A New World- Chp- 27 (Patreon)

The air around the Mud Gate seemed to hang heavy with the sudden silence that followed his uncle's fall.

Harry watched with cold, calculating eyes as his uncle was hauled to his feet, his hands bound with rough hempen rope.

The man who wanted to be the king looked broken, his jaw bruised and bloodied, yet his eyes still burned with a silent, bitter judgment.

"Check the ships for my aunt and cousin. They are to be housed in the Tower of the Hand, under my direct protection. Nobody—and I mean nobody—is to meet with them without my express permission," Harry commanded.

Ser Barristan nodded in solemn acknowledgment. The old knight understood the weight of such a decree, Stannis Baratheon might be rebel but he was a family still.

"And what about him?" Ser Raymond asked, his voice rough from the smoke of the battle.

He gestured toward the ground where a figure lay bound and gagged at his feet. It was Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight—Stannis's most loyal man and his named Hand.

Harry looked down at the prisoner with a calculating gaze. "To the Black Cells with him, but see that he is given a separate cell from the common criminals. I need to interrogate him myself," Harry said.

He turned his attention back to Ser Barristan, his expression shifting to one of strategic concern. "Has Arys Oakheart sent my message to Ser Garlan Tyrell yet?"

The knight nodded, he was stood at the Prince's shoulder. The old knight finally stood aside, allowing him to step forward into the clear view of the remaining Stormland ranks.

"Surrender!" Harry bellowed, his voice carrying over the crackle of burning ships and the groans of the dying. "Your king has been defeated and captured! Look upon him!"

He pointed a gauntleted hand at the bedraggled Stannis. "Do not die fruitlessly. The war is over, and my uncle is defeated! Throw down your steel and you shall have the King's mercy! Resist, and I will leave nothing but your bones for the crows!"

The effect was instantaneous. The Florent knights, seeing their champion brought low and the Tyrell lances closing in from the flank, began to lower their swords.

The clatter of shields hitting the muck sounded like a final, dismal drumroll.

But the Hand of the King didn't feel the victory. His heart was still hammering against his ribs, not from the duel, but from the chilling absence of the Narrow Sea lords.

He turned his horse sharply, ignoring the surrendering lords, and found Jon standing nearby. His northen guard was a terrifying sight—his silver armor was a solid, glistening red, and he breathed with a heavy, rhythmic rasp that sounded more like a predator than a man.

"Jon, we have no time for the spoils," He said, and the knight looked at him. "The Velaryons. The Celtigars. They weren't in this fight."

Horses were already there for them to travel, and they climbed up. Him, Jon and Ser Raymond.

The Northern knight wiped a streak of gore from his visor, his dark eyes meeting his charge's. "The Iron Gate," he realized.

"Aye, the Iron Gate," Harry replied. "Uncle was the anvil, but the Seahorse is the hammer coming for the back of our heads. Ser Jaime only has fifteen hundred men."

He didn't wait for a formal transition of command. He looked at Ser Barristan. "Ser, take my uncle into the city. Put him in a cell beneath the White Sword Tower—not the black cells. Guard him with men you trust with your life. We're heading for the docks and the landward walls."

"My Prince, the city is still in chaos—" Barristan started.

"Then bring order to it!" Harry cut him off. He turned his horse toward the city interior. "Open the way! Clear the streets! To the Red Keep!"

He spurred his destrier into a gallop, his black armor clashing as he tore through the Mud Gate.

Behind him, Jon and a Ser Raymond thundered onto the cobblestones. He ignored the cheering citizens who thought the battle was won.

He looked up at the high walls of the Red Keep, squinting against the smoke.

"Faster!" he roared to his mare, the warhammer swinging at his side.

Jaime had spent the morning pacing the streets of the King's landing like a caged lion. While the roar of battle echoed from the Mud Gate, he had been relegated to the "safe" post.

The Iron Gate, situated at the city's northeastern edge where the walls met the sea, was held by five hundred Gold Cloaks. Most were stationed atop the walls as archers and sentries.

