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.

***

24th Day of the 1st Moon, 299 AC

Septon Glendon, Cobble Cove (The Reach)

He hailed from a small, peaceful village, Grey Creek, in the Northmarch. A third son, completely unassuming, with an ordinary face, brown hair and eyes; there had never been anything special about him. Hailing from a long line of farmers and coopers, his blood could not be any more ordinary. Yet Glendon had been a pious boy, and his parents sent him to the Septry for learning. At twenty, he became a septon; then, at fifty, he joined the Most Devout.

Not those oily, corrupt lickspittle that shamed the Faith in King's Landing. They would bow down to gold and kiss the feet of whores, sinners, and murderers and close their eyes to misdeeds, each more vile than the last, as they gorged themselves on the blood and gold of the smallfolk. Glendon hated it and wandered across the kingdoms, preaching goodness, virtue, piety, and devotion.

With his own eyes, he saw how the Faith had grown weak and festering. How many Septons had become fat and corrupt on wine and gold? How many Lords and Kings cared little for the Seven beyond a few empty platitudes?

Yet Glendon was a single man; all he could do was pray. Pray for salvation, for a way forward.

The Seven heard his pleas and showed him the way!

The kingdoms were rife with strife, and the rot that had taken root in men's hearts and minds could finally be cleansed with fire and steel. From its ashes, the Faith would be reborn, stronger than ever, and guide the ignorant masses to redemption and salvation. The prospect of death and destruction pained Glendon greatly, yet after years of preaching and trying, he knew prayer was far from enough.

Joffrey Waters' decree was like pouring oil onto the already roaring bonfire. The accusation of heresy had infuriated the Most Devout. Rumours of burnings and witch-hunts in the Crownlands and the Westerlands reached their ears, and the true High Septon was forced to declare all those who followed the abomination and his sinners in King's Landing as heretics, with King Renly's endorsement.

He even began clamouring for the restoration of the Faith Militant, but King Renly proved recalcitrant, and Lord Mace Tyrell rebuffed all of their efforts and promises.

Yet, Ser Marlon Roxton was sent with another fifty knights to join the hunt for the Mountain, with their squires leading five times as many outriders.

Glendon was here to bless their effort, provide relief and prayer to the myriad of poor souls left dead and broken in Gregor Clegane's mad rampage, and start addressing the rot and corruption plaguing the land. The bad had to be excised for the good and the righteous to thrive.

The Seven smiled at the righteousness of their cause—the Kingslayer had fallen in the Kingswood, cut down by the pious knights of the Stormlands. May the Father bestow justice on the sinner for fornicating with his sister. Mathis Rowan had also proved his prowess over the Riverlords, as it should be, for misguided souls like the Rivermen had chosen to make friends with heathens and heretics!

After many days of searching and scouting, they finally managed to find the sinful brigand and his men, burning the village of Cobble Cove by the Chequi Water. It was a simple settlement nestled on the banks of the river around an old, dilapidated mill. Its inhabitants had been honest men and women, filled with devotion and goodness… and now they were dead or worse, with very few managing to flee.

The Mountain that rode looked like a giant, clad in his heavy, scarred plate from head to toe, twice as thick as everyone else and more than two heads taller. He rode a giant destrier to match him. His monstrous iron-studded shield blocked most of their attacks with one hand, and his other wielded a greatsword like a toothpick, lashing out at anyone who approached him amidst the burning huts.

Marlon Roxton's knights tried to charge at him, but the other brigands held a steady line of pikes, warding away the horses.

"We must leave, Septon Glendon," a young squire, Jeyck Leygood, tugged the reins of his donkey as they watched from atop the nearby hill. He was a good, pious boy but fearful. "The fight is no place for holy men."

"My Faith shall protect me, child," Glendon shook his head, remaining unmoved. "I fear not the pain of the flesh."

Yet he barely suppressed a wince as the Mountain's bloodthirsty steed trampled over another fallen knight with its heavy iron hooves, as its master was carving a bloody swathe across the brave, chivalrous men trying to surround him. His brigand followers were no better, aiming spears at the unarmoured parts of the horses and using crossbows from the back and side, refusing to fight like honest men.

"I don't think prayer can halt steel," the boy whispered fearfully as another knight fell to the Mountain.

"The Warrior shall grant them strength," the Septon claimed with far more conviction than he felt, as Clegane had now grabbed a hefty poleaxe and was using it to smash into the helmets of the outriders with the blunt side. Glendon kneeled on the muddy ground and clasped his hands in prayer.

