Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

It's an extra-long chapter.

***

11th Day of the 1st Moon, 299 AC

The Bronze Yohn, The Vale

The birth of his grandson filled the Lord of Runestone with joy. The gods smiled upon House Royce, for there were no complications in Sharra's birth, and the newest member of House Royce was robust and healthy. The babe had a mighty pair of lungs on him, and his bellows could be heard across three rooms. In the end, the boy was named Robert Royce for his booming cry and in honour of the Demon of the Trident.

Robert Baratheon's death made the realm's peace crumble like a poorly built tower facing its first winter storm. It had been over seventy days since Renly Baratheon's proclamation had spread across the realm, and the Vale had not taken it lightly.

"Why would the Lord of Storm's End make such an accusation now?" Anders, his eldest son, had asked when the raven from Bitterbridge had arrived. "Why not voice it when Robert was still alive?"

"A blatant power grab," the Rune Lord had huffed. "Both him and Mace Tyrell. Growing Strong, pah! More like grasping harder. A young man's ambition to drown the realm in blood. Joffrey might not look like his father, but anyone who has seen the boy knows he acts like Robert!"

The fact that Renly was a green boy without honour and only voiced such outrageous claims after Robert and Stannis died was telling. There was scarcely a knight or lord in the Vale over thirty who did not know the Demon of the Trident, as the king had made many friends during his fostering here. This was even more so after Robert's Rebellion when he fought at the front of every battle. Even Bronze Yohn considered the king to be the nephew he never had, especially after seeing him be the first to scale the walls of Gulltown in that battle.

Renly's impudent claims were quickly met with resistance in the Vale, and nobody was surprised that Stark and Tully had backed Robert's eldest. The Lords of the Vale waited, for Lysa Arryn was Hoster Tully's daughter and Eddard Stark's good sister, and no alliance was stronger than the ones sealed in blood.

They waited for the banners to be called so they could ride down the high road, crush the pretenders and trample his bed of flowers and roses, proving that the knights of the Vale were the finest in the realm.

It would be a worthy, honourable ride to earn glory and prove their valour on the battlefield. It helped that the Reach was a prosperous kingdom, and any victory would reward sizeable spoils, especially after a decade of bountiful summer. War was a great opportunity. After such a war, many castles and holdfasts would remain without a lord, and many treasonous Houses would be attained. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the winners would be richly rewarded.

While the Reach and the Stormlands had sizeable numbers, many brave men, and sharp minds, neither Mace Tyrell nor Renly Baratheon could compare to Hoster Tully, Eddard Stark, and Tywin Lannister without them even working side by side. The battles would be bloody but glorious, and the victories would surely be sung of for centuries to come!

The division proclamation of the Rose High Septon and the resulting declaration of heresy from Joffrey Baratheon raised the stakes, but not in a way Yohn was comfortable with. It made everything a matter of faith, not only blood, honour, and glory. Yet his heart yearned for battle.

The Valemen reared up, the smithies worked overnight, swords were sharpened, heavy plate was fitted, and destriers were saddled, but… the call to arms never arrived.

It boggled many of the lords, and even Bronze Yohn was confused. Much of Lysa Arryn's power and influence stemmed from her ties with the North and the Riverlands. Not honouring her marriage alliance diminished the worth of her word. It also dishonoured the late Jon Arryn!

If she shirked the promise made by her hand in marriage, would she shun the duties of the regent of her son? Would Lysa Arryn teach the next Lord of the Vale dishonour and cowardice?

Worse, rumours spread through the Vale that Lysa Arryn had gone mad. Servants were being tossed through the Moon Door for the smallest offence. Even his distant kinsman, Ser Nestor Royce, had been dismissed as the Eyrie's castellan and sent to hold the vacated Bloody Gate following the Blackfish's resignation. It had been a dire insult to the proud and prickly knight who had ruled the Vale for nearly two decades during Jon Arryn's absence.

None of this boded well for the future of Robert Arryn.

The worry heightened with each passing sennight until Ser Vardis Egen, the Captain of the Eyrie and Lord Arryn's right hand, had managed to send riders to the Lords of the Vale, carrying a single message.

The stout old knight worried Lysa Arryn had gone mad with hysteria after her husband's death and was becoming a danger to her son and requested aid in removing her as a regent.

It was almost the highest form of treason to conspire against your lord, as the old knight had done. Only Robert Arryn, not his mother, was Lord of the Vale. Lysa Tully had not done anything to win the trust of the Arryn household, and her missteps had made the situation dire.

Now, every Vale lord and knight of importance had gathered under the Giant's Lance. Ser Jared Dutton, a gaunt and greying man and the castellan of the Gates of the Moon, had allowed them to pass unimpeded if with a solemn oath to keep the peace and shed no blood. The old knight had been a squire to Jon Arryn in his youth, and one would struggle to find someone more leal and honourable in the Falcon's service even if they looked.