Jaime had five hundred men patrol the city, and assigned a thousand men to Ser Luthor brune to shield the Red keep—the total of the city's reserve he had been given.

It was the rhythmic, frantic thunder of hooves, rather than the distant combat, that signaled a shift in the wind. Jaime sensed the change before he saw it.

Gritting his teeth, he hastily climbed the winding stairs of the watchtower flanking the landward path.

When he reached the top and looked beyond the city walls toward the rocky shore of the Blackwater, his heart quickened with a cold, sharp dread.

The sea was alive with ships that hadn't been there an hour ago. Across the narrow strip of beach and heading straight for the Iron Gate were columns of soldiers marching with disciplined precision.

High above them snapped the light blue banners of House Velaryon—the silver seahorse—and the white banners of House Celtigar, adorned with red crabs.

"By the gods," Jaime hissed.

Suddenly, the air was torn apart by a familiar, terrifying thrum. Jaime ducked instinctively as large scorpions from the offshore dromonds released a coordinated volley.

The bolts were massive.

Some bypassed the ramparts entirely, disappearing into the city's crowded streets with sickening crashes; others slammed into the stone battlements. One bolt struck the base of the tower he stood upon, the vibration rattling his teeth.

Rising quickly, the Lannister Kingsguard spun around to look toward the Mud Gate. He could see more bolts arching over the city, a dual bombardment designed to pin the defenders in place.

He wanted to call for reinforcements, to scream for the Reachmen or the Mud Gate garrison, but there was no time.

Below him, the massive host of Velaryon marines and Celtigar spearmen slammed into the Iron Gate.

The paltry number of Gold Cloak archers atop the wall were being methodically picked off.

The Celtigar spearmen, protected by heavy shields, moved forward under the cover of the scorpion fire. There were only three primary ships leading this landing; two were laden with the devastating scorpions, but the third was a massive transport disgorging hundreds of fresh, armored men who hadn't spent the day drowning in the mud of the Blackwater.

"Hold the gates!" He yelled from his vantage point, his voice carrying down to the frantic captains below. "Man the murder holes! Do not let them bring up a ram!"

He leaned over the crenellations, his golden armor catching the dim light. "Get to the Red Keep! Order Ser Luthor to bring his forces here immediately! We are being flanked!"

His small entourage of guards beneath the tower scrambled to obey. Half of them rushed toward the Iron Gate's inner portcullis to bolster the line, while the others sprinted toward the Red Keep to summon the reserve.

Jaime drew his sword, the steel singing as it left the scabbard. He could see the Velaryon vanguard already throwing up scaling ladders. This wasn't a siege; it was an escalation.

"They're in the city," a guard screamed from the wall.

He looked down. A group of marines had found a postern gate near the piers, likely opened by a traitor or forced by a small raiding party that had rowed in under the fog.

The blue-cloaked soldiers were pouring into the streets, heading straight for the Red Keep's rear entrance.

"Not today," The Commander of the Kingsguard muttered, racing down the tower stairs.

His sword tasted blood first, a frantic blur of steel that saw three Velaryon marines sacrificed to his battle-lust. He fought with the desperate, fluid grace that had made him the youngest Kingsguard in history, but even the Kingslayer could not hold a tide.

"Seize the sisterfucker!" a voice roared from above.

Jaime beheaded a Celtigar spearman with a savage backhand swing before looking up. His stomach dropped. The walls had been breached.

While he had been focused on the gate, enemy soldiers had scaled the heights with grappling hooks and ladders. The Gold Cloaks atop the ramparts had been distracted or overwhelmed, and in the chaos, the Iron Gate had been thrown open from the inside.

A sea of light blue and white was pouring into the city streets. The Gold Cloaks began to retreat with frantic haste—at least the ones who weren't already lying in heaps of wool and mail.

Standing atop the wall, framed against the smoke, was a man he recognized: Aurane Waters, the Bastard of Driftmark. It was he who had shouted the command, his silver-gold hair a mockery of Jaime's own.

At his signal, the Velaryon soldiers turned as one, a disciplined wave of steel crashing toward his dwindling position.

