TSOTWR - Chapter IV
Chapter IV
Lyanna
She ran her finger through the thick fur on Ghost’s head as she gazed into the distance from atop the inner wall of Winterfell. Her father, Brandon, and Jon had left hours ago, and Lyanna was waiting for any sign of their return.
It was often she was given reason to worry in life. The keep was always warm, even in the coldest days of the North, the fare was ample, and she was safe from the often-dangerous world that existed beyond her home.
Now, however, with her father, brother, and her sworn sword having ventured out of Winterfell to hunt down the invading Ironborn, Lyanna was feeling deeply unsettled.
“They won’t be back yet,” Benjen said grumpily from her left.
The boy was feeling put-out that he had not been taken along. Their mother had explained that he was too young, and she was right. He was good with a sword for a boy of his age, but he was far from battle-ready.
“I know,” Lyanna murmured. “I just want to sit and wait.”
“Mother says you have to come in for dinner.”
Lyanna released a deep breath as she nodded.
It would not do to defy her mother, not when the woman was just as worried and edgy as she felt. Lyarra Stark was gentle for the most part, firm when she needed to be, but a she-wolf at heart, especially where the pack was concerned.
With her father and Brandon both away and likely to be in battle, the she-wolf was only a hair’s-breadth from baring her teeth.
Giving a final, worried glance towards the horizon, she followed the sulking Benjen with the enormous, silent wolf in tow.
Jon
They had taken only short rests so that their mounts could drink as they thundered towards the second village they’d identified on the map of the North. Fortunately, the horses were as hardy as the men atop of them and they did not falter as they were urged onwards throughout the day.
As the sun set, Jon brought his small group to a halt and dismounted to stretch his legs and catch their bearings. It would be a cold night, but the thought of the inevitable fighting ahead alone kept him warm.
“We should eat,” he suggested, “but no fires.”
The men groaned as they sunk to the floor and began removing their rations of dried venison and ale.
“We are still hours away,” Rodrik murmured as he took a seat next to Jon on the trunk of a fallen tree.
“We will make it before sun rise.”
Rodrik nodded.
“Aye, we will,” he agreed as he took a bite from a leg of mutton. “Are you ready, Snow?”
“Aye,” Jon replied simply.
Rodrik stared at him speculatively.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Fight?”
“Battle,” Rodrik chuckled humourlessly. “I can see it in your eyes, Snow. You did not hone your skills with a blade in the training yard.”
“The world is a harsh place.”
“Aye, it is. I suppose I’ve been fortunate to live my life within the walls of the keep. It has shielded me from the outside, the violence, and everything else that comes with it.”
“It’s not pretty,” Jon snorted. “Bandits, wildlings, and all manner of beasts that won’t think twice about killing you for no other reason that you’re there.”
“The Wildlings,” Rodrik sighed. “I’ve met more than my fair share.”
Jon nodded.
“They’re not bad people really,” Jon sighed. “I will never condone their actions, but they do what they need to for survival. They’re mostly unfortunate that they were simply on the wrong side of the wall when it was built. Don’t get me wrong, some are just bloodthirsty, but others are just normal people wanting to live and provided for their families. There’s just not much to beyond the wall.”
“You’ve spent time with some?”
“Aye, and they were good people. Most of them.”
Rodrik frowned.
“I would not let Lord Stark hear you speak of them in such a way. The wildlings have raped and murdered far too many Northerners.”
“And we have killed hundreds of theirs,” Jon pointed out as he stood. “Today is not about the Wildlings. We have Ironborn to hunt. Come on, before we have another razed village on our hands.”
Rickard
It was the smell of smouldering wood in the distance that was the first sign that they had not reached the village in time, and the bodies of the men who had fought to the bitter end was what greeted them amongst the ashes and charred remains of the homes only clarified it.
“Bastards!” Brandon seethed, his leather gloves squeaking with how tight he was gripping is sword.