Having such a man let them pass spoke volumes of the direness of the situation.

The three ravens of Corbray proudly danced in the skies above, and Yohn could see the Lord and his brother here. The silver bells of Belmore on purple, the rusty anchor of Melcolm, Redfort with his fine sons, the halfway eclipsed sun of Pryor, the two branches of the Shetts, both from Gulltown and the Gull Tower. Upcliff, Waxley, Waynwood, Lipps, Lynderly, Hunter, Elesham, Grafton, Coldwater; everyone of importance was here. The Sistermen were missing, yet they were little more than pirates and sellsails, not deserving of their titles of nobility.

Even Gawen Arryn from the Gulltown Arryns had arrived with a hefty retinue.

Dozens of septons and septas from every corner of the Vale appeared, too, all greatly concerned with the realm's affairs and the division of the Faith.

For twelve days, they waited, requesting an audience with Lysa Arryn, but no word from the Eyrie above came. The envoy sent did not return either. None dared to scale the steep stone staircase up the Giant's Lance uninvited. From both sides, the Mountains of the Moon loomed from on high as if trying to swallow them.

On the thirteenth day, a shrieking Lysa Arryn descended from the Eyrie in irons dragged along by Ser Vardis Egen, his grey plate splattered with blood. The other men-at-arms looked battered as if coming from a fight. All of them looked halfway between disgruntled and uncomfortable.

The young, cheery Tully maiden was gone, replaced by a thick-waisted, puffy, angry woman with beady blue eyes.

The Arryn bannermen all tensed. Many had hands on their swords and maces, but none dared to be the first to draw steel after giving oaths not to shed blood here.

"Explain yourself, Ser Egen," Lady Anya Waynwood demanded.

"Treason!" Lysa cried out, trashing against her chains like a rabid animal. "Treacherous dogs conspire against me and my son. Strike him down; the Lady of the Vale commands you!"

"Nonsense," Egen said stonily. "Our sacred duty is to Lord Robert Arryn. The Lady has gone mad with fear and grief."

It only infuriated the chained woman further, "I will have your head, you Lannister dog! Give me back my son!"

"Lord Arryn is safe in the Eyrie, protected by stalwart men of honour and loyalty. None dare to lay a finger on him."

"We have yet to hear an explanation, Ser," Bronze Yohn reminded.

Lysa looked at him with a measure of hope in her beady eyes, "He's a treasonous cur-"

"Silence, you madwoman," Egen barked before sighing tiredly. One of the guardsmen stuffed a rag into Lysa Arryn's mouth to shut her up. "Robert Arryn is nearly seven years old, and she keeps breastfeeding and coddling the poor boy."

"While queer, that is no ground for treason," Lord Horton Redfort stiffly pointed out.

The bloodied captain inclined his head. "Aye, it's not for me to tell the Lady how to raise her son, no matter how much I mislike it. Yet, I drew the line when she started accusing scullery maids and stable boys of being Lannister spies and throwing nearly two dozen men and women who served Jon Arryn with devotion and loyalty through the Moon Door. Even Septon Eustace met with this fate for some supposed heresy."

The words were met with stunned silence, but the grim faces on the Arryn men-at-arms easily confirmed the statement's truth. The gathered septons all turned disgruntled and began praying.

"Do you swear Lord Robert Arryn is safe and unharmed, Ser?" Ser Symond Templeton's rumbling voice broke the quiet. Lysa Arryn made for a poor sight, still struggling against her restraints like a rabid dog.

"On my life and honour," the reply was without hesitation, and Yohn nodded with approval. "Every action I took was in service to House Arryn!"

"We shall be the judges of that, Ser," Lord Elryck Wydman's voice was thick with contempt.

Lord Harlan Hersy, a tall, burly man in his early thirties garbed in an eye-catching surcoat of pale pink and white, stepped forth. "What of the supposed Lannister spies? The Old Lion is said to shit gold, and it would not surprise me if some servants were tempted."

The derisive words were met with a splutter of laughter and eased some of the tension.

"Men and women serving House Arryn for generations could hardly be spies, especially when most of them never stepped further than the Gates of the Moon in all their lives," Ser Egen waved dismissively. "Worse, Lady Lysa Arryn keeps claiming House Lannister killed Lord Arryn and Lord Petyr Baelish."

"A grave accusation," Yohn noted. "Surely, Lady Arryn has proof. Let her speak, Ser!"

Following his declaration, over a hundred sets of eyes settled on the disgraced Lady, and the guardsmen hastily removed the rag that bound her mouth.

"Kill them, Royce!" The angry shriek made many wince. "Kill those treacherous Lannister dogs!"