The remaining Gold Cloaks scrambled to get behind him, forming a weak, trembling line of shields that he knew wouldn't hold for even ten heartbeats.

"We must retreat to the keep, My Lord!" a guard shouted over the din, grabbing Jaime's shoulder. "Close the gates to ensure they don't enter the Red Keep!"

The proud Kingsguard turned to reply, his mouth opening to bark a counter-command, and that momentary lapse was his undoing.

Thwang.

A heavy bodkin arrow, fired from a longbow on the battlements, found its mark in his chestplate. It struck the right side with the force of a hammer, piercing the gilded steel and biting deep into the lung beneath.

Jaime grunted, the air leaving him in a red mist. He tried to remain standing, teeth bared in a snarl, but a second arrow hissed through the air and shattered his right wrist.

His sword, the extension of his very soul, clattered uselessly to the cobblestones. Before he could even reach for it with his left hand, a third arrow struck his thigh, punching through the joint of his plate.

The world tilted. He collapsed backward, the cold stone of the street rose to meet him.

"Take him! Retreat! We retreat!" his captain yelled, lunging forward to shield his body.

The remaining, probably, hundred Gold Cloaks closed ranks around their fallen commander. Two guards grunted as they hauled him up by his armpits, dragging him frantically back toward the massive doors of the Red Keep.

His head lolled back as he took in the carnage. He could see the Velaryon marines leaping from the ramparts to give chase, their swords held high as they pursued the retreating defenders.

Meanwhile, those who had successfully breached the Iron Gate began to pour into the capital like a black tide. They fell upon the city with a savage fury, butchering, raving, and raping the terrified civilians who were caught in their path.

The last vision he had, through a haze of mounting grey, was another black-feathered arrow arching across the sky, heading straight for the group. Then, the darkness claimed him.

Cersei had been worried sick for her second son. Haridon might challenge her at every chance he gets, but he was still her son, her flesh.

It was probably Tyrion's poisonous influence and Robert's reckless brashness that he had inherited, a volatile mixture that made him far too bold for his own good.

Still, when he had declared that he would fight the war for his brother, she had been scared. She was scared still. He was a boy of sixteen only, just a year older than her Jaime when he had joined the Kingsguard.

In her mind's eye, he was still a boy, and she would love nothing more than to wrap him in a cloak of wool, keeping him safe within the thick stone walls of the keep while allowing experienced knights to bleed for the crown.

Yet, he was as much a Baratheon as a Lannister, not like Joffrey.

No, while the King was lounging in his throne room, accompanied by Petyr Baelish—his new accomplice—her second son was out on the battlefield, placing his body between the city and the storm to protect his brother's reign.

Cersei was under no false illusion that Haridon wanted to save his brother's kingdom.

No, he hated Joffrey with a simmering passion and would likely kill him himself before lifting a finger to help him. It was for her, she knew. It was for her, and for Tommen and Myrcella.

Her anxious thoughts were interrupted when the frantic sound of rushing footsteps reached her. She hurried to the window, glancing down into the courtyard below.

A group of soldiers had gathered there, their movements hurried and chaotic. When one of them sidestepped, she saw a sight that froze the blood in her veins.

Her twin, her other half, was being held up by two men. Jaime looked broken, three arrows protruding from his body—piercing his chest, his wrist, and his thigh.

She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as the world seemed to tilt.

But that sight was suddenly the least of her problems. The heavy oak gates to her chamber were thrown open with a violent crash.

Four muscled men entered her chambers, their skin a shade darker than her own, their presence radiating a foreign, predatory threat.

"Who are you? What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound regal.

She stepped back instinctively until her back was pressed against the cold stone of the window, the height of the Maegor's Holdfast behind her offering no escape.

The crowd of soldiers parted. From in between them walked Petyr Baelish. A sharp, triumphant smirk was plastered on his face, and he held a heavy sack in his hand that seemed to drip with a dark liquid.

"A present for you, Your Grace," he said, his voice dripping with mock-reverence. He pushed his hand inside the sack, his smirk growing wider and more grotesque, and then he threw something toward her that thudded heavily onto the floor.

