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The Icefyre Conquest 17
🕑 Added 2022-10-07 01:23:34 +0000 UTCI watched from the ruins of the Tower as the familiar, large forms of the Umbers strode into the courtyard, just like they had six years ago. Accompanying them were the Flints of the Mountains, their banners flying high and proud in the slight wind blowing across the landscape. They were the last of the Houses to arrive at Winterfell, and now, the lords of every House in the North were assembled in the Keep below.
“Wow, they are so big,” Bran slowly spoke from his spot next to me, his eyes wide and his auburn hair falling over his eyes as he clutched at the remnants of the window, “Do they really have Giant’s Blood in them?”
“Why don’t you go and ask Jon?”
“And if he gets angry?” He mumbled worriedly, looking at me with large, blue eyes, his gaze flickering down to the large men beneath us, “Do you see his arms?! He could snap me in two!”
“Well, he would have to get past me first,” I winked at him, ruffling his hair before I grabbed the back of his thick doublet and pulled him inside. He grumbled at me, but after the whack I had given to him yesterday, Bran the Climber knew better than to argue with me. Gods, it was so good to be double someone’s size, “Did you attend your lessons with Luwin?”
“I did,” he nodded, sitting down by me and taking a piece of the apple tart, nibbling upon the crust gently as he looked at me. “He keeps talking about you though, whenever we don’t do our sums or history or letters properly. Says you are the best he ever taught.”
“Hmm,” I just nodded, chuckling at the awe and annoyance in his voice. It was not their fault though, that they couldn’t keep up with what I could do at their age. Standing up from the splintered bench, I sighed and stretched my arms above my head, delighting in the pops that came from my shoulders and back, “Common Bran. Let’s move down before your mother finds me corrupting and influencing you.”
“Are you going spar again today?”
“Mhm.”
“Can you fight Ramsay? I don’t like him for some reason.” the boy tugged on my sleeves, his eyes wide and his lips set into a frown as he glanced down at his shoelaces, “He makes my hair stand on the end, and…I feel bad around him. His smile is creepy.”
“That it is little brother,” I said, nodding with a smile as I picked him up and placed him on my shoulders, and Bran shrieked and giggled as his fingers threaded through my hair. Grabbing his legs, I walked down the stairs, my eyes upon the bastard of Roose Bolton as he came out of the corridor. “He makes you feel bad, does he?”
“Yeah,” he said, and his grip upon my hair tightened momentarily, his voice small and uncomfortable. He took a deep breath, as if gathering courage for something before he continued, “and he keeps staring at Lyanna.”
‘And there it is, Roose’s reason for bringing this mad dog to Dreadfort.’
I had forgotten much of the metaknowledge I had possessed in my younger years here, but I remembered the basics about Ramsay Snow. Bastard of Bolton, hunted and raped women. Now, I may hate the whole Bolton bloodline based on the history between my house and theirs, but I could acknowledge one thing. That Roose Bolton was the smartest man in the gathering of Lords beneath me.
It didn’t make sense for him to bring what was just a rabid dog to Winterfell, not when swords and heads were already going to fly. It would make more sense for him to bring Domeric Bolton for marriage alliances with Sansa or the other young women. But he had instead bought Ramsay…and with the pieces of knowledge floating in my brain, it was all too easy to connect the dots. Roose was going to try for a match between my sister and his son, knowing that Catelyn would never agree for Sansa in a million years, not even with Domeric. However, she would push for Lyanna’s marriage to Ramsay. For the rest of the Lords, it would mean that the Starks and the Boltons would be tied together, even if it would be through the bastard lines.
Maybe the prospect of peace would even make Uncle Ned agree to it. But that was all for later, when Roose actually made his move for the match. Till then, I could occupy myself with beating the shit out of his son and humiliating their name, and of course, now that every Northern Lord was here…the Ironborn sitting in the cells could finally be hauled out to their death.
“You must be proud of Jon, Milord,” Wyman slurred slightly as they sat around a bonfire in the Wolfswood, a dead deer being roasted upon it by the equally drunk Smalljon. The rest of the Lords nodded and mumbled in agreement, all of them raising their mugs and bottles towards their silent Liege. Wyman bit into the juicy meat, washing it down with a large pull of Arbor Gold as he looked at Maege, “Lad is smart as fuck, knows his way around weapons, and fucking burned Harlaw Island down to crisp for his sister! In fact, if you do not have any matches planned for the boy, I'd love to take him as Wynafryd's consort!”