Rickard would usually chastise his heir for such a crass and emotional outburst, but he could not bring himself to. Brandon had surmised his own thoughts on the matter rather accurately.
“They died as warriors,” Rickard declared. “The North remembers.”
His men echoed the sentiment, and though Rickard remained calm on the surface, below it, his fury burned with the icy chill of his homeland.
“They will be buried,” he announced.
“Where are the women and children?” one of the younger Stark men asked worriedly.
“The Ironborn will have taken them as salt wives and slaves,” Rickard grumbled. “Come, there is no time to waste. They did not return the way they came, so it will be Jon and Rodrik they reach next.”
“Will we make it?” Brandon asked bluntly.
“I do not know,” Rickard murmured, “but let us hope we do. Ice is screaming to carry out some northern justice on those that have harmed our people.”
Brandon nodded grimly, and the men urged their horses on into the darkness of the trees once more, wanting only to catch up with the Ironborn who were defiling their home.
(Break)
“They’ve not made it this far,” Rodrik whispered as they surveyed the sleepy, unsuspecting village.
Jon breathed a sigh of relief as he nodded.
“It won’t take them long, not if they didn’t hang around at the last and have been dealt with already.”
“Do you think it likely?”
Jon shook his head.
“They would be foolish to linger in one place for too long. I don’t know what they think they can achieve here, but I would bet my life they’re not expecting such a fast response. We have the element of surprise on our side.”
“Do you still think boarding them is best?”
“I do,” Jon murmured. “The river is too narrow for them to come through two abreast. If we jump on one boat, it will be isolated. The others will have to land and come aboard or flee.”
“The fucking cowards will run,” Rodrik growled.
“Straight into the waiting Lord Stark.”
Rodrik chuckled darkly.
“We’ll be outnumbered,” he pointed out.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Jon asked with a grin, clapping the man on the shoulder. “You five, get across the river. We’ll be best to get on board from both sides, but arrows first. The prisoners will not be kept on deck, so anything that moves, dies.”
“Aye,” one of the men agreed, gesturing for the four others to follow.
“What now?” Rodrik asked.
“We wait,” Jon answered simply.
It was only a few moments later that he received a whistle to signify the other men had taken up their positions on the other side of the river, and then only the sound of the gently flowing water could be heard.
Jon could not be certain how long they remained unmoving on the banks when a roar of distant laughter broke the silence.
“It’s them,” he murmured.
The men were all ready with their bows as they squinted through the darkness for any sign of the approaching boats.
“There,” Rodrik whispered when the first came into view.
It was a modest boat compared to the larger longships the Ironborn used at sea, so would be much easier to climb and board.
Jon watched as the two ships drifted slowly towards them, the men and women sailing through the North doing so without a care in the world.
Evidently, they were not expecting trouble, a mistake on their part.
“Come on,” Rodrik urged the Ironborn restlessly.
Jon nodded his agreement and readied his own bow as he looked beyond the boats for any sign of Rickard and his men. There was none, and as they’d prepared for on the journey here, the Stark men would be outnumbered.
That was nothing new for Jon.
He shuddered at the thought of the chill the Night King brought with his army but quickly pushed it aside in favour of focusing on the moment at hand.
“Hold,” he whispered.
He could feel the tension of the men around him, and it only increased as the front of the first ship began passing them by.
“NOW!”
The sound of a dozen arrows being unleashed from their bows filled the air, followed by the screams of the Ironborn that were felled by them. The deck of the boat was in disarray, and the Stark men got off another volley before their presence was noted.
“SHIELDS!” one of the Iron born men shouted, attempting to see into the dark.
As Jon had anticipated, the boat behind was powerless to help the first, and with that in mind, he charged, driving his blade through the chest of a man who attempted to cleave through him with an axe as he scaled the side of the smaller vessel.
Despite not being as big as a longship, there was enough room for the northerners to still be outnumbered. The initial onslaught of arrows had helped, but the odds were not in their favour.