"Lady Arryn," Bronze Yohn bowed his head. "Say your proof. If House Lannister slew Lord Jon Arryn, the Vale will have its due. I will champion your cause against any naysayer in a trial by combat here and now!"

"The Lannisters killed my husband," furious tears covered Lysa Arryn's face. "They killed my Petyr."

"Petyr?" Someone asked, confused.

"The master of coin, her foster brother and a flesh peddler," a Lynderly knight explained, voice full of contempt. A debtmonger of Braavosi make who had risen far above his station by sheer luck. Many were glad at Petyr Baelish's passing, for without any heirs, all loans, gold, and gifts he had given did not need to be returned. "He met a grisly end in some alley in King's Landing, last I heard."

Lysa's face twisted in grief, and she kept sobbing, "The lions killed him. The accursed line of Lan, I know it."

"Give us some proof, Lady Arryn," Anya Waynwood demanded. "May the Seven watch over Lord Jon's soul, but he was an old man of eighty, and the Stranger was just around the corner. You cannot accuse a Great House of such a vile thing as murder without proof! Even some witness, perhaps?"

"I have no proof, but Jon suspected the Lannisters of incest and cuckoldry," she hissed, suddenly lucid. "They killed him! They killed him to keep him silent! I sent my suspicions to my sister and her husband. Yet that traitor Stark closed his eyes, took their bloody gold, and chose to lay with the lions!"

The words were met with angry clamour.

"Eddard Stark taking bribes?" Someone scoffed. "The Wall would crumble down, and the Seven Hells would freeze over before that happens."

Everyone who knew Robert Baratheon knew Eddard Stark and the depth of his character. The Quiet Wolf held his honour as highly as any Arryn would! If Lysa Tully had shown herself a wise and respected Lady, her word would not have been met with such distrust. Yet… Arryn's widow had been mercurial since she had wed the Lord of the Eyrie and failed to inspire loyalty. The Arryn Household would not have turned against her if she had a smidgeon of competency.

"With no proof, you try to besmirch the name of the most honourable man in the Realm." Bronze Yohn's voice turned cold, and he struggled to suppress his rising fury. "Lord Eddard Stark would never work with someone who slew his foster father. He would never turn away from his course just because it's daunting! You sully the name of Arryn, Tully, and Stark with a single brushstroke."

"Lies, treason-" The Arryn men stuffed her mouth again.

"It is clear Lysa Tully has indeed gone mad," the ageing Lord Eon Hunter let out a strangled cough. "Such a woman cannot lead the Vale. Only the gods know if she would throw us in a bigger mess than Aerys the Mad!"

A muttering of agreement went through the gathered lords and knights, and Ser Vardis Egen sagged with relief.

"Aye, she's clearly hysterical." Lord Uthor Tollett absentmindedly tugged on his brown beard. "But what do we do with Lord Arryn's mother?"

It was no longer Lady Arryn or Lysa Tully but Lord Arryn's mother. Yet nobody had an answer to that hard question. Lysa was the mother of the future Lord Arryn, the sister of the next Lord Tully, and the aunt of the next Lord Stark. Even though she was the one to spurn all those connections, they all existed, and the Lady of the Eyrie had to be dealt with through careful consideration. It was a little wonder why everyone seemed so troubled, and Yohn Royce was no different.

The Septons and Septas had gathered in a tight circle, whispering one thing or another.

"She must serve penance," a tall, muscled septon with a shaved head stepped forth after a minute. "Slaying a servant of the Gods is a grave sin, punishable by death in some cases. But even such sinners can find salvation and relief in the light of the Mother's infinite mercy. A quiet motherhouse away from worldly woes where she can reflect and pray in solitude to cleanse her mind of this hysterical madness." Lysa Arryn began trashing harder against her restraints.

Yet it was not a terrible choice. Even Maesters didn't dare to claim they could cure such afflictions. Only the gods could heal madness…

"Very well," Yohn raised his voice to cut through the surrounding clamour. "But Lady Lysa must be treated with the dignity her station demands. Does anyone object?"

The Septons all nodded as nobody opposed his suggestion - it was fair and generous. Many looked relieved to hand off the mad widow in the hands of the Faith after a solemn promise of a worthy treatment. Forty of the finest knights in the Vale volunteered to escort Lord Arryn's mother and ensure her safety.

Yet, all the unity drained like water from a sieve once the struggling Lysa Arryn was out of sight, for whoever became Regent to Robert Arryn would rule the Vale for the next decade and could forge a lasting connection with the Lord of the Eyrie. Even honourable men did not lack ambition and had their thoughts on what course ought to be taken.

Not even ten minutes later, a handful of knights and lords had expressed their desire for the position and were already quarrelling over the issue, and Bronze Yohn was one of them. No swords would be drawn here, per the promise sworn to Ser Jared Dutton, but Lord of Runestone did not doubt that rivers of blood would be shed over it soon enough.