“He was a wee runt back when I met him for the first time,” Jon boomed out nodding his head in the direction of Winterfell, and the other Lords who had been there nodded, laughing at the memory, “He has spine, that one. Called me out for the word I said. Fucking lad is more hardheaded than Brandon and Lyanna, but has the brains of those grey rats.”
“Aye,” Galbart spoke up next, cutting the leg of the deer and shopping it with his dirk, “I heard how he led the attack on Harlaw from Maege as well as her men. Using their own rum against them, now that is something we would have loved to know when we squashed Balon’s arse, eh Ned?”
“Hmm, what?” The man blinked, looking from the fire at the Lord of Deepwood, confusion and an apology in his voice as the flames threw his face in sharp relief, “I am sorry…My mind has been flying in the clouds lately.”
“Gah!” Umber scoffed, slapping him on his back and almost pushing him off the log as he sipped the ale, “What has you sitting all dark and broody? Have some ale and chew some deer in the name of your bastard wolf, Ned! The boy just made the year for the whole North! I didn’t fucking believe it when the raven first reached the Last Hearth, but still…seeing those Ironborn and that squid cunt you called a ward in the cells, fuck if I don’t feel half my age once again!”
“Theon was a cunt,” Rickard Karstark added, his tone angry and annoyed at once as he threw a glare at Ned. “Not being disrespectful Ned, and I get why you saved that arrogant shit from your friend…but you should have left him down in the South. At least we wouldn’t have had to deal with the ‘Prince of the Ironborn’. As if that amounts to anything with how barren and wasted his lands are.”
“Hear Hear!” The cry went through the Lords as everyone raised their mugs again, before Rickard turned towards Ned and raised an eyebrow, “So, why is the Greyjoy still alive, Ned? I would have expected his head to fly the moment you put in chains.”
“Jon told me to wait for his execution until the King and the other Lords return South,” he informed, slowly telling about what all his son had shared with him regarding the consequences and effects of his letters. They listened with rapture, and in the wavering, dancing shadows, Ned saw respect in even Roose’s dead eyes. They nodded along and were suitably awed as he narrated how the meeting between him and his children had gone, finally able to divulge the events now that every Lord was present together, “-nd now, the King and his court are on their way North. Half a moon has passed since Jon sent out the letters, and assuming he got here at the earliest, Robert will be here within a fortnight.”
“Forget Wynafryd, will you let me take that boy to my Keep when all this is over?”
“And I want to ask for Lyanna’s hand for my Heir,” Rickard spoke up, taking a pull from the mug as he belched loudly a moment later, swaying in his place, “She will be good for him. The girl is strong and smart just like her brother. Fucking tore the throat of the Ironborn that kidnapped her! Now I don’t know about you Ned, but that fuckin’ reminds me of your mother and sister both!”
“We-Well,” Theon Forrester, lord of a minor House sworn to Deepwoode Motte began, hiccuping in between as he almost fell sideways into the lap of Smalljon, “The girl is named after them both.”
“Hear Hear!” the rest chorused once again, and Jon threw his mug into the fire, making it roar as the flames swept upwards, making the shadows race back into the darkness. And in that moment, as he looked into the yellow flames, Ned felt something akin to frustration and anger bubble up inside him. This…This was nothing like what he had imagined his future to be after Rhaegar was killed and Robert assumed Kingship. By the Gods, it was nothing like what he had imagined it to be after Balon’s failed rebellion years ago.
Jon…he had changed. He was no longer the ten-year-old boy who had laughed along with his sisters and showed his skill in the yard. Neither was he the promising young child who was simply better than Robb and Lyanna in the sums and letters.
Now he was a man grown, with a martial prowess that no one in Winterfell possessed right now. Sure, there were several stronger than him, or faster than him even—rarer though the latter was. But, there were none who fought the way he did. All of them fought the way their instructors and experience had taught them, with some innovating their own way due to different body types and weapon choices. However, Jon…he was fluid. That was the best way he could think to define him.