Nonetheless, the Stark men scrambled over the side of the boat and immediately into the fray.
Jon quickly found himself set upon by an enormous man wielding a great axe, swinging it wildly as he roared.
His foe was slow and his strikes telegraphed so that they were easy to avoid. Before the man could find a rhythm, Jon ducked below a vicious swing of the axe and removed the man’s hands with a return swing of his own.
The axe hit the deck with a dull thud and the large man looked at his stumps in shock. It was the expression he died with as his severed head bounced across the deck.
Without delay, Jon threw himself into another fight, engaging two Ironborn at once, unaware of how the rest of his group was faring.
Finding himself on the defensive, he parried one of the strikes into the path of the other attacking man and seized the opportunity to even the odds in his favour.
The Valyrian steel blade glided through the sternum seamlessly, and his third victim simply collapsed to the ground, clutching the wound in a state of disbelief.
“BASTARD!” the other man bellowed, only for his rebuttal to be his own downfall.
Overreaching with his axe, which seemed to be a recurring trait in the fighting style, the returning slash from Jon saw the man’s guts spill out across the deck.
Taking the briefest of moments to survey the scene, he was relieved to see the other Stark men holding their own against the superiors numbers, though three appeared to be missing.
It was when Jon caught side of the red blade that had been mentioned by `Rickard as being wielded by the particularly vicious Lord Drumm, he understood what had happened.
Laying around him was three dead Stark men, and another would join them shortly if Drumm wasn’t killed.
The larger man looked towards Jon, the bodies of the Ironborn around him, and stalked towards him with his blade poised.
“Those men were my friends,” Drumm growled.
“And the villagers you murdered, raped, and kidnaped were my people,” Jon returned, his grip tightening around the handle of his own sword.
Drumm eyed it questioningly, but Jon did not wish to trade any more words with the man.
“A Stark?” Drumm questioned, licking his lips hungrily.
As one, they struck, the Valyrian steel playing a deadly symphony as the two blades crashed together as the chaos continued to ensue around them,
Rickard
It was the clashing of steel somewhere ahead of them that spurred them to urge their horses into a gallop. Rickard and his much larger group of men had missed the Ironborn, but it seemed that Jon, Rodrik and their men had caught them in time.
“Come on,” Rickard encouraged his mount as the sound of fighting grew closer.
It was when they emerged from the next bend that he caught sight of the two small boats with Ironborn spilling from the one at the rear in an attempt to reach the one on in front.
The river, though narrow, was deep enough to hinder them greatly and left them at a distinct disadvantage as the party of Stark men fell upon them.
Rickard drew Ice from its enormous sheath and ensured Brandon was at his side as he drove the great sword through the throat of the first enemy within reach.
With a blade so large, the head was lopped off, and Rickard intercepted a blow from another with practiced ease. He may not spend as much time in the training yard as he had in his youth, but his reflexes remained sharp and his skill with his ancestral sword as competent as ever.
Quickly realising they were outclassed by the well-trained soldiers of the North, the Ironborn that could, attempted to flee to the opposite bank where they could make an escape.
“COWARDS!” one of those that remained behind yelled.
“ARROWS!” Rickard ordered.
His men complied, and those running from the skirmish were prevented from doing so.
Their cries of pain only added to the cacophony of screaming all around them, the smell of blood and evacuated bowels that filled the air. It was enough to turn the stomach of even the most seasoned fighter.
“Where are Jon and Rodrik?” Brandon asked, echoing the very same question that Rickard was contemplating.
“My lord, they are on the first ship,” one of the men informed him.
With a nod and a gesture to his heir, Rickard began carving his way towards the first ship, cutting down any that stepped into his path. The Ironborn were infamously vicious in their ways but having seemingly been caught off guard and proving to lack discipline, they were falling fast.
It was the sight of Jon and Rodrik fighting back-to-back as they fended off a determined attack by five men that greeted the Warden of the North, the former covered from head to toe in blood and his expression feral.