Father, grant them justice. Warrior, guide their sword hand.

To the west, the sun sank into the cold sea, painting the cloudy sky red.

Jeyck joined him, palms firmly pressed together in prayer, but his face was getting paler, "It doesn't seem to be enough."

The old Septon knew nothing of war and fighting, but Clegane had the numbers, and no knight could match the monster face-to-face. His arms were long and thick like an old oak, and he struck down anyone approaching. Ser Marlon Roxton had finally managed to dent a piece of the Mountain's armour off with his warhammer while Clegane was butchering another knight, but he was knocked off his horse. A few of the brigand's men beset him like a swarm of hungry locusts, swinging down with bludgeons.

A few moments later, the proud knight was no longer moving… they were losing.

"We should leave," Jeyck's voice grew insistent. "The Mountain and his men spare no one, not even babes, Septas, and Septons!"

Glendon remained unmoved, "No, our cause is righteous. Victory is not outside our grasp - the Warrior shall lift his shining sword and cleanse the realm of all such evil. We must pray harder!"

Just as he clasped his hands again, a lone rider rode over from the northwest, descending from the crest of the hill at a full gallop. He was a large, burly man clad in soot-dark armour, yet he had a distinct helmet shaped like a snarling hound.

"Isn't this… the Mountain's brother?" The boy had gone as white as chalk. "Gods, there are two of them now. Let's flee quickly!"

"No matter the odds, heretics and evildoers must be purified, child," Glendon patted Jeyck's head, closed his eyes, and prayed harder. "Souls pursuing such righteous cause join with the Seven in death. Fear and cowardice shall lead you straight into the fires of the Seven Hells."

He opened his eyes then, just in time to see Sandor Clegane spurring his black steed and charging from behind the Mountain's men and between the burning buildings, couching his war lance… straight at his brother's back, where the pious Ser Roxton had dented the armour. 

Yet unlike all other swords and maces that bounced off that thick, scarred steel, the wicked steel tip sank through.

When the monster who had burned dozens of septs and killed so many men fell off his horse, Septon Glendon of the Most Devout knew the Seven were indeed with them.

***

8th Day of the 2nd Moon, 299 AC

Robb Stark, near the Twins.

Every morning, he awoke with the taste of hot blood in his mouth, dreaming of wolves and prey. At first, Robb Stark panicked, but as time passed, the taste of iron on his tongue became reassuring, almost pleasant.

Marching an army was a novel experience. Each day, he rode along with a different lord, getting to know each one and showing no favour, just as his father had taught him. Most were raring for a proper battle and were thrilled with Robb's decision to leave the infantry behind. It meant far less coin would be spent on the campaign, and more hands would be available to reap the coming harvests.

Alas, the more he spoke with Roose Bolton, the more Robb realised how unnerving the Leech Lord was. His pasty face and pale, emotionless eyes reminded him of ghosts, but his mind was sharp and ruthless.

Now that he was warned, Robb could see it. The man would keep to his vows like any other, so long as it was in his interest. So long as Winterfell stood strong, he had nothing to fear because the Leech Lord would remain leal. At that moment, Robb made up his mind; he would allow Roose Bolton's request to command, but in every battle, Robb would send him to the most dangerous part of the fighting. Again and again, until Roose Bolton died, and the thrice-cursed lineage of the Red Kings was vanquished for good.

Yet such a move was like a double-edged blade. It allowed Bolton to gather glory and fame and take a choicer pick of any spoils victory would bring upon success. Not to mention, some of his other vassals would think him honouring the Leech Lord over them for the glory.

He had left a hundred veterans and four hundred longbowmen at the Moat and rested there for three days to reinforce the old fortifications.

The narrow causeway had slowed him further, for only three horsemen could ride abreast, and there was scarcely any grass or feed for their many steeds. His force was barely thirteen thousand mounted men, yet organising them all was difficult. Thankfully, a few of the minor Crannoglords sent him some scouts that helped navigate the swamps and bogs of the marshes for the forage they would always need.

As soon as he stepped out of the Neck, it felt warmer, but it brought him no comfort aside from the respite of the biting bugs.

Robb Stark was out of the North for the first time since his birth in Riverrun. It felt… different from the North, odd in a way he couldn't describe. Everything looked the same, but a subtle, lingering difference evaded his senses. Even Grey Wind felt uneasy; the direwolf dashed into the nearby woodland as if looking for something and only returned when they were pitching camp for the evening.