***

20th Day of the 1st Moon, 299 AC

Magister Zaphon Sarrios, Tyrosh

His daughter, Melyta, was pregnant!

Of course, Zaphon threw the biggest celebration Tyrosh had seen in a century. The Archon's term was only six years, but the magister was confident to swing the next vote to Varonar. Half a century prior, any Archon only ruled for two years and could not be re-elected, but that had left the city weak and feeble as the Band of the Nine had taken the opportunity to sack Tyrosh, and all the magisters had agreed to change the system once the tyrant Alequo Adarys had been slain and his forces-overwhelmed.

The squabbles around the Red Faith had died off, and the surviving priests of R'hllor had left the city, scattering to the four winds. Everyone in Tyrosh breathed a sigh of relief, for the situation in Volantis was far direr - the bloody squabble in the Red Temple had incited many slaves to revolt. While most of the Red Priests had dispersed, and the tiger cloaks had struck down the remaining ones, the unrest persisted. Many of the slave soldiers of Volantis believed in R'hllor, and some had joined the revolt, and the First Daughter of Valyria was stuck in a bloody struggle.

The unrest had spread into Volon Theris, Selhorys, and Valysar, the surrounding cities under the rule of the sitting Triarch. The Triarchs of Volantis had enlisted many sellswords to put down the rebellions. Yet the Golden Company had declined the overly generous contract and, to salt the wound further, had joined the slaves at Volon Theris, supposedly under the auspicious command of some old sunset knight.

Berroston Selmy, some exiled white cloak or such, with his strapping blue-haired squire.

The worrying prospect and the unrest amidst the slaves had everyone hiring more sellswords or purchasing more Unsullied from Astapor. Many said the First Daughter of Valyria was tethering on the brink of collapse, and a daring corsair king from the Basilisk Isles had even managed to burn the Volantine fleet and sack parts of the enormous harbour.

Any remaining Red Priests had been expelled from every Free City bar Braavos in fear of inciting unrest. Zaphon was in awe of his mentor's foresight - Lazos had just returned with five centuries of Unsullied half a moon ago. All young, strapping, and obedient, and had come with a gift of a young Naathi slave-scribe. Each one was worth the price - if Zaphon had sent Lazos to Astapor now, the cost would have doubled or even tripled with the new demand.

Alas, his earlier failures still gnawed at him. Nearly a year later, Zaphon Sarrios had recouped neither weirwood nor mammoth ivory, Jon Snow, nor his debt to the Iron Throne. It was even more unlikely with the raging war in the sunset lands.

When he heard the Westerosi Master of Coin was recruiting sellswords in Tyrosh, Magister Sarrios was furious.

"They can throw away gold to buy riff-raff but refuse to pay back their due?"

"While influential, your Cartel can be ignored by the Iron Throne," Lazos advised. "It is better to offer two-thirds of the debt to foster powerful allies: a third as a gift to the Archon, and the last part as a gift to the Archonate itself."

A suitably cunning move, which would tie both the Archon and the city to his chariot. A man could be ignored, but the entirety of Tyrosh was another matter. Zaphon didn't care about a paltry sum of six hundred thousand golden dragons, but being swindled was a matter of pride and dignity! He hated losing even more.

Everything changed when Lomas Estermont arrived in Tyrosh with an offer from Renly Baratheon.

***

1st Day of the 2nd Moon, 299 AC

Val, Warg's Hill

Warg's Hill quickly recovered from the attack. After much wrangling, Dalla and Duncan lived in the hall atop the hill, and Val's sister kept her company just like in the good old days. Much to her joy, the Big Liddle had finally wed Dalla before the Heart Tree.

Pigsbane's discovery was far greater than any of them imagined. Salt not only allowed the risen beasts to be cooked, but a sufficiently large amount of it broke the icy magic of the Cold Ones.

The newfound weakness lessened the fear of the Others even further. Though salt was far too rare and valuable to be used as a weapon, it proved there were more ways to combat the wights.

The days grew colder. There was no lack of firewood, so none feared the cold. With the remaining giants' help, Jarod Snow built a makeshift bridge with hammered logs supported by boulders over the Milkwater, giving them broader access to more hunting grounds and nearby woodland littering the outskirts of the Frostfangs. Jon claimed it would be washed away by the spring when the snow melted from the mountains, but it was of no issue—if they lived to the next summer, they could make another bridge.

Three long but shallow ditches had been dug, the closest to the wall filled with running water from many smaller streams and the other two with buried dry wood. Diverting the Milkwater had turned far too difficult, even with the aid of giants and mammoths, for the ground had been rocky and hard.