Now more than ever, Jon Snow resembled one of the winter kings of old, his sword in hand as he defended the North from any would-be invaders.
Rushing to assist them, Rickard pulled himself up the side of the boat with Brandon in tow and marvelled at the sheer number of Ironborn that had been slaughtered by the modest group he’d sent here.
Only around a dozen remained, most of whom having shifted their attention to Jon and Rodrik.
Rickard barrelled into one of the Ironborn, sending the man overboard, and he swelled with pride as he watched Brandon throw himself into the thick of the fighting.
His son’s presence gave Jon and Rodrik a needed reprieve to gather themselves, and immediately, the wayward bastard engaged a larger man wielding a red blade.
Drumm.
He was known for being particularly violent and hungry for the flesh of the fairer sex.
What became quickly apparent was that the man was simply outclassed by Jon who wielded his blade with a fine mixture of aggression and finesse. With Brandon and Rodrik fending off the others, Jon could focus his attention on the feared Lord of Old Wyk.
What concerned Rickard, however, was not Drumm, but the sight of another that emerged from the galley wielding a pair of axes.
Andrik the Unsmiling.
Andrik was renowned across Westeros as the best warrior the Ironborn had to offer. What he was doing here conducting raids against villages, Rickard didn’t know, but the man was less welcome than the one he served in Drumm.
“WATCH OUT, JON!” Rickard warned as the hulking man charged towards the battling duo.
With Ice poised, he moved to intercept Andrik, only to be impeded by a duo of eager Ironborn.
Dispatching of the two, his eyes widened at the sight of Drumm’s arm being lopped off by Jon’s sword. The man roared in agony as he collapsed next to it, staring at the limb that still clutched his own famous blade in shock.
Andrik took exception to the maiming and unleashed a roar of his own as he brought both of his axes down towards Jon.
Rickard breathed a sigh of relief as the young man evaded the fatal blow, but quickly found himself once more with a fight of his own.
Jon
His new foe was far more refined than any of the others he had faced thus far. Wielding two axes, his movement, attacks, and defence was fluid, and Jon knew he had a real fight on his hands.
He’d never seen this man before, but it was clear he had spent many years perfecting the use of his weapons and had coupled it with the aggression the Ironborn were known for.
Finding himself on the backfoot, Jon watched for any opening as he defended himself, parrying strikes and stepping out of the way of others where possible. His opponent was relentless, but it was nothing Jon had not faced before.
Inevitably, the man would make a mistake or leave a gap for his blade to be worked in. He merely needed to be patient, bide his time, and strike when the opportunity presented itself.
Fighting a man with two axes required a different approach than facing another with a sword.
Short axes were fast and exceptionally effective in enclosed spaces. The boat they fought upon was the ideal setting for such weapons.
Nonetheless, Jon had fought alongside the very best of Westeros and against them at one time or another throughout his life. Although he despised Aliser Thorne, the man had been meticulous in teaching the brothers of the Night’s Watch how to fend off attackers with axes, the often-preferred weapon of the Wildlings.
Having fought them himself many times and spending hours sparring with the likes of Tormund, Jon was ready for this fight.
His foe was fast, his blows powerful, but he was far from being the Night King, nor was he the Dothraki Jhogo whose strikes were powerful enough to rattle bones even when blocked.
No, this man was good, but Jon had faced and defeated better.
Not that his opponent was to know this. He fought on, undeterred by Jon’s ability to parry his blows with little difficulty, step away from others, and slip by him at a whim.
Soon enough, he began to tire, and with a guttural roar, he unleashed another ferocious though controlled attack.
“Fucking fight you cunt!” he spat.
With a shrug, Jon complied, striking out with a speed that caught the Ironborn off guard, and it was he who now found himself on the backfoot and unable to keep up with the new pace.
