. “Gods… stop.”

He tried to rise. Failed. Fell again.

“Will you do as you’re told?” I barked.

No answer.

I stepped closer to the hearth. The fire caught deeper. The stench of burning wool curled in my nose. Still the child screamed.

Mance’s face twisted. Pain. Rage. Helplessness. All at war. I thought for a heartbeat he’d stay stone, stay the King-Beyond-the-Wall even as his son burned.

Then he broke.

“I will.”

I pulled the babe back, tore the cloth off him in a hurry. He was red-faced, sobbing, but his skin—his skin was unburned. Singed, maybe. Scared. But whole.

Mance collapsed forward, shoulders trembling with each breath.

I moved toward him.

“Here. You can hold him." 

He looked up, slow, as if he hadn’t heard me. I pressed the boy into his arms. He took him like a man taking up a favourite toy he thought long lost.

“Hold him, fool. Properly. Your stubbornness almost killed him. He’s your son. Not just a bundle of clothes." 

The chains left him little room to move, but he cradled the child close. Awkward, unsure. The babe kept crying, fists beating his father’s chest, not understanding what was going on. But he was alive.

Mance tried to hush him. Rocked him gently. He looked down like he was seeing the child for the first time. He was, I suppose.

“Name him,” I said. “I’m tired of calling him ‘the babe’.”

Mance didn’t look up.

“You want me to yield. You want my son to be held hostage. At least don't tell me when to name him. He's not two yet. It is bad luck to name them before two." 

"The Wall is the last place for customs like this. It will be some time before you see him again. Better do it now." 

Mance waited for a long time. “Eddard.”

I blinked.

“Eddard,” he repeated, looking up at last. “Let him be named after a great man. Noble and good." 

A clever name. Jon would balk at harming a child named Eddard. Would flinch, hesitate. I knew it. Mance knew it too. His future wife's nephew. The boy won't be harmed, so long as Jon Stark had his say.

“You’re not cold or foolish as you look,” I muttered.

The child quieted, breath coming in ragged hiccups. Mance held him close, swaying just enough to calm him. I let the moment linger, just a heartbeat more.

Then I stepped forward.

“Give him back.”

His arms tightened. But he knew better. Slowly, reluctantly, he handed the boy over.

I wrapped the singed cloth around the babe again, now more hole than blanket. He whimpered, but didn’t cry.

“We’ll return soon. There’s more you’ll need to hear. Orders. Oaths. Terms.”

Mance nodded, dazed, slumping back against the wall.

“Asher,” I called. 

He entered, face pale as milk. We stepped out of the cell. 

“Take the boy to Devan. Tell him to get the babe back to his milk mother. And let them know his name.”

Asher looked at the baby. Then at me.

“You were going to do it. You almost did." 

“No,” I said. “All I did was pinch him very hard. My hand was right under his back in the bundle. It took the worst of the heat. But I don’t know. For a moment, I thought about letting it happen." 

The fire crackled behind us. I stared into it a while longer.

“I don’t want to know,” I said, softer now. “Not ever.”

He didn’t reply. Just took Eddard and left.

I stood for a moment on the steps, watching the grey sky spill white over the courtyard. The child's cries still rang in my ears, distant now but not forgotten. Mance Rayder's face lingered behind my eyes, broken but not shattered. Not yet. That would probably come soon.

Then the snow crunched.

Bootsteps, sure and sharp, echoed in the still air. I somehow knew who it was before I saw the man.

Stannis Baratheon stood beneath the portcullis, cloaked in black and red, his jaw clenched like a stone gate.

"You lied to me."

The words struck like a mailed fist. No greeting. No flourish. Just the accusation.

I stiffened. "Your Grace?"

He closed the distance in six strides, slow and sure as a blade sliding from a sheath. "The Bolton prisoner," he said. "The one you brought to Stark."

I narrowed my eyes. "Aye. I know who it is."

"He was questioned. By my men. After the Lord Commander was through with him. You failed to mention the most crucial detail."

"That Ramsay Snow is wed to Arya Stark."

I blinked. Once. "Jon had the right to know first. That truth was his to bear. His sister. His House." 

Stannis's nostrils flared. "You served it to him like a stolen loaf, behind my back."

"I gave him what he needed. Nothing more. If I’d brought it to you first, it would not be proper."

"You serve me, not Jon Stark."

"I serve the North," I said. "And through it, you. Don't mistake judgment for disloyalty, Your Grace."

The air thickened between us. Snow spiraled down, soft as ash, silent as shame. The king’s face was carved from iron, mouth a hard line beneath that closely trimmed beard. For a heartbeat, I thought he'd strike me.

Then his voice came, quiet as a dirk in the dark. "Do not lie to me again."

"I won't."

"Do not withhold."

"I will speak what must be said. No more. No less."

"You do not get to decide what must be said," he snapped, voice sharp as frostbite.

I didn’t flinch. "Then you ought to give me clearer orders."

His eyes searched mine, long and slow. A priest might look that way, weighing a sinner's soul before the fire.

"You’re bold," he said, at last.

"I’m Northern. We do not band words." 

"That much is plain."

The silence that followed stretched taut as a bowstring. Then, with a flick of his cloak, he turned from me, as if the matter were ash in the wind.

"You’ll have your men. Unlike some, I keep my promises." he said. "Deepwood Motte will fall. If the gods show a shred of favor, Asha Greyjoy will be taken alive."

There was no mercy in his voice. There never was. Stannis did not believe in mercy. He believed in law. One followed the other, to the grave if needed.

"You mean to strike soon?"

"As soon as we are done with the trial and marriage. The weather will not hold for good and neither will I. We march before storms start to rise." 

I nodded, though the thought of more marching, more frozen roads and deathless nights, made my bones ache already.

"I’ll do what you ask, Your Grace." I said. "Even when I don't agree. As I would have done for Robb Stark. You are my king now." 

He turned back at that. Studied me. There was something behind his eyes—suspicion, perhaps. Or understanding. Or the tired shadow of both.

"Your meeting with Rayder?"

"A success."

"Explain."

"He’ll do what you ask. Deny his crown. Bend his pride. Kneel in front of you."

Stannis's lips curled, though whether in approval or disdain I couldn’t tell. "How?"

"By showing him what waits if he doesn't."

His gaze lingered on me. "The boy?"

"Aye."

The wind took a breath and blew. It stirred the snow into spirals, as if the storm were listening. "You threatened a babe to break a father," he said.

"I gave him a choice."

"You gave him pain."

I said nothing. There was no defense to make. No lie to polish. Stannis did not need to know the details. 

He studied me like a man studies a blade—not for beauty, but to see if it would hold. "And just how far would you have gone?"

I met his gaze. "I do not know to be honest. Far enough, I guess." 

"You mean to make a monster of yourself?"

"I mean to see justice done. Set things right for my people." 

For a heartbeat, I thought he'd turn his back again, walk into the storm and vanish beneath the weight of it. But he stood fast.

"Rayder will obey," I said again. 

"For now."

"He gave his word."

"And broke it before. More than once."

I recalled the firelight dancing on the babe’s wrappings. The way the cloth had blackened. The way the air had thickened with smoke and fear and screams.

"He won’t break it again."

Stannis raised an eyebrow. "Your certainty is dangerous."

"It was hard earned." 

"No man earns certainty," he said, "save the dead."

He turned again, his boots crunching on packed snow. I watched the red of his cloak disappear into the swirling white. He left no other words behind him.