Tywin Lannister was not a bad commander… when he had the numbers advantage and the element of surprise. Yet now, he possessed neither. His aunt refused to stir from the Eyrie or raise the Vale. Robb's only hope rested with his uncle and grandfather.

According to his lessons, the Riverlands was a quarrelsome land, only able to unite before a common foe. His mother's House, Tully of Riverrun, was the weakest of the Highlords because their position was earned by Aegon's favour, not by the tip of the blade, and thus, they lacked the full loyalty and respect of their bannermen. 

Alas, House Stark was at war now, and the outcome rested atop his shoulders, which felt heavier than ringmail or a full suit of plate. Many plans, ideas, so much advice and knowledge, and the weight of every choice rested upon him.

What irked him the most was the lack of word of the happenings in the South. There was no maester in Moat Cailin nor down the causeway, and the three maesters his bannermen had brought couldn't do much either. Ravens were trained to fly to castles, so while Robb could contact King's Landing and Winterfell, the ravens would fail to find him in the field. The latest word arrived with Ser Wendel Manderly, who had joined him with fifty knights, six hundred lances, and two hundred more mounted infantry at the Moat.

Lord Wyman had grown too old and fat to ride and sent his second son instead. 

The solemn yet rotund Manderly knight looked like a feast away from following in his father's footsteps. Alas, the word he had brought had not been good—a divide in the Faith and now half of them backed Renly. The Kingslayer losing a battle in the Kingswood and dying from his wounds was worse.

Robb, while not too surprised, could not do anything but plan.

He was content to send three scouting parties with a hundred outriders each, led by Roger Ryswell, Ser Willam Slate, and Rickard Wells, to screen the surroundings. They had sent him daily reports with nothing but villages and towns for a hundred miles, conspicuously missing their men-at-arms and with empty holdfasts.

Soon enough, they approached the Twins, and word came back. All the Frey banners were mustered but not to join his Uncle Edmure at Riverrun. The two towers of the crossing were heavily garrisoned, and Lord Walder's host was arranged on the other side of the Green Fork.

"Three thousand men," Rickard Wells reported. "Maybe two or three hundred more at most."

"This is the Trident all over again, but this time, the Late Walder Frey hasn't even bothered moving," Greatjon spat. "Seems like the old bastard hasn't croaked yet."

Rickard Karstark snorted derisively, "The old Weasel will be late for his own funeral."

"The man changes wives the way I change my boots. Which wife is he on now?" Lord Dustin groaned. "Ninth? Tenth?"

"They say the Crossing has more Walders than rats," Ser Wendel Manderly snorted, eliciting a wave of laughter. Even Robb couldn't help but chuckle. 

Sighing, he grabbed his Myrish far-eye and took his time to inspect the two castles on each side of the river. Equally ugly, he could see the curtain walls were easily fifty feet, with heavy, iron-studded gates. The drawbridge, the moat, and the portcullis were in good condition, the ramparts were filled with men, and crossbows and arrows were pointing from each murder hole.

A hard, worthless stone pie that could make even an army choke.

"This cannot be taken by siege," Helman Tallhart looked gloomy. "Not without an army on the far bank to invest the other castle."

"Yet this is the only bridge in a hundred miles. The weasels ensured no others could breathe on what they coveted," Lord Rodrick Ryswell grumbled. "If Frey doesn't let us pass, we must turn back and swim through the marshland in the Neck to find a crossing or ride down hundreds of miles to the Ruby Ford."

Lord Halys Hornwood motioned northwest, "There is some woodland half a day in that direction. We can build rafts to cross or even a ferry."

"Risky," Robb shook his head. "We can do it, but it would take a moon and leave us vulnerable if Lord Frey decides to move his men."

Lord Medger Cerwyn frowned, "Then, what shall we do?"

"We wait for Lord Frey to send an envoy," Robb said. "I would like to hear what he says before committing to a course of action."

"Walder Frey shall not let us pass without extracting his toll," Roose Bolton said in the same languid tone one would state the sky was blue as they approached the castle.

"We're in no rush to reach Riverrun or King's Landing," Hugo Wull patted his enormous belly, looking at the Leech Lord suspiciously. "We can always continue down the kingsroad instead."

"The sooner we get to smash some flowery knights, the better," Greatjon's bloodthirsty bellow echoed like a war drum.