The Myrish carpet on the floor, once vibrant and intricate, was now stained a deep, spreading red. The fabric soaked up the gore as two objects rolled across the floor toward her feet.

Heads. Two of them.

One was hauntingly familiar—a face she had seen every day, now twisted into a frozen mask of death. The other was unrecognizable, a jagged mess of bone and flesh.

Her hand flew to her mouth instinctively, a piercing scream tearing from her lungs as the reality of the sight crashed over her.

His decision to not place a part of his forces at the Iron Gate ate him up like a colony of termites on a dry wooden post.

The guilt was a physical weight, heavier than the plate armor strapped to his chest.

Every rhythmic thud of his horse's hooves against the cobblestones seemed to chant the same accusation: Your fault. Your fault.

He spurred his horse to move faster, the animal's breath coming in ragged, white plumes in the cool air.

It was all his mistake.

He should have dealt with the Spider and Littlefinger months ago.

He had postponed the inevitable, playing a cautious game of wait-and-see, fully aware that neither the master of whisperers nor the master of coin harbored a shred of genuine loyalty to the crown.

He had sensed the oily rot in their minds, the shifting layers of deceit that even a novice Legilimens could identify, yet he had hesitated.

He had not wanted to disturb the hornet's nest, and now that decision was coming back to sting him with lethal precision.

It had been Varys and Baelish who had whispered in his brother's ear, who had manipulated his mother's paranoia until they had collectively blocked his order to fortify the Iron Gate.

At the time, he had been drowning in the logistics of the Tyrell alliance. Winning the war required the Reach, and winning the Reach required a political dance that left him exhausted.

He had even played a game to weaken his Uncle Renly, orchestrating a shift in power that had successfully fractured his uncle's support, but the victory felt hollow now.

Renly would never forget the humiliation of being betrayed by him, his uncle had trusted him and only the lack of immediate forces had stopped the younger Baratheon from launching a spiteful assault on the capital.

"They have breached the walls!" Ser Arys' voice cracked through the din of battle. The Kingsguard knight pointed a gauntleted finger toward the Iron Gate.

The sight was a chaotic display of colors. The deep, rolling blue of the Velaryon and Celtigar soldiers was a surging tide, crashing against the green of the Tyrell men-at-arms.

The breach was a jagged wound in the city's defenses, and the enemy was pouring through like salt into a cut.

Ser Arys had ridden to join him the moment Harry entered the city proper. The knight's white cloak was already stained with mud and the rest was red as a cherry, though he had successfully delivered the command to Ser Garlan.

Joffrey, however, was nowhere to be seen. The coward had fled back toward the safety of the Red Keep the moment the first stone hit the battlements.

Joffrey had been itching to retreat since the sun rose; only Harry's stern, uncompromising presence had forced him to stay as long as he had.

At least Tyrion hasn't run, He thought grimly. The Imp remained on the Mudgate walls alongside Ser Garrick, directing the archers with a frantic, brilliant energy.

They were the only thing holding the riverfront together while the battle at the gates reached its fever pitch.

The Tyrell knights, to their credit, were holding. Ser Garlan's men fought with the practiced grace of the Reach, their longswords flashing as they engaged the seaborne invaders.

"Jon, Ser Arys—with me!" Harry commanded.

He raised his massive, enchanted warhammer. He swung it, feeling the sore pull in his shoulders.

As they plunged into the fray, his path was brutally cleared by his sword-shield, and Ser Arys.

Jon moved with a terrifying, rhythmic efficiency. It seemed the man wasn't nearly as tired from the previous skirmishes as he should be.

The magic on Jon's armor, and the newly added enchantment on his swords were doing good things. The more blood he let on the blade, the faster and efficient he became.

War in this world was a soul-crushing, exhausting business. It bore no resemblance to the magical duels of his youth.

In the Wizarding World, a duel was a flash of light, a burst of intent, and then a transition—move, cover, cast.

Even the Great Wizarding War, which had loomed over generations, was a conflict of shadows and guerrilla tactics.