The Singers had dug their way into a vast underground network of cave systems where edible shrooms could be found. The entrance was under heavy guard lest something slipped into Warg's Hill from the darkness below.

It was a pity all the cave dwellers had left after Jon brought the news of Mance Rayder's death. The gods did smile upon them; the underground possessed some herbs Dalla claimed were very valuable, along with an underground river running into the deepest parts, filled with edible eyeless fish. Yet the largest boon had been the discovery of what her husband called tin. With a deposit of copper nearby, everyone was rearing with excitement.

Not even five days after the discovery, two big misshapen houses of rock and heavy wood were built; they called them smithies, though Jarod Snow seemed to snort derisively every time the word was mentioned.

The Thenns were ecstatic, and Val found herself sewing what the kneelers called a brigandine - the same one Jon had lost to the Others, but this one was made with studded plates of beaten bronze sewn between two layers of the toughest boar hide and bearskin. Val had done most of the sewing, yet it was not as good as the kneeler make, nor half as fancy, but it made Jon happy and, most importantly - better protected than the previous scale shirt, If rather cumbersome. Next came bronze tools like cauldrons, knives, axes, picks, saws, and even chisels, which turned out to be of great help with everything.

Bronze was even more valuable than steel and salt in the true North - if you kept it well, it could last for decades. Any bending could be beaten back into shape, and it didn't break or rust as iron things did.

The Others remained quiet, and the wights in the surrounding forest had grown even more challenging to find, but the lingering cold kept everyone alert. Slowly but surely, snow began to stack up faster than the scarce sun could melt it, reaching above Val's knee.

Jon had called all his chieftains and leaders to the Great Hall, and they were sitting on the long trestle table.

"The Watch is slowly eating at the Haunted Forest," Leaf reported after Deer, the owl skinchanger, had come over, whispering their inhuman tongue. "She saw a battle in the night. The Ice Singers and their undead thralls surrounding one of their outposts in the night like a tide of flesh."

"Who won?" Styr asked with his usual grunt.

The Singer turned sombre. "The Night's Watch. They wield black glass and hurled green and pale blue fire that burned for hours. Even the Cold Ones who tried extinguishing the flames were vanquished by a hail of green fire and molten obsidian. Deer counted many thousands of wights burned."

Silence descended on the Great Hall for a heartbeat as the chieftains and warband leaders all turned solemn.

Jon Snow guffawed.

Aside from the rare chortle of amusement, it was the first time her man had laughed. Val blinked as everyone remained silent while the infamously ice-faced Warg Lord howled with tears and laughter, slapping the table with mirth. Not even Tormund's boast and overly exaggerated claims had elicited more than a wry smile from him. Yet here he was, the solemn and austere look had melted away as if someone had told the greatest jape.

Everyone looked at Jon as if he had lost his wits, and It took him nearly two minutes to calm down.

"What's so amusing?" Giantsbabe's blue eyes shone with curiosity as he munched on a chicken leg, dribbling red oil over his beard and tunic again.

"Deer said there were at least three dozen of Melisandre's sort," Leaf quickly added. "Men and women clad in black yet with red flames tattooed on their cheeks and faces. They noticed her owl."

Melisandre hummed thoughtfully while the other chieftains turned grim, but Jon Snow hollered with amusement even louder. Something nudged her side, and Val turned around only to see Ghost behind her. The enormous but silent direwolf lazily curled himself around the spearwife, allowing her to lean into the immense mass of soft, warm fur. Val started scratching behind his ears in exchange, just the place he loved.

Tormund burped loudly after gulping from his horn filled with sour fermented milk, "Come now, tell us too. A good laugh must be shared, har!"

"We won," her man chortled, wiping the tears streaming from his eyes. "We bloody won!"

"How so?" Morna asked curiously. "There are more Cold Ones, more wights."

"Aye, there are," Jon agreed. "But if Orell and Deer are half right, the Night's Watch has about nine thousand fighting men, bloody pyromancers and scores of red priests. And they know how to use them!"

"The fighting ain't done yet," Styr Thenn grunted. "The crows have grown cunning and numerous, but we're still surrounded."

Val's man turned solemn in a heartbeat. "Indeed, the Others must still be fought. But we're no longer alone, and there is victory in sight. They do not have overwhelming numbers."

"This explains the surge of searing fire I felt from the South," Melisandre's voice was ethereal, yet the priestess seemed troubled. "Yet the children of the Great Other grow closer still. I can feel the cold creeping in. The defeat against the Watch might force them to attack us instead."

"We are prepared," Jon stated, eyes full of fire and steel. "And we shall continue preparing more."

Soren Shieldbreaker faced the red woman, "Can't you do some of this green and blue fire? Such sorcery can make our battles far easier."