Robb ordered the army to set camp half a league from the Crossing, the men lining stakes around it. In the meantime, his ears grew numb from all the advice and ideas the lords and chieftains were all too willing to share with him.

As the sun began to crawl to the west, a sally port opened, and a blank bridge slid across the moat. A dozen knights rode out under a parlay flag, led by four Freys, and Robb and his bannermen assembled under the direwolf banner.

The young Stark took a good look at their coat of arms: ugly twin blue towers on silvery grey, the House which would betray and kill him in another life. Even the Freys were irksome to the eyes, all looking like weasels. There was scarcely anything trustworthy in their appearance, and Robb wondered how he ever trusted these men.

At the front was an older, particularly tired yet polite weasel that Lord Cerwyn identified as Ser Stevron Frey, the heir to the Crossing.

"My lord father has sent me to greet you and inquire who leads this mighty host," he bowed.

"I do," Robb spurred his grey stallion forward. One of the finest destriers in the North, the Lord of The Rills had boasted when he gifted it for his wedding, and rightly so, for the beast had easily taken to Grey Wind's presence. The steed didn't struggle to carry Robb in his full plate, along with the heavy barding gifted by Lord Manderly.

"My lord father would be most honoured if you would share meat and mead with him at the castle and explain your purpose here." Stevron Frey's words were polite, but his eyes radiated amusement and veiled contempt. Then, Grey Wind growled, and all of the Frey knights scrambled to take control of their neighing steeds.

"Why would I explain myself to an oathbreaker?" Robb tilted his head. His bannermen and their sons had gathered behind him in a half-crescent.

The Frey knight's face darkened, "Pardon, my lord. I think I just misheard you making a most vile accusation."

Too proud, the young Stark decided. Aye, they had plenty of knights and swords, but so what? They were not battle-tested, for the Freys refused the call to war in the last two rebellions. Greedy and overproud, and just for some silly bridge.

Instead, he asked, "Is not House Frey sworn to Tully of Riverrun?"

"Indeed it is," the Frey tilted his head. "What of it?"

"When Riverrun called its banners, you did not answer. Does that not make you an oathbreaker?" Grunts of approval echoed from the Northmen behind Robb, and the Freys grew uneasy.

Yet, Ser Stevron was undaunted, "Ser Edmure Tully called the banners, aye, but my lord father is sworn to Lord Hoster Tully."

"Weasel," Greatjon muttered. But like everything the Giant of Last Hearth did, it was loud and crisp for everyone to hear, eliciting a wave of laughter, especially loud from Smalljon and the other younger sons and heirs, making the Freys bristle.

"King Joffrey has called the banners, too," Robb continued, pushing down his amusement. "You dare defy the king?"

"He won't be king for much longer," the Frey heir puffed up his chest. "King Renly has bested the old Lion thrice, and now the Rose High Septon has declared all those who fight for Joffrey and support the Fat Septon heretics."

"It is good that we do not follow the Seven." Many of his lords chuckled, and the Greatjon roared his approval, even if Ser Wendel tutted. Robb knew the Manderly knight would not begrudge him the jape, for the Snowy Sept had not answered the Most Devout for millennia and cared even less about the High Septon. They were as much Stark men as the clansmen of the North.

"Heathens and heretics are one and the same! Even the Kingslayer has fallen at the Kingswood to the mighty Cortnay Penrose and the Stormlords!"

"Some minor skirmish," Beron Dustin grunted.

"Mayhaps. But Lord Oakheart has slain Ser Stafford Lannister, crushed his fledgling host, and is raiding with impudence across the Westerlands." The Frey's gloating unnerved Robb, and even his retinue shuffled uneasily. "Word has just arrived from the Rushing Falls, a village near the small Blackwater. Lord Rowan attacked the Riverlands with a strong army, and Ser Edmure Tully turned to halt his advance but was bested in battle."

"And you should have been there with him," Robb grunted. "Fighting side by side with your liege lord. Victory or defeat ought not matter."

Stevron shook his head.

"It is folly, young lord. Soon enough, the old Lion will crumble beneath the might of the Reach and the Stormlands. Even the Mountain no longer rides, slain by some brave knights. Your aunt, Lysa Arryn, is said to have gone mad with grief that even her household had carted her off to the Faith. Now, the Vale lords and knights all fight to take control of the young Lord Arryn, so you'll find no assistance there either."