Witches and wizards didn't stand in mud and hack at each other's limbs for hours; they used the environment, they vanished, they struck from the dark.

Here, war was a physical meat-grinder. It was exactly like the old movies Dudley used to watch on the telly, lounging on the sofa while Harry cleaned the kitchen.

He remembered the flickering images of knights in mud, the sound of metal on metal. Now, he was living it.

The air was thick with the copper scent of blood, the bowels of dying horses, and the desperate screams of men who realized they weren't coming home.

In this world, power was measured in the number of disciplined spears you could muster and the quality of the horses under your knights.

It wasn't about the sharpness of one's mind or the flick of a holly-and-phoenix-feather wand.

It was about the sheer, grinding weight of an army.

He had done what any man with a working head on his shoulders would do: he had amassed a host large enough to overwhelm his uncle.

He had the numbers to win decisively.

Yet, his own foresight—or the lack thereof—had crippled him. He had chosen the easy path of compromise over the hard path of necessity. He was paying the "easy" tax in blood.

I forgot what I am, he realized, his grip tightening on the hammer. In his panic to play the medieval lord, he had neglected the very tools that made him different.

He had ignored the potential of his mind-reading, the subtle nudges of magic that could have exposed the traitors before they spoke a word.

No more.

The civil war was already here. If executing Littlefinger and Varys meant losing the support of a few more terrified lords, he would endure it.

He would see them six feet under, even if he had to dig the graves himself.

He spurred his mount into a gallop, the horse's chest slamming into a Velaryon footman. Harry swung the warhammer in a wide, punishing arc.

It connected with the helmet of a Celtigar soldier with a sickening crunch. The hammer, already soaked in the gore of a dozen men, felt like a natural extension of his rage.

Ahead, the Tyrell knights were finally gaining ground, pushing the blue-clad host back toward the Iron Gate. The invaders were faltering, their momentum broken by the wall of green shields.

"Push them back!" Ser Arys bellowed, his reddish-brown cloak fluttering like a ghost in the smoke.

The number of Lannister reinforcements arriving behind them had increased ten-fold, the gold-and-crimson banners finally surging forward to reclaim the breach.

Harry's eyes locked onto a figure near the gate—a man in ornate silver-and-sea-foam armor, desperately trying to rally the retreating Velaryon line.

"Jon!" The Prince shouted over the cacophony of breaking shields and dying men. He pointed his hammer at the enemy commander. "I want him cornered! Separate him from the line and trap him. Follow Ser Jon! Go! Move!"

The soldiers roared, a wave of steel rushing forward to obey. Harry didn't look away. He watched the Velaryon leader, his heart hardening.

Xania eyed the jagged, ash-stained ruins sprawled in front of her, her gaze heavy with a sense of time that few mortals could truly comprehend.

She had been born a only a century after the Valyrian Freehold had fallen, entering a world that was not too far from the sudden absence of its masters.

The entire Essosi continent had felt the death of the strongest empire of the century—and many centuries prior—like a physical blow to the chest. It was a weight that shifted the very hierarchy of power, commerce, and culture across the known world.

In those early days of her life, it was not a secret that most of the cities, no matter how civilized or organized they claimed to be, were in some way tethered to the empire.

Valyria had held the eastern continent in a grip of power through its dragons. It had maintained the now-Free Cities through a complex web of emissaries, diplomats, and tribute, controlling them directly or through the subtler chains of indirect influence.

When the Doom fell, the sudden vacuum of power had affected the cities and their administrators in vastly different ways, peeling back the veneer of their shared history to reveal their true feelings toward the dragonlords.

Braavos, a city built in secret by the escaped slaves of the Freehold, had watched the destruction with a grim, silent triumph; for them, the Doom was the ultimate justice.

The Rhoynar, who had fought desperate, bloody wars with the dragonlords until the bitter end, finally saw their ancient tormentors silenced.

Pentos, according to the whispers she had heard in her youth, had even celebrated the fall of the peninsula and the agonizing death of its inhabitants with wine and song.

To them, the smoke on the horizon was the scent of freedom.