Melisandre bowed her head. "Alas, my flames are my own, and what they use is not… sorcery but alchemy. I am not well-versed in those arts, for the pyromancers guard their secrets of producing liquid fire jealously."

"I intend to contact the Watch." Jon's sudden declaration was met with abrupt silence. Even Val was surprised by the statement, but her man always had a reason, even if he had not shared it with her beforehand.

"We will not become kneelers," Styr grunted through gritted teeth.

Tormund burped again, "Crows are cunning creatures, har! Being friends with them is dangerous."

"It's not as hard when you don't try to kill them," Gavin the Trader lazily pointed out. "They were easier to trade with than the Weeper, Sixkins, and Rattleshirt."

"You would even sell your daughters with your trading," Morna shook her head with amusement. "We know you're a Southron, Lord Warg, but we swore to follow you to battle against the Others, but only that. Why deal with the crows?"

Jon's face had turned into an icy mask, and his shoulders had gone tense. Val begrudgingly stood up from her warm seat and moved to her husband, pressing her swollen teats to his back and sinking her fingers into his shoulders, which felt like two pieces of steel.

"Fret not," his words were as even as a pool of water. "There will be no kneeling or fleeing. But I would rather not be forced to fight the Watch and the Others directly. The Others might not be any good in storming fortifications, but the armies of the Seven Kingdoms have conquered fortresses far greater than this town."

The statement eased the tension, though many of the chieftains looked on with disbelief. Stone houses were often dismissed, but Jon Snow was not a liar. A single look at Duncan Liddle and Jarod Snow's faces told Val it was the truth.

"We're not afraid of a fight," Morna claimed, but her words weren't as hardy as before. A few mutters of agreement echoed in the hall. Yet all the wildlings knew the Crows were a hardy foe in equal numbers. They could win in an ambush with heavy casualties, but the Watchmen were hard to kill with their heavy padded jackets and ringmail.

"You're a cunning man, Jon Snow," Tormund waved his horn, splashing the fermented goat milk all over the table and eliciting a storm of curses, which he promptly ignored. "But the problem remains. Chieftains had made pacts with the crows before, only to be broken sooner or later. And they are all greedy beings, always wanting this or that."

"Any such deal must be made through the Lord Commander, for only he can control the Watch," Jon leaned forward. "Perhaps a simple ceasefire. Or a small promise of aid, if only against the Others. Any details can be decided upon later, but we cannot bury our heads in the snow if the Night's Watch is strong."

Val inspected the faces of the gathered chieftains and leaders; many looked reluctant, but the stubborn and overproud ones had left long ago.

Styr was the only one still frowning heavily. "Why would the crow lord be willing to listen to you?"

"His father is the Stark of Winterfell," Jarod Snow snorted. "The Watch owes to House Stark too much to just ignore him. And Eddard Stark's word is worth ten times his weight in gold south of the Wall, and any of his sons are no lesser. If nothing else, his word shall be taken seriously."

Jon Snow twisted around, and Val was pulled into his embrace by a pair of strong hands.

"The Watch need not be our friend," her man pointed out while his fiery mouth attacked her neck. "But there is no need to look for a foe where there is none. There are plenty of things to be gained-" Val was not the only one to listen with fascination as her man kept talking with ease and ironclad confidence.

His words were simple but to the point and easily enthralled you. Within minutes, Jon Snow had them all asking serious questions and putting forth one suggestion after the other while his hands held her glued to his body. Even Thenn's face had grown thoughtful.

***

Her ears had grown numb listening to all the arguing on even the smallest of things that continued for hours, but Jon managed to wrangle the chieftains into at least establishing official talks between them and the Watch. All of them were convinced of the necessity, even if they didn't like it.

"You've made me fat and lazy," Val groaned as Jon effortlessly pulled her into his warm embrace when the nighttime came. "I cannot hunt or fight, and now I'm stuck with stitching and cooking. I almost look like Pigsbane!"

"Far more beautiful than Tormund could ever hope to be." Jon's breath felt searing on her skin, making her loins ache with desire. "Do you regret the child?"

"Never. But I won't be able to fight anytime soon if this continues," she finally voiced her disgruntlement. "Or hunt."

Jon chuckled with amusement. "Why would you need to? You have a husband to fight and hunt for you."

"I shall not be your helpless southron lady," Val muttered, but her protest was far weaker than before. The two arms around her were strong enough to bend bronze, break steel, and shatter bone; she had seen it. Once the babe was born, the spearwife would nurse her son herself. Val grabbed Jon's warm hand and slipped it beneath her tunic and onto her bare belly. "Do you feel him?"

"Aye," Jon's voice had grown hoarse.

"He's kicking again," she smiled. "My sister says it's a good sign." The spearwife had fretted aplenty, yet Leaf and Melisandre had said much the same as Dalla: the babe was more than healthy. They had offered to divine the sex of her unborn child, but the spearwife had refused.