Robb's heart thundered like a war drum, yet he could sense no falsehood in the claims; a glance told him Grey Wind did not feel any deception. Many of the Northern Lords seemed… disgruntled by the betrayal. Or perhaps because a lady could be easily foisted off to the Faith?

Wendel Manderly's shaved head had turned pale and glistened with sweat as he leaned in, "Is this true?"

"Word arrived a few days prior, Ser, and I have no reason to lie to you. You need not fight, I say," the old Frey nodded wisely. "Turn back now and return to your North. Does not the Watch need assistance with their fight against the grumkins and snarks?"

He mocked him with a straight face.

Perhaps the Watch needed assistance. But even if it did, plenty of swords were left in the North to answer the call. 

Now Robb knew Joffrey needed just as much, if not more, aid. He had married Myrcella, and he loved his wife dearly. Now, he had no choice but to support her brother, regardless of his misgivings towards Joffrey or the direness of the situation. It was a matter of honour, the test of his worth.

And Robb was ready. The war looked harder than he had expected, but he had made plans for it, too. His uncle better still lived, for Mathis Rowan would rue the day he slew Edmure Tully.

"Some men have more honour than others," he reminded. "Vows are not like wind that comes and goes when it pleases you."

Stevron Frey sighed, his face twisted in pity. "Ah, the stubbornness of youth. You can try to take the Crossing by storm if you dare. My father's invitation still stands if you wish to take it."

"What worth does an oathbreaker's word have?" Robb's voice thickened with contempt. "He paid homage to my grandfather, yet now shirks his duty when it suits him. You demonstrated amply what your father means to do. Perhaps, in his old age, he confuses oaths given to his liege lord with haggling at some market or bargaining with peddlers. But fear not, Ser Stevron, I mean to educate him."

The Freys reddened at the words, and Ser Stevron, looking like an angry old weasel, ground out through gritted teeth, "Very well, then. Only bull-headed Northmen can spit on a hand offered in friendship!"

Grey Wind growled, and they all wheeled and quickly fled to their ugly castle—not before one of the knights fell off the uneasy horses into the moat. Now, the Northmen were roaring in laughter and threw abuse and jeers at the Freys as they struggled to fish out their companion before he drowned from his armour. A few minutes later, a wail from the walls told them they had failed.

"What do we do now?" Rickard Karstark grunted once the laughter died, and many of his bannermen looked between worried and pleased. "Your words might have been true enough, Lord Stark, but words won't make the castle fall."

"Fear not, my lords," Robb smiled. "Lord Frey might refuse to let us pass or follow his vows, but he has generously left nearly a hundred of his villages from here to the kingsroad woefully unguarded. Alas, his poor army seems trapped on the other side of the Green Fork, and it would be up to us to offer our protection to those poor peasants… in return for payment, of course. It is time to forage for additional supplies, for I have heard the march to the Trident is quite tiring."

The words lit a fire in the Northern lords, and Greatjon Umber was already rearing to lead the effort.

"If you can help it, try not to burn the lands or kill the smallfolk," Robb added. "Cane those who resist or try to chase them away, but not before letting them know they are paying the price for Lord Frey's broken oaths. I want everything stripped bare, even the grass - we are in no rush, so we can afford to be thorough. Anything you cannot carry, eat, or feed to our horses and mules shall be trampled or burned. Fields, granaries, mills… The least Frey can do is pay for our troops and fill their bellies before we continue down the Kingsroad. And spread the word - I, Robb Stark, declare that House Frey is nothing more than a band of treacherous oathbreakers."

The Northern Lords and Chieftains bellowed with a deafening cheer, chanting Stark. Logic would dictate he ought to rush and aid his uncle Edmure, but there was sufficient time if the Blackfish managed to retreat in good order. If the heir of Riverrun were captured or killed, the Freys would have doubtlessly gloated about it. Besides, every bushel of supplies they procured here would be something he wouldn't have to pay for or forage later.

Roose Bolton, however, was unruffled and stared at Robb with his pale, milky eyes, "You never meant to pass through the Crossing."

Robb remained silent but couldn't help but wonder. What would his Father have done in his boots? Would he approve? Alas, Ned Stark was lost at sea, just like Brandon the Shipwright, for wolves did not fare well in the stormy expanse of water.

***

10th Day of the 2nd Moon, 299 AC

The Black Wolf, Castle Black

The pyromancers and the red priests almost scared Benjen. The Alchemist Guild was still regarded with quite some mistrust, but even the most disgruntled black brothers could not deny the result of their inventions. With them, the Watch had collectively swelled to five sub-orders. Rangers, Builders, Stewards, Auxiliaries, and Flames.