With his choice of using a bastard sword, and constantly using any and every part of his body to attack or block, he was quickly showing himself to be a formidable fighter—even amongst the experienced ones like him and the Lords who had fought in several battles. Just this afternoon he had twisted Harrion’s arm midway through a slash and kicked him in his chest, before pushing him to the ground and bringing the blade to the back of his neck. He had seen every single move a thousand times, but never together. Wrestling, bare-fisted fighting, swordplay…he used every single he knew and fought to end the fight as quickly as possible.
It was brutal. It was fast. It was new…it was not how Rodrik taught them. It was not honorable. But yet, watching him destroy every opponent he had fought today, Ned had been reminded of the Tourney, when he had seen the most accomplished fighters of the realm show their skills. And then there was his mind. He simply thought different than those his age. Weaponising alcohol, sending letters to the King, predicting the reactions accurately, getting ransoms from Harlaw…it was all too much. Hell, he was half sure that Jon had rescued those women simply because it would be profitable instead of out of the goodness of his heart.
He was the best of his parents, and the worst of them too. He was smart like Rhaegar, willful like Lyanna…but he was also destructive and rageful to the extreme, Mad even, one would say, given how he had broken the Umber bannerman’s arms today…all because of how he had made a comment on Lyanna lying about her not getting raped. Though, maybe if it had been him sparring that fool, even he would have done the same.
And then there was Lyanna. He loved the young woman from the depths of his heart, her smiles and grins from when she was but a toddler warming his heart to this day. And she had grown into a beautiful woman, flowered and strong. He had seen her fight too, her swordwork and fighting style exactly the same as her twin’s, immaculate and deadly, each stroke heading for a weak or weakening point. He was not a fool. He knew about the Mormonts fought, how Maege fought with a sword…and while there were certainly elements of their style in the twins’...they clearly fought and moved ina way that was entirely made by them. Probably by Jon, given how he had been practicing in the yard ever since he was six.
It was all moving too fast for him, Ned realized. The six years that they had been gone, had passed by quickly all of a sudden. Their return, the upheaval it was bringing, the sudden growth in skills and mind, the way Jon and Lyanna both talked and walked, their words, their smiles…it was just like how Rhaegar had been in the Tourney of Harrenhal. Meeting and greeting the Lords, as well as their stewards and families, all smiles and pleasantry. The Last Dragon knew just the right words to say to each and every one of them, praising Robert’s martial prowess and his strength one moment, while the next he applauded Ned’s ability to control some of his cousin’s impulses.
And when Rhaegar’s eyes had landed upon Jon Arryn, Ned had known that the Prince didn't like his foster father one bit. But yet, despite the momentary coldness his face had shown, the Crown Prince had been back to his warm, courteous self the next second, talking with smiles and warmth. Jon and Lyanna were the same way, the former even more so. Ned knew he was not at all what one might call politically sharp, or even a remotely cunning individual—and in a way, he lamented his fostering in the Vale for this, but he definitely knew an act when he saw one after years of dealing with the Reach and their various men that came to the North.
And Jon had definitely been acting when he had interacted with the Boltons, as well as the Manderlys. For what reason, Ned couldn't imagine, but it worried him. And that wasn’t even counting ho-how…how Catelyn had been positively eating his brains ever since the twins came back!
For the fourth time in more than the decade and half that they had been married, Ned cursed the alliance his father had sought with the Tullys, and the scheming, overreaching bastard that was his good father. He loved his wife, by the Gods he loved her, but even after seven-and-ten years, her southern beliefs and prejudices were as strong as ever. She was hell-bent on believing that this was going to end up with Jon getting legitimized and making a move on Robb’s place as the future Warden of the North.
And the worst thing, Jon was doing everything he could to make that foolish notion appear true. He had sparred with Robb everyday ever since he came back, and each time, he defeated his Heir soundly. And it was in that yard that Ned realized his failings as a father and as the Head of House Stark. Robb had never had a true competition in the yard, with his constant partner being Theon…whose talent in swordplay had been evident when Jon had smashed his nose in years ago.