"So sure it's going to be a boy."

She laughed and twisted to face him. "His feet are strong. He will become a powerful warrior once he grows up."

"I say she shall be a girl." Jon shook his head, and then his face turned grave. "I am thinking of building a handful of rafts. Or at least some serviceable boats."

"What for?"

"So we can retreat down the Milkwater should the worst come to pass. At least until the waterfalls near the Gorge. The Others won't be able to follow us through the river."

Val froze, but her man's words were grim and serious. "You mean to abandon Warg's Hill?"

"Nay. I shall stay and fight. But needs must - if all is lost, I'd rather have a way out for you."

"I'm not leaving anywhere without you," the spearwife whispered furiously, but she found her mouth sealed by Jon's lips and tongue. As always, they were sweet yet searing and turned her mind blank. With struggle, she pushed him away, "I…"

"It's better to have a way to leave if necessary than to need to leave and not have any way out." She couldn't argue with that, but it only irked her more. "Since I am making plans, might as well make them thorough-"

Val was the one to silence him with a kiss this time as she struggled to move her now-all-too-swollen-and-round body atop him while unlacing his leggings.

***

3rd Day of the 2nd Moon, 299 AC

Daenerys Targaryen, Vaes Dothrak

The Usurper's envoys did not linger much and were gone within a sennight. Daenerys felt more confused than ever. Her brother was a drunkard and a fool, so why was she so surprised to find out he had lied?

Had Viserys even known the truth? Daenerys still dwelled on the question, running her swollen fingers through the golden cap of Viserys's skull.

Often, Daenerys found herself summoning Jorah to tell her stories.

"Tell me all of it," she had decided. "The good and the bad. From the Conqueror to my brother." There was too much she did not know.

"I am no maester," Jorah oft shook his head, face glum. Robar Royce's sharp words still affected him greatly. Daenerys still struggled to understand the issue - selling a handful of poachers who had broken the law did not seem strange.

"Yet you know more than me. Tell me more about the Iron Throne and all those proud Andals. Why did they mock you so?"

The bear knight would agree eventually. "Fine. There are three groups in Westeros, each arriving hailing from different lands. Long ago, before the Children of the Forest had used the Hammer of the Waters to shatter the arm of Dorne, the First Men-"

No one would claim that Jorah was a great storyteller, but the lengthy history was enthralling. The simple words were riveting, unveiling a hidden treasure of grandness. Westeros had a long, storied past long before Aegon the Conqueror united the squabbling kingdoms. Little by little, she found out more and more.

Yet, as the time flew away like a songbird, her free time lessened, and Daenerys grew too tired for long visits.

Her belly had bulged even harder, and since a sennight, Daenerys couldn't even ride her silver, even if she wanted to. Now, she was stuck in Drogo's palace, which was more akin to a manse but no less comfortable. The eunuchs claimed she carried two children. The firstborn was still to be named Rhaego, but she had yet to choose a name for the second babe. The only thing better than a son were two sons, and it was the only thing that seemed to assuage Drogo's impatience. Nearly four moons of waiting in Vaes Dothrak had seen him hunting and even fighting against other Khals outside of Vaes Dothrak.

Even so, her Sun and Stars had grown gruff and less wordy than before. Any attempts to convince him to ride west had fallen on deaf ears, and Drogo was more convinced than ever to pillage some lands around the Jade Sea as soon as his sons were born.

Her belly pulsed then, making her groan with pain as if her whole body tightened in a single painful knot.

"Pains again?" Irri immediately made her way to her.

"Yes," Daenerys hissed through gritted teeth, groaning through the pain; it was as if her insides wanted to burst out. She had gotten false labour pains before, but never this strong.

The handmaid hastily approached and checked with a touch. "Water broke. Babes are coming now."

The following pulse was just as painful and ripped through Daenerys, knocking the breath out of her lungs as her vision began to swim. The third one left her breathless as her chambers were filled with fretting handmaidens.

The last thing she heard before losing consciousness was someone shouting, "Fetch the birthing women and the eunuchs!"

***

The Bog Devil, Somewhere in Andalos

"No change," Arlyn scratched his head. "I'm not sure if he will awake. It's been over a hundred days with no change now."

Howland, heart heavy, looked at his friend. Eddard Stark now sported a shaggy beard and mane of brown hair, which the crannogman kept clean. His body was still tense as a rock, and his muscles bulged with strength even more than before.

"There is change," the words felt hollow even on his tongue. "He has to wake."

There was no heart tree here, but the Lord of Greywater Watch prayed to the gods every day.