Every sennight, the Haunted Forest was slowly melting at the Watch's black axes. The outposts were built stronger, taller, and even more solid than before, and when the Others dared to attack in the darkness of the night, they were met with stiff resistance.

For over a moon now, they had not lost a single battle. There had been casualties: a builder here, a ranger or two there, a handful of auxiliaries, and most of them were slain defending the woodsmen. The wights had attempted to attack in broad daylight, but it seemed the sun made them all sluggish and even easier to defeat.

Benjen didn't mind the losses, any more mouths, and they would struggle to feed them. Even now, half of his day was spent planning how to squeeze the Old Gift for more food and use their spare resources to purchase more cattle and the like.

The priests of R'hllor and the fiery fist had proved their use; some of them were good fighters or had queer mastery over the fire, which turned very useful at night or were well-versed in the matters of healing and medicine. Yet their foreign presence was met with open distrust by both Northmen believing in the Old Gods and the Southrons who followed the Seven. Only the fact they swore their oaths and donned the black cloaks stayed any complaints, for your past meant nothing once you are a Black Brother.

There had been talk of a red temple, and Benjen had begrudgingly promised them a small open shrine in Castle Black if they continued proving themselves for the next year.

"You cannot allow these… fire-loving foreigners to have their red god take root here," Septon Cellador was amongst the first to object.

"They are brothers of the Night's Watch… unlike you," Benjen reminded him. "I cannot deny them piety and worship of their god any more than I could any knights or Southron, so long as they make no trouble."

The words always shut up Cellador, but he remained disgruntled.

Fighting the Others no longer worried him, for the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had ample resources. Men, tactics, swords, dragonglass, and far too many people skilled in the art of fire, as Moqorro called it. 

It was politics that worried Benjen Stark and ensured his nights were sleepless. The Lord Commander had been facing more trouble from the followers of the Seven ever since the Faith had splintered, and those foolish decrees about heresy didn't help.

Yet the Watch took no part, and the brothers had not dared demand their oaths be voided—not after he beheaded the last summer knight who deserted to return to his house after saying the vows. Glory-hungry fools. His brother was still missing, probably dead, and his nephew had ridden south to lead the Northern host to war.

And the odds were not in their favour, for Joffrey Baratheon seemed to be losing battle after battle, and Benjen could do nothing. Ser Jaffer Flowers had kept him up to date with the happenings of the South and the capital. He had his duty… and the Watch took no part. The Wall still had to be defended, and the Others still had to be fought.

Benjen had ordered the Commanders to count the charred skulls after every battle, and by now, they had slain more than fifteen thousand wights.

But the worries did not end there. 

His other nephew, Jon. A sullen boy turned man all too quickly was still missing Beyond the Wall with no word or sign, and Benjen prayed for him every day. Let him still be alive, if nothing else.

I am the Sword in the Darkness. I am the shield that guards the Realms of Men.

After the reform, black brothers could leave after twenty years of service, but not the Commanders. They all served for life, and Benjen had sworn his vows a second time before the Heart Tree, knowing he would die here, on the Wall.

Worse, the recruits were not just hailing from the Vale, Crownlands, Riverlands, and the North. With Robert Baratheon's endorsement, hundreds of knights and thousands of outriders from the Reach and the Stormlands had joined the Order. The Watch would be torn if Benjen were foolish enough to take a side and back his kin or one of the kings.

The Lord Commander was broken from his musings when Moqorro himself hobbled over to the Lord Commander's Solar, ducking his head under the doorframe to slip through, clenching a piece of rolled-up hide.

"It's addressed to the Lord Commander. A grey owl brought this to the top of the Wall," he said hoarsely. "An odd beast, for I could feel a second mind dwelling behind its eyes before it flew away."

"Skinchanger," Benjen huffed as he eyed the roll of crude parchment. Wildlings were all illiterate… and rarely, if ever, reached out to the Watch. Usually, some woman or spearwife had whelped a son from a foolish black brother and came to the Wall to return the child to its father.

"I have heard of them," Moqorro smiled, looking pointedly at where Midnight was lounging by the hearth, and Benjen shrugged. "But the second mind was not human. It was far more… primal, more verdant."

A Child of the Forest? And… they followed Jon. If the Children still lived, it meant his nephew was alive.