Jon was surprised with how well he did defend himself, even if only a moment later he relieved the man of one of his axes and landed a slash across his thigh. Blood immediately began to spill from the wound, and the Ironborn began to favour it, hobbling backwards as best he could, a look of concern replacing the smug arrogance he had approached Jon with.
He was out of his depth and he knew it.
Still, his technique did not falter as he fought back. He did so until the very end and his efforts proved to be in vain. As he aimed a killing blow at Jon’s neck, he quickly found himself looking down at a blade protruding through his chest.
Jon had spun behind the man and rammed the Valyrian steel through his spine, down to the hilt.
The Ironborn turned to look at him, wide-eyed as blood began to spill from his mouth before he fell lifeless to ground into a pool of the viscous liquid.
“No!” Drumm gasped into the shocked silence. “Impossible.”
“Looks like you fucked with the wrong people,” Rodrik growled as he approached the downed Lord of Old Wyk. “You should never have come to the North.”
Drumm said nothing as he stared dumbly at the fallen axe-wielding man.
“Are you alright, Jon?” Rickard asked.
Jon nodded.
“I don’t think any of the blood is mine.”
Rickard snorted.
“No, but you spilled enough of the Ironborn’s,” he pointed out. “I’m proud you, lad. All of you,” he added to gathered Stark men. “They’ll be a feast when we make it back to Winterfell.”
“What about him?” Jon asked, nodding to Drumm.
Rickard hummed thoughtfully.
“I should take his head.”
“I have a better idea,” Jon replied. “Send him home as a message to the others. Pile up the bodies on the boats, take the sword hands of the survivors and send them back with a warning.”
Rickard frowned deeply.
“It is harsh, but it will show the Ironborn that there is nothing but death for them here,” Rodrik broke in. “The people they murdered and captured here deserve Northern justice.”
Rickard nodded.
“Aye,” he agreed. “Release our people and gather the survivors. I think this belongs to you,” he added, picking up the red, Valyrian steel blade and handing it to Jon. “You defeated Drumm, it is yours by right.”
“I won’t have my blade wielded by a fucking Stark!” Drumm spat.
Jon chuckled humourlessly as he accepted the sword and pried the dismembered hand from it. He threw it to Drumm and leaned down to retrieve the scabbard from around his waist.
“It’s a good job I’m just a lowly bastard then,” he murmured, enjoying the look of shock from the Ironborn lord.
“A bastard?”
Jon nodded as he stood.
“A bastard.”
“Get him away, and make sure he doesn’t die,” Rickard commanded irritably.
Two of the men took him down into the galley where the Northern prisoners had just been released.
“Your homes will be rebuilt,” Rickard assured them, “or you are all welcome to make a life for yourselves in Wintertown. House Stark will not forget about any of you.”
They were women and small children; unlikely to survive outside of a strong community with the men to provide for them. Their husbands, older sons, and brothers had been slaughtered.
There would be nothing left for them at the homes they had been taken from.
“Let’s get moving,” Rickard urged. “I long for home. Brandon, tend to the woman and children. If there is anything they need, see that they have it. Who’s that?” he asked with a frown.
“This would be Lord Harlaw,” Brandon revealed with a feral grin. “He tried to flee with the others and caught an arrow in the shoulder.”
Rickard grunted as he approached the wincing man.
“That looks painful,” he murmured. “What were you doing here?”
“Taking what we needed,” Harlaw said defiantly.
“Instead, you got what you deserved.”
With a swing of Ice, Harlaw’s head rolled across the deck of the boat and Rickard cleaned his blade on the man’s surcoat before sheathing it.
“If that doesn’t send a message, I do not know what will. Speaking of which, someone fetch me a raven. I must write to the king.”
With that, he began barking further instructions at the other men, and Jon found himself being clapped on the shoulder by Rodrik.
“You’re a fucking mad man, Snow. Andrik is a nasty shit.”
“Not anymore he isn’t.”
Rodrik guffawed.
“Aye, thanks to you. Come on, let’s get this mess cleaned up so we can go home.”