In contrast, the leaders of Volantis and Lys were among the prime cities that mourned the loss, their ruling families desperate to reestablish the empire in their own image. They still proudly showed their roots, clinging to the purity of their Valyrian blood as if it were a shield against the changing world.

Even Myr and Tyrosh were said to be quite devastated after the Doom, their economies having been heavily supported by the vast wealth and patronage of the rich dragonlord families who had once summered within their walls.

Without the gold of the Freehold, their markets had withered like vines in a frost.

Qarth, much like Yi Ti to the far East, had cared little for the tragedy.

Sure, they had maintained lucrative trade relations with the empire of dragons, but neither were they controlled by the Freehold, and neither were they ever conquered.

They were too far, too wealthy, and too ancient to be bothered by the collapse of a Western power.

Xania remembered the general public in those regions reacting with a fleeting shock, but the sensation had faded away in a few moons, replaced by the mundane concerns of spice prices and silk routes.

Now, she stood in Tolos, the air tasting of salt and old soot.

From here, the peninsula of Valyria wasn't too far away, though it might as well have been on another world.

Even the thick, unnatural mists of the Smoking Sea could not hide the horrific breakage of the empire into two distinct masses of scorched rock.

The Doom had not just killed the people; it had truly destroyed the earth, leaving behind a jagged scar that bled heat and poison into the sky.

"So, this is the land of my ancestors. True dragons," Viserys said beside her.

His hand rested on her hip, possessive and firm, while his voice carried that sharp, unyielding arrogance that seemed to be the only thing the Targaryens had kept in its purest form.

He stood tall, looking out at the ruin of his heritage as if he expected the ghosts of the dragonlords to rise from the waves and bow to him.

Xania did not pull away. She liked her pets like that: pompous, proud, and utterly convinced of their own legendary status.

There was a peculiar thrill in watching a man who claimed to be a god struggle against the very real limitations of the world.

His arrogance was a leash she allowed him to wear, one that made him predictable and, in many ways, more beautiful to behold.

"Yes," she said with a soft, weary sigh that caught in the wind.

She looked toward the horizon, where the sky remained a bruised, sickly purple. "But it seems none of them are ready to let us ride a ship to there. The sailors of Tolos speak of krakens, fire-wyrms, and a madness that takes hold of any man who sights those shores. They fear the ghosts of your kin more than they respect the name you carry."

Viserys's grip tightened on her hip, his violet eyes narrowing as he stared into the haze.

"Then?" he asked, his brow furrowing as he looked back at the impenetrable mists.

Xania frowned, her eyes tracing the jagged coastline. "Valyria is currently out of reach, but not Ellyria. We will land there instead."

With the return of dragons, her magical prowess had surged, rekindling the ancient fires within her blood. Combined with the vast wealth she had amassed over centuries of patient observation, they would live more than comfortably in the island city.

Ellyria would serve as their sanctuary and a strategic foothold; from there, she could finally fund and oversee careful ventures into the ruins of Valyria.

Robb stood by the long window, his gaze lingering on the snow-laden courtyard of Winterfell, the grey granite was hidden beneath it. The homecoming had been bittersweet.

He and his father had returned to the ancient seat of the Starks with much fanfare, the Northern lords turning out in droves to welcome their liege back from the clutches of the South.

Lord Eddard was respected and loved by his vassals—at least by most of them—and the first week had been a blur of feasts and audiences. He was limping and pale, but alive.

Yet, beneath the celebration lay a simmering resentment. Maester Luwin's assessment of his father's leg had confirmed Robb's darkest suspicions.

The limb had been set poorly in King's Landing, a deliberate oversight by Grand Maester Pycelle to ensure his father remained in constant, gnawing pain.

Robb gritted his teeth, the image of the doddering, Lannister-loyal Maester fueling a cold fire in his gut.

"This is not good news, Ned. Our daughter is still there," his mother's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

He turned to see her trailing behind his father as they approached the solar. Ned was limping heavily, his jaw set against the discomfort, a letter clutched tightly in his hand.

Behind him followed Ser Ludwic, a young knight who had become his father's constant shadow. Ludwic was a stoic youth, and he moved with a disciplined quickness that Robb had initially distrusted.