His heart filled with hope, and the Lord Commander quickly snatched and unfurled the offered parchment.

Benjen's eyes widened as he looked at the neat yet powerful strokes inked in what seemed to be charcoal.

To the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch

Under the threat of the Others, a group of wildlings has been deemed fit to band under the command of my person, Jon Snow of Winterfell. The fight against the Cold Ones has been daunting, but the warchiefs have agreed to extend an offer of… limited cooperation or at least peace with the Night's Watch. Anything Craster offered before, we could deliver in turn, along with an exchange of information and other methods of fighting against the Others-

As his eyes darted down the thick parchment, a pained whisper escaped from his tongue, "Oh, Jon, you precocious child. What have you gotten yourself into?"

And how would he bloody reply to this if the owl flew away?

***

???, Elsewhere

Who was he?

Ice cleaved and chopped and stabbed, splashing blood everywhere. The translucent edge greedily bit into flesh, split bone apart, and pierced steel.

He fought and fought again and again. Why did he fight again? Was it because every time a battle ended, another one began?

Who was he? The question echoed in his mind again and again.

Each battle seemed familiar. Like a distant itch or a fleeting feeling of something you had forgotten.

Yet with every clash, with every battlefield, he slowly remembered.

Who was he?

Now, two armies were clashing on the skirts of a narrow, wind-swept peninsula, twisting and rising into a looming mountain to the sunset. They were familiar, but… for a completely different reason. As if he stayed there in a different, happier, time.

His blood sang for the battle, yet he resisted the call. He was tired of bloodshed. He wanted to go home.

Who was he? Where was home? Did he have a home?

The cool blade in his hand pulsed, and he saw something different when he closed his eyes. There was no more fighting. In a bright godswood full of solemn men, a greying lord bearing a silvery trout on his surcoat escorted his daughter before the heart tree.

He knew that woman. Thick auburn hair, pale skin, high cheekbones, and a full pair of teats. Why was she so familiar?

"Catelyn of House Tully came here to be wed," the father said. "A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. Who comes to claim her?"

Yet nobody was waiting before the sad face etched onto the woefully slender Heart Tree. Why was everyone so solemn? Where was the groom? Why was the young, beautiful woman so painfully familiar that it made his heart twist and turn and skip?

"…Father, wake up," a distant, sweet voice faintly echoed like a howl in the distance. Nobody else heard it for some reason, but it was familiar in a sad way that broke his heart.

With a blink, he found himself before the Heart Tree, and his mouth moved as if it had a mind of its own.

"Eddard of House Stark," the words felt right in his mouth more than anything else. His name… his name was Eddard Stark. He remembered. "Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

The moment the last word rolled off his tongue, everything froze. Yet Eddard could still move when everyone else stilled as if time had halted.

"Fool," a cold voice echoed behind him. Eddard twisted around, only to be faced with a gaunt, greying man with cold eyes clad with riding leathers and a crown atop his head, making his way through the frozen Northmen and Riverlords. A crown of swords, of bronze and iron. He was as tall as Ned, yet his stride was confident and filled with power and authority. "Look how far you have fallen. You should not have taken this Andal for a wife."

"House Tully is an old First Man House from the Age of Heroes," Eddard gruffly reminded, undaunted by the man's heavy stare as he gazed back coldly. "And I needed the swords."

"A bunch of fishermen who turned to the zealous Faith," The King of Winter scoffed. He was a hardy, gaunt man as if he had been starved out in a siege. There was no warmth in him, and his pale eyes were full of death and violence; his posture reminded Ned of a taut piece of old leather about to tear from being pulled too much. "That makes them Andal more than blood ever could. You took an Andal for wife, and for what? To kneel to some Durrandon's bastard seed?"

Eddard's hand balled into a fist, "I don't ever recall asking you about my choice of wife. Nor that it matters. I am dead, aren't I?"

"Foolish pup. You don't even know…"

"Tell me, then," Ned demanded coldly.

"Oh, making demands of me now, are you?" The greying king laughed. But it was a hoarse, cruel sound akin to scraping a rusty knife against a stone. "You aren't dead, boy. Not yet."

"Are you not an ancestor of mine, albeit lacking in manners?" Ned snarked. "One is only supposed to meet those in death."

"Indeed I am," he said. "King Theon Stark. And you, impudent child, are not dead."

"Then what is this? A dream? Or a case of badly scrambled wits?"

"Neither," the Hungry Wolf tilted his head. "Both?"