“Do you want this?” Jon asked, offering his newly obtained blade to the man.
Rodrik shook his head as he frowned.
“It’s yours. You won it and you should keep it. Even if you don’t use it, it’s a trophy of your victory here. Besides, I like my own blade more. Hang it on your wall, Jon, if you’re not going to wield it.”
Jon nodded as he attached the belt around his own waist.
The blade itself was of course of incredible quality, but it was not the one he had carried and grown comfortable with for several years now. No, it was unlikely he would use it, but in the coming years, Red Rain would be an invaluable commodity when the dead came for them.
Lyanna
Every day without fail, she spent much of her time watching the treeline in the distance from the top of Winterfell, waiting for any sign of the returning Stark men. It had been eleven days now, and there had been none.
With each day that passed, Lyanna only grew more concerned. How long could it take to find the Ironborn?
What if her father had been killed, or Brandon, or Jon?
The very idea did not bear thinking about.
“RIDER!” one the few guards that were chosen to remain behind suddenly announced.
Lyanna squinted into the distance and saw a single figure approaching atop a horse, the Stark banner billowing in the wind behind him.
“Come Ghost,” she urged, sprinting all the way through the keep until she was in the courtyard with her mother and Benjen.
“Who goes there?” the guard called warily after some moments.
“It’s Morgan,” the rider announced himself in a familiar northern brogue. “I have been sent to inform you that Lord Stark and his entourage will be returning within the hour and to give a report to Lady Stark.”
“Open the gates,” the guard instructed.
Morgan rode into the courtyard a moment later, dismounted from his horse and offered a bow to the waiting Starks.
“My Lady. Lord Stark sends his greetings. He and Lord Brandon are unharmed and were successful in hunting down the Ironborn. Lord Harlaw has been executed by Lord Stark, Lord Drumm was defeated in combat by Jon Snow and returned to the Iron Islands, minus his sword arm, to deliver a strong warning. Andrik the Unsmiling was defeated in single combat by Jon Snow and is dead. The surviving invaders were sent home without their sword hands as a reminder to those that would bring harm upon the Northern people. Both Lord Stark and his heir fought valiantly and bring with them women and children who no longer have a home. Another has already been sent to Wintertown with instructions to prepare for their arrival, my lady.”
Lyanna watched her mother breathe a sigh of relief as she nodded gratefully.
“Thank you, Morgan,” she offered sincerely. “Am I to prepare a feast?”
“You are, my lady,” Morgan confirmed. “Lord Stark asks that it is held in honour of Jon Snow, Rodrik Cassel, and the small party of men they led to intercept the Ironborn.”
“Very well,” Lyarra said with a smile. “Get some rest, Morgan. I expect you will need it.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“They’re all okay?” Lyanna asked.
Morgan beamed.
“They are all well, my lady,” he assured her with a bow before taking his leave.
Lyanna felt herself relax for the first time in several days.
“Come on,” her mother urged. “You have time to bathe and dress before your father returns.”
“Mother!” Lyanna groaned but allowed herself to be led away by one of the chambermaids.
Her bath was readied quickly and she scrubbed herself before drying off in front of the fire where she attempted to tame her hair. She had gotten used to Jon doing it for her, and despite her best efforts, she couldn’t do it as well as he could.
Not that she cared.
Being what her mother would consider somewhat presentable, she rushed back into the courtyard and waited with the others for the return of her father.
“Lord Stark approaches,” the guard announced only a few moments later, and as the gate opened to admit the sizable party of men, Lyanna wasted no time, throwing herself into her father’s arms as soon as he dismounted.
“Have you been behaving?” he asked with a chuckle.
Lyanna nodded as she gave him her best look of innocence and the man ruffled her hair affectionately. However, her eyes were already seeking out another, and her father laughed once more.
“Go on,” he sighed amusedly.
Lyanna didn’t need telling twice, and she sprinted straight into Jon, almost knocking the wind out of him, followed by Ghost who sent the pair sprawling.