Let Eddard Stark awake. Whole and hearty, and himself. Winter, almost as big as a destrier now, continued prowling through the nearby woodland, hunting voraciously. He had even gathered a pack of brown wolves, though they didn't dare return with the direwolf for his daily visit to the encampment.

Shaking his head, Howland Reed made out of the tent. The two Stark guardsmen gave him sharp nods, but the slight grimace on their faces meant they had heard the talk inside.

In their boredom, the walled fort was complete. It was formidable, with a slight rampart along the wall supported by wooden beams, allowing the marksmen to walk and shoot properly from fortifications.

They did not lack food - the surviving sailors were busy along with their fishing, and many of the Northmen competed to see who would bring more game, but the disgruntlement had begun to mount. The supplies scavenged from the ship had run out after a moon, and everyone was soon tired of roots, berries, nuts, fish, and meat.

"Let's send some riders to Braavos or Pentos to fetch a healer and other assistance or announce our survival." Such proposals grew louder each sennight.

Yet Howland was reluctant to allow such a thing - it would expose their location, and he did not trust any of the Essosi. Slavers, bankers, merchant princes, none of them cared one whit about honour or righteousness. Even if they did not wish Tommmen or Lord Stark harm, who was to say that they wouldn't collude with their enemies for coin?

While being considered dead or missing by the North was a painful prospect, he refused to risk Ned's life.

The stay in King's Landing proved that House Stark and the North had many foes, both hidden and open, and a royal prince was not bereft of enemies of his own.

In desperation, Howland agreed with Wylis Manderly's suggestion to host games.

The arrows were all saved for archery and hunting, but the Northmen participated in the brawling, axe throwing, spear throwing, outright melee, and horse racing, keeping everyone sharp. Even the sailors joined some of the games, especially the spear toss. It was the only thing of interest to do aside from training Tommen.

The golden-haired prince had grown a whole inch since they had arrived, and any baby fat had completely melted, revealing a sharp face underneath. Under the relentless instructions of the Northmen, Tommen Baratheon had turned wiry and strong and had found himself a spine. No words of complaint and cries ever left his tongue anymore, for they all fell on deaf ears.

Even his pale skin began to take a bronze hue under the Essosi sun. Noon usually saw the Northmen hide away from the sweltering heat in the comfort of their tents. Some even went for a swim in the sea.

Now, the prince's fingers were clasped around the hilt of a heavy tourney short sword as he cautiously fended Ethan Stout's quick strikes. Damon Dustin's squire was the youngest they had, shy of two years older and half a head taller than the prince, and he did not pull back his strikes.

Yet only slight grunts escaped Tommen's lips as he took the heavy strikes with his shield. Even Howland, who wasn't very good with a sword, could see the improvement; the prince had lost in half a minute before, yet now every round took four or five minutes, and the golden-haired boy managed to clinch a victory or two, if rarely.

"He is natural with the sword," Jory Cassel muttered enviously. "It's barely been over three moons."

"And not bad with other weapons," Morgan Liddle thoughtfully agreed. "It helps that he can focus on training with no distractions."

Beron Burley snorted, "Losing is painful, so it's only natural he wants to win after getting his arse kicked thousands of times."

They watched as Tommen eventually got knocked into the dirt again, but not before disarming his opponent in the last second.

"I'm bloody bored," Cregan Knott groaned from the side, lying on a makeshift bench and gazing at the cloudy sky. To his side, Artos Harclay sat on a small stool and carefully carved a brooch with a dagger.

"Brawl's tonight," Rogar Wull reminded gruffly. "Unless you've given up like some soft Southron twat."

The taunt usually provoked a sharp response, but now it only elicited a tired sigh from the Knott clansman.

Howland did not know what to do anymore. The men listened to his command for now, but it became harder each day. Something had to change, and soon.

One had to be careful what they wished for. Not even ten minutes later, Howland cursed when Damon Dustin rode inside the wooden fort, his suit of plate covered head to toe with blood, and everyone rushed to grab their arms.

"I bring spoils," the mad barrowknight waved to the riderless horses behind him. They had shorter legs than destriers but were as stocky, with their manes and tails far wilder and longer.

Howland let out a sigh of relief as he counted the men behind Dustin - the eleven outriders were all alive, although some of them looked battered and bloodied, and one held his arm stiffly.

"Who did you fight?" Cregan Knott had jumped, bludgeon in his hand, enviously pointing at the barrowknight and eyes ablaze with fire.

"Met a party of horselords," Damon laughed boisterously. "Seven of them, but they weren't much of a challenge, the half-naked fools. Their bows are half decent, I'd say."

"You bloody fool, it must have been a scouting party," Rogar Wull picked up his shield, face grim. "We might even have a whole Khalasar on our heels now."

"Let them come, then," Damon's smile grew bloodthirsty.

Howland Reed groaned as warcries and savage cheers drowned out the encampment.