Ned grew tired of his ancestor. "Speaking in riddles, I see. Perhaps it is not only my wits that are scrambled?"

"Ice preserves, boy." Theon Stark, face twisted in a savage grin, took a step forward, and Eddard tensed. "It runs into our veins! Even a fool like you got lucky enough to find a frostblade, allowing you to tap into the echoes of the past..."

His hand reached for his belt but found Ice missing. "What do you want?"

"What do I want, he asks." The greying king took another step forward. "I want your body, foolish pup. Young and full of power. All those soft Andal Kings shall feel my wrath, and the whole of Westeros shall break before me!"

"You're mad." Ned raised his balled fists and prepared to fight, while cold, familiar rage slithered through his veins. "The North cannot fight the South on its lonesome."

"You know nothing of madness, nothing of greatness, pup. I shall slip into your body, wring the neck of that soft mewling kitten you're raising, and make your wife squeal before doing away with her-" Eddard's fist sank into his jaw.

The world reddened with fury as the man tumbled on the ground, stony eyes wide with disbelief. Yet Ned didn't let him recover and hounded onto him, fists swinging. His blows rained mercilessly: neck, groin, liver, midriff, just as he and Robert discovered how to kill with their bare hands when fighting the Vale clansmen.

Theon Stark tried to raise his hands and elbows to cover his vitals, but his bone shattered, and his flesh gave away. It wasn't long before the greying King grew limp, but Eddard Stark's fists continued battering the broken body on the ground as the wet thunks echoed across the frozen Godswood.

It felt like an eternity had passed when he halted. The Lord of Winterfell stood up, gasping for breath and looking at the bloody grotesque on the ground, feeling drained as his fingers and knuckles dripped with black blood.

"Perhaps you aren't as hopeless as I thought," the cold voice whispered in the wind, making Ned's spine crawl. Yet the words were no longer mocking but tinged with… approval and amusement. "There is some spine in you, pup. Remember the fury, remember the hunger, and do not let go."

His blood sang, and for the first time, he could feel… Winter in his mind. Feeling better than ever, Eddard Stark opened his eyes.

***

The first months of Renly's Rebellion showed the weakness and divide of the Baratheon regime in a manner nobody suspected. Dorne and the Iron Isles watched, holding their breath.

The drums of war echoed in the Vale once more, but they were neither in support of King Joffrey nor King Renly.

After Lysa Arryn was handed off to the Faith, seven lords and five prominent knights declared their desire to become Lord Robert Arryn's regent. No blood was shed that day, but the banners were called once the men returned to their keeps and holdfast.

Some wanted to stay neutral, some, like Bronze Yohn, wished to support King Joffrey, while the rest desired to stay out of the war for the Iron Throne or simply wanted to take control of the next Lord Arryn. Still, Ser Vardis Egen, Arryn's Captain of the Guards, refused to acknowledge them and barricaded himself in the Eyrie, declaring himself regent to Lord Robert Arryn.

After Jaime Lannister's devastating defeat and death at the hands of Ser Cortnay Penrose, Cregan Karstark barely managed to rally three thousand of the Kingslayer's routing army. Penrose promptly pressed towards King's Landing, forcing Tywin Lannister to hasten towards the capital with his forces.

Things were not looking promising for King Joffrey, especially after the battle of the Rushing Falls. The Riverlords under Ser Edmure Tully met Lord Mathis Rowan, each bringing over twenty thousand swords from the Northmarch. Some Riverlords like Deddings and Perryn even declared for Renly and joined the Lord of Goldengrove as he crossed the Gold Road.

The fighting stretched to the second day without a winner until the Heir to Riverrun was wounded, and the Tully lines began breaking. The defeat would have been total if Ser Brynden Tully hadn't organised a proper retreat.

In the Westerlands, Ser Stafford Lannister was left with fifteen thousand men and tasked with training seven thousand more. Yet he was forced to face Lord John Oak and his nineteen thousand Reachmen besieging Crakehall. Ser Stafford was slain after a short and bloody battle near Hollowgrass Hill, and his forces were routed. The losses the Westerlands took were said to be devastating.

Even the Mountain's rampage ended in a bloody scuffle that took a surprisingly dramatic turn as brother fought against brother.

It was said that Renly Baratheon had an eye for talent and could choose the best man for a position with a single glance.

With a divide in the Faith and four lost battles, the future looked grim for Joffrey…

Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on and the Sunset War'.