“I’m fine,” Jon wheezed. “Get off me!”
Those gathered in the courtyard laughed at the antics of the wolf as he bounced around excitedly like a common pup with his tail wagging.
Lyanna managed to extract herself from the mass of white fur and the limbs of her sworn sword.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
“I wasn’t,” Jon grumbled but offered her a smile, nonetheless. “Have you been practicing?”
Lyanna nodded and took him by the hand, dragging him to where the rest of the Starks were becoming reacquainted.
“I received a letter from Ned,” Lyarra explained to Rickard. “He sent it from the inn at the crossroads, so was away from the Ironborn in time.”
Rickard breathed a sigh of relief and Lyarra began to fuss over a protesting Brandon.
“You need a bath,” she declared. “All of you smell of blood and sweat.”
“Aye, we do,” Rickard said proudly. “Get your rest men. Tonight we will feast.”
Those that had returned from the fighting cheered their approval and Rickard turned towards Jon, Brandon, and Rodrik.
“You all served the North as it should be in a time of need. I am incredibly proud of each of you. Brandon, you did all that any Lord could ever ask of his heir. You will be a fine successor.”
Brandon nodded as he stood a little straighter.
“The two of you are as mad as any men I have met,” Rickard added to Jon and Rodrik. “Without you both, things could have been very different. We would not have reached them in time.”
“I was just along for the ride, my lord,” Rodrik snorted. “I followed Jon, and he saw us through it.”
“Aye, defeating Drumm is no easy feat. I did not expect Andrik to be there.”
“Who is Andrik?” Jon asked.
“Andrik the Unsmiling,” Rickard said with distaste. “He is said to be the greatest warrior of the Iron Islands. He’s vicious, and I had not seen him in some years. He came to the North with a raiding party before but escaped to his ship when we caught up to them. His death alone will send a clear message to Greyjoy to keep his lot away from us. You did well, Jon. Thank you.”
Jon offered the man a bow.
“I suppose Lyanna will want to pester you for the rest of the day. Let the man rest, girl. You can bother him later,” he added with a wink.
Lyanna nodded reluctantly.
“Go, get your rest,” Rickard urged. “You’ve all more than earned it.”
“I will have a bath sent for you, Jon,” Lyarra informed him. “Thank you,” she added, placing a kiss on his cheek. “The North remembers.”
“The North remembers,” Jon echoed.
Lyarra smiled and offered him a nod of approval before following Rickard into the keep.
“I think I’m going to wash the blood off me,” Jon declared. “I don’t think I need your help with that. Ghost, stay with her.”
Lyanna scowled at the grinning man and rolled her eyes as she thought of something she could do to occupy her time before the feast would commence. Maybe she would spend some time in the Godswood, and offer her thanks for the return of her father, Brandon, and Jon.
The latter seemed to do that a lot, holding the Gods closer to his heart than most others in Winterfell.
Rhaegar
Being granted the seat of Dragonstone upon his marriage to Elia had been the greatest of reliefs for the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. It wasn’t that he was particularly fond of his wife, but she was a good and loyal woman who had given him the greatest gift any man could ask for.
Despite their problems, Rhaenys was loved by them, and by all overs who had come to pay tribute shortly after she had been born.
The exception of this was of course the King who had been less than pleased by his first grandchild.
‘She looks like one of the filthy, Dornish whores!’ he had proclaimed loudly.
Rhaegar had swallowed his anger and returned his family to Dragonstone. Being the Crown Prince, however, meant there was no escape from his father, even more so for his mother and younger brother.
Nonetheless, there was little Rhaegar could do.
Without the needed support, he could not simply take the throne from his father, even if it would be best for all if he did. No, he would be branded a usurper, likely burned alive, and his wife and daughter with him.
Worse still, the King took it upon himself often to send for him, and as a good and loyal son, he found himself sailing from Dragonstone more than he wished, without Elia and Rhaenys.