He had wanted Northmen to guard his father, but Ned had placed a surprising amount of trust in Ser Trysten's former squire and his own small group of protectors.

Of Robb's own companions, the group had thinned. Smalljon Umber had returned to the Last Hearth; as his father's heir, his duties called him back to the edge of the world, especially with rumors of disturbances beyond the Wall.

The others remained: Dacey Mormont, Donnel Locke, and Eddard Karstark. Two of the three were not the primary heirs of their houses, and their loyalty to Robb had forged them into a tight-knit brotherhood during the march south.

Alysanne Mormont was able enough to aid her mother in administration, and Harrion was the heir to Lord karstark. Donnel was not even from the main family, Orthen Locke was the heir of Old lord Locke.

His father reached the door of the solar. "Bring me Robb," he commanded the guard, who gave a quick nod.

Robb didn't wait to be summoned. He followed his mother into the room, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him at his father's silent request.

Ned sank into his chair with a faint groan, the lines of exhaustion etched deep into his face. He didn't offer a preamble; he simply extended the letter.

"Read this," He said.

Robb took the parchment. It was from Sansa. The ink was elegant, but the words carried a heavy burden.

Stannis Baratheon was preparing to strike King's Landing. By the date on the letter, the battle was likely raging at this very moment.

Sansa didn't ask for a Northern host, showing a maturity that surprised him; instead, she spoke of her husband. She feared for him, for he had chosen to lead his newly amassed forces from the front.

"Sansa is stuck there, Robb," His mother said, her voice trembling. Tears glistened in her eyes. "A war is coming to the city walls, and my little girl is all alone in that den of vipers."

He looked up from the letter, his brow furrowed. "The Prince has not asked for our forces, despite us being his prime support now that he is married to Sansa."

His father shook his head slowly. "The Prince, through diplomacy and a shrewd mind, has secured a formidable host for himself. He has the Lannister reserves, the Crownland lords, and the strength of the Reach behind him."

"Not the Stormlands?" Robb asked.

"When Robert took the throne, he gave the Stormlands to Renly," Ned explained. "Haridon cannot call upon them as a matter of right. While it's true that without children of his own, Renly's heir is the Prince, Renly is still alive and young enough to wed. Furthermore, many of the northern Stormland houses have already declared for Stannis. The Prince is fighting his own blood for his brother's crown."

Robb leaned against the heavy table. He had learned much about the fickle nature of vassals during his father's absence.

The Northmen had followed him because the chance of Ned's survival had seemed slim—rumors of his execution had nearly fractured the host. It took a steady hand to keep them in line.

"I was planning to send a few guards and ladies-in-waiting for Sansa," His father said, breaking the silence.

"As her eyes and ears," He added, rubbing his bearded chin.

"And as her sword," Ned agreed. "We both know that in that city, only the Prince is truly loyal to her."

"And Jon," Robb said softly.

From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother's face tighten, a familiar mask of coldness settling over her features at the mention of the bastard's name.

Ned offered a small, sad smile. "Yes, and Jon. But I want to know what you think, Robb."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Ned said, leaning forward. "Let's not beat around the bush, son. You led a host south to free me. You raised the banners, kept the lords in check, and ensured their loyalty. I know how hard they can be to control."

Robb smirked, memories of rowdy camps and heated councils flashing by. "Especially the Umbers and the Boltons."

"Both for different reasons, I imagine?" his father asked with a knowing look.

"The Greatjon tested my grit every hour of the day; he nearly broke my table—and my patience—within the first week," Robb admitted. "And Lord Bolton... I truly wanted to wring his neck more than once. There is a coldness in that man that makes my blood run still."

"I heard Grey Wind took a few of Greatjon's fingers as a snack," his father said, an amused glint in his eyes.

He nodded in agreement. "Aye, it was the only thing that calmed Lord Umber down."

"Then you are an able commander, and after me, a good Lord of Winterfell. You are going to aid me from now on, Robb. As you can see," Ned gestured frustratedly at his propped-up leg, "I am unable to lead as I once did."