It wasn’t to say Robb wasn’t a good swordsman. He was certainly better than what Ned had been at his age—with his stocky build making him more than strong enough to wield practice greatswords as opposed to what Ned’s state had been in the Vale. But that was simply ineffective against Jon, who had fought and killed in real combat, and seemed a natural in fighting. Yesterday, he had reversed his grip right as Robb had been about to parry his slash, and in that brief moment of panic that had taken over him, Jon had deftly brought his blunted blade forwards to strike his neck from the side.
In a way, he was thankful to Rickard and Jon for suggesting the hunt and the night out in the Wolfswood. Sometimes, it felt as if Winterfell was a cage, its warm walls nothing but a facade hiding the coldness it emanated for him. It was supposed to be Brandon drinking with these men, and ruling from the seat he sat in, Ned thought bitterly. It was Brandon who was supposed to be handling the Lords that were coming to Winterfell, it was him who was supposed to marry Catelyn Tully, it was him who would have carried the weight of bastards on his honor. But instead, that stupid, foolish, emotional arse had gone and gotten himself killed along with their father. And instead of marrying Ashara and living in Moat Caitlin or some other abandoned Keep, Ned had been forced to take up the mantle of the Warden of the North.
By the Gods, Hoster was going to be insufferable if he got off his sick, bedridden ass to join Robert’s retinue, Ned realized with a sigh as he took a long pull. Clenching the bottle harshly, he grit his teeth as the flames swirled before his eyes. He still remembered the way the aged lord of the Riverlands had…dismissed Brandon’s death and demanded Ned’s hand for his daughter for the troops. He had barely been aware of what had been going on then, with his father and brother dead, and his sister getting kidnapped by Rhaegar. But he had been aware of one thing, that Robert had promised him revenge on Aerys, and that Rhaegar needed to die. Therefore, after barely an hour of arriving in Riverun, he had agreed to Hoster’s conditions, with Jon Arryn acting as the wise father he always had.
And all of it, to what end? His hotheaded brother had gone and gotten himself killed foolishly by the Mad King, dragging down their father to the grave with him. The deat-murders of Aegon and Rhaenys and Princess Elia had been simply because the old lion had been slighted a few times too many by Aerys. The boy could have been sent to the Wall, and the girl at the citadel, but no. Tywin finally had the perfect chance to pay back in blood, and he wasn’t going to leave any threats to his family’s reign. And nobody but him had truly cared about the deaths of the children either, even though he had also lost kin to Aerys’ madness. Brandon and Rickard Stark, Elbert Arryn, heir to the Vale, Kyle Royce of Runestone, and Jeffory Mallister of Seagard, all had died at the hands of the Mad King. But for the other Lords who had entered the Throne Room after hte Lannister Sack…It had been revenge, plain and simple. The kingsguard at the Tower of Joy refused to back down, and to this day he was not sure if it was out of pride or out of fear for Lyanna’s children. As if he’d ever harm his niece and nephew! The tale of him defeating Arthur Dayne felt bitter to this day. Never could have he truly bested the Sword of the Morning in single combat, and if it wasn’t for Howland he would not have lived that day. Ashara’s soulless gaze when he turned up at the gates of Starfall with Dawn, and the news of her brother’s death would haunt him till his death—and all because Brandon couldn’t have been bothered to think clearly for one fucking moment after weeks of riding south!
Thousands of lives was the price of removing a madman from the Throne. But why did his family had to be embroiled in the butchery that was the Rebellion?! Robert’s words had been a lie. Jon’s and Lyanna’s lives had been a lie…and they were going to be so.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled loudly to the moonless night, and Ned felt something snap inside him. He screamed, years of anger and frustration bubbling out of him as he threw the bottle of ale into the fire. Everyone around him jumped and scrambled back at the sudden sound and the way the fire roared out, each of them looking at the Warden of the North as if they had never seen him before. But Ned didn’t even realize it as tears began to drip down his cheeks, his hands clenched into tight fists as he stared into the flames, eyes stuck on the days long gone.
Comments
Dapo Alabi
Excellent chapter
PP092
So u like it xD
VØ1Ð ÐŘÄĞØÑ
Like hell the Boltons will get what they want. Ned doesn't seem himself I wonder how that'll play out. Only natural that Jon would be pissed about the talk of betrothing Lyanna/Visenya to someone else. So many things happening I can't wait to see where this leads!