He would spare them from the monster his father was becoming.
“HOW DARE HE?”
Rhaegar frowned as he entered the throne room to find his father in the midst of one of his mad ravings.
“I WANT STARK HERE WITHIN THE MONTH TO EXPLAIN HIMSELF!”
“What is happening, Merryweather?” Rhaegar asked the Hand of the King calmly.
“A letter from the North, My Prince,” the man answered and handed it to Rhaegar who read it.
To King Aerys II, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,
It is my duty to inform you that the lands of the North were recently invaded by a large party of Ironborn men and women. Two villages were raided, dozens of men murdered, and several women and children snatched with the intention of becoming salt wives to their captors.
As is my duty as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, the Ironborn were pursued.
As a result, Lord Harlaw was executed in your name for his crimes. Lord Drumm was spared, losing his sword hand in combat, and Andrik the Unsmiling was killed in single combat by a Northern Warrior.
Lord Drumm was allowed to return home to Old Wyk with the survivors, who also had their sword hands removed as a warning to not set foot on Northern shores again.
I ask that you send your own condemnation to the Lords of the Iron Islands in the hope they heed my words.
If they do not, and as this has become a repeated offence, I will be left with no choice but to sail my armies to the Iron Islands and crush them to ensure the safety of my people.
I thank your grace for his time.
Lord Rickard Stark,
Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell
“I’LL SEE HIM BURN FOR THIS!”
Rhaegar released a deep breath.
The Northern Kingdom had always proven to be the least problematic of them all. For the most part, they kept themselves away from others, paid their taxes, and caused no issue for the crown.
For Stark to have reacted in such a way, the Ironborn must truly have provoked his ire.
“How many times has the Ironborn raided the North?” he asked.
“We have twelve reports from the last eight years, My Prince,” Merryweather answered.
“And what has the crown done about it?”
“Nothing.”
Rhaegar hummed as. He turned his attention to his father.
“You should do as Lord Stark has requested,” he advised. “If he has been fending them off for so long with not even an acknowledgement, he is within his rights to be furious.”
“His Kingdom is my Kingdom!” Aerys spat.
Rhaegar shook his head.
“His Kingdom is the one that is most neglected by the crown,” he pointed out. “When was the last time they received a royal visit?”
“They haven’t, My Prince,” Merryweather answered once more. “Tohrren Stark bent the knee to Aegon, and the North has been left alone since.”
“Unacceptable,” Rhaegar sighed. “I’m surprised they remain loyal to us.”
“Stark wouldn’t dare!” Aerys snarled.
“If he did, what could we do to stop him?”
“I would march an army to his front door…”
He glared as Rhaegar chuckled.
“Father, the North is a vast land and makes up a third of the land mass of the Kingdoms. It is colder than you can imagine, harsh, and your losses, even if you were successful, would leave the crown severely weakened. I would say that winning a war in the North would be all but impossible given that us southerners do not know the land. Merryweather, what is the current total of fighting men the North can muster?”
“At last count a few years ago, Lord Stark claims he could amount a force of around fifty thousand fighting men.”
“That does not take into account that Moat Calin, even in its current state, could be manned by one hundred men that would hold any army at bay. The Neck would be a poor choice to attempt to march an army through, and even the Royal Fleet would struggle in the conditions up there.”
“Aegon made the bastards kneel!” Aerys reminded them.
“Aegon had dragons,” Rhaegar pointed out. “Tohrren Stark kneeled to save his people from them. Father, chastise the Iron Islands and send Lord Stark an apology for the oversight by the crown for not acting sooner. Perhaps a gift would not go amiss.”
Aerys nodded like a petulant child and Rhaegar bid his father farewell.
His ravings were only becoming worse, and the Kingdoms would suffer if something wasn’t done. Not all of his memories of Aerys were unpleasant, but in recent years, he could scarcely remember any of those he may have once been fond of.