"But Maester Luwin said—" Catelyn started, her voice frantic.

Ned raised a hand, silencing her. "Let's not be delusional, Cat. Pycelle botched the healing knowingly. It is quite possible I will never walk without this limp. I can ride, yes, but to lead a van? To fight in the thick of a melee? That part of my life is over."

He stood up with great effort and walked to the lone window, looking out over the yard where the winter winds were picking up. "Robb is old enough to handle the burden. I like it as little as you do, but being ignorant of our reality will only lead to our ruin. The North needs a Lord who can swing a sword, and Sansa needs a brother who can protect her interests from afar."

Robb looked at his father's back, feeling the weight of the North settling onto his shoulders. It was a heavy mantle, but as he looked at the letter from his sister, he knew he was ready.

"There once was a boy, grey as a wind,Wolves were less fierce, swans were less fair.

A black roof sheltered him, the mare protected him.

Lion's bravery in heart, Bear's grit in body,Cold liked him much, a crown on his head,

There once was a boy with the black fur."

The boy sang the song in a slow, Northern rhythm; it was a melody his mother had often sung to lull him to sleep when he was young.

"Stop that!" The man at the corner of the camp shrieked, his voice shrill and ugly, cutting through the crackle of the campfire like a rusted blade.

The man was a wretched sight, a stunted creature reaching only to Rodrik's chest, his spine slightly bent as if burdened by the weight of his own malice.

Yet, his small stature did nothing to diminish the viciousness that rolled off him in waves. He glared at the third member of their party.

"Shut up, dirty creature!" he barked back, his tone sharp enough to draw blood.

"Don't talk to him that way. I'll flay you alive, bastard," the man beside him snarled.

He was ugly in a different, more unsettling way. His lips were thick and pale, like bloated worms, and a broad nose sat squat and ill-fitting on a face that seemed constructed of mismatched parts.

It was his eyes, however, that truly unnerved Rodrik—pale, colorless things that seemed to track movement with a predatory, vacant hunger.

"Try that, and you'll be six feet under, bastard," Rodrik replied. His voice was soft, even gentle in its cadence, but the underlying threat was as heavy as the longsword at his hip.

The "dirty creature" bared yellowed teeth, a low growl vibrating in his throat, but a pale hand on his shoulder halted him instantly.

Rodrik scrunched his nose in involuntary disgust; he couldn't conceive how any man could bear to touch that thing, let alone treat it with such strange, familiar possession.

Turning his attention back to the task at hand, Rodrik slowly rotated the spit, roasting the stag meat over the flickering orange flames. He didn't bother looking at them again.

He was only here because of Domeric and his father. Lord Roose Bolton had made a calculated promise: support and aide if Rodrik could successfully "civilize" and control his baseborn son.

Looking at the boy across the fire, Rodrik realized with a sinking heart that he had been sent to do the impossible.

The boy was a cruel thing, perhaps the most unsettling soul Rodrik had ever encountered. His eyes were like chips of white ice—shards of frozen glass that held absolutely no human emotion, no empathy, and no warmth.

"Why are you here, bastard?" the boy asked. He tilted his head sideways, the movement jerky and unnatural, reminiscent of a dog watching a fly.

A cold shudder ran through Rodrik's bones. His hand hovered instinctively over the pommel of his sword. If only Lord Bolton would allow him to end this now, the North would be a far safer place.

"You know why," Rodrik said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "If I am to do this, then so be it. You'll learn to fight like a human, and not—"

"A monster? A beast of blood?" the boy interrupted, a cruel, mocking smirk twisting his pale features.

"An idiot," Rodrik corrected flatly. "You don't even have a proper form. You swing a blade like you're trying to butcher a hog in the mud. Shut up and learn whatever I am trying to teach you. Currently, you're no more than a Wildling with a stolen sword."

The boy's smirk only widened, his icy eyes fixed on Rodrik's throat.

Rodrik held back the overwhelming urge to reach across the fire and wring the boy's neck, knowing that beneath that stillness, a very real monster was waiting to be unleashed.