Chapter 59: Winter is Here

Ensuring Moat Cailin's defences were well supplied and ready for an immediate attack was lengthy work, and Torrhen was personally ensuring that the frozen bogs were filled with Dragonglass, flammable objects and all manner of things that were designed to halt the onslaught. He was currently pouring a barrel of oil over the frozen marshes surrounding the castle's mound with Cregan. As they poured the last few drops out of their final barrel, they placed it onto their sled and each grabbed a rope, pulling the sled back towards the Kingsroad. As they re-entered the castle, Torrhen saw Jaime Lannister talking to members of the Night's Watch, with the tallest one, Grenn, strapping the greatsword Brightroar onto his back. Torrhen also noticed Samwell Tarly in the group as he and Cregan placed the sled to one side so it could be restocked and went to grab a bowl of stew from the serving stations.

"Are you sure that will work?" Cregan asked as he grabbed his bowl.

Torrhen followed suit and allowed for a man dressed in Manderly colours to pour some slop into his bowl. "Aye, the right consistency of the oil will allow it to freeze over nicely, and when a volley of flaming arrows pierce the frost…" He slapped his spoon into the stew, showing a mock explosion in his dinner. "That should buy us a bit of time before they get to the walls at least."

Cregan nodded, shoving a spoonful of food in his mouth and swallowing, before wagging his spoon in the air after a thought. "Wouldn't we be better off with Wildfire?"

Torrhen snorted. "Do you know how much this place cost?" He cried. "I'm not blowing it up." He then shook his head. "No, King Stannis used up his last reserves for the plague burnings, or so he said. Perhaps he just didn't want to risk the journey."

"Torrhen!" A voice called through the crowds. Torrhen looked up to see his goodfather, Gregor Forrester, walking briskly towards him. "We've all been summoned by Lord Stark."

Torrhen could sense the urgency in the older man's voice and immediately rose to his feet, handing his bowl to Cregan. "When you're done eating go and help your brother with the archery training."

"Aye, My Lord." Cregan responded formally, and Torrhen didn't hesitate to follow Gregor into the Main Keep and towards the War Room.

They weren't the last ones to arrive, but once Lord Glover entered the room Ned began with a sigh. "A scouting party hasn't returned on time."

Torrhen felt a chill go through him at the comment. The scouts had been specifically chosen for their ability to traverse the Northern winters quickly, and they weren't to go more than three days without returning to Moat Cailin. "They're coming then." Lord Bolton said monotonously, saying aloud everyone's thoughts.

"Aye." Ned agreed darkly. "So what we have is what we are left with."

"Have we heard nothing from the Riverlands?" Lord Flint asked.

Torrhen shook his head. "Nothing since the last time. They could be anywhere from an hour away to Darry."

"Fuck." Lord Stout swore quietly, but enough heard him.

"We have thousands within these walls. Strong walls." Ned tried to allay the fears of his Lords and Ladies. "Thousands of the strongest warriors this land knows. We have strong walls and provisions enough to last us years."

"Provisions won't mean anything if they have enough numbers." The Greatjon said ominously. "I've seen them. They don't tire, they don't rest. They just run. They run and they slaughter."

"We have the finest archers in the North within our walls." Torrhen said strongly, gaining the attention of the room. "We have walls a hundred feet high and those dead fuckers aren't getting in!"

A few of the Lords murmured their agreements, but there were still a lot of uneasy faces. Ned looked around at each person in the room. "I understand your fears, I truly do." He said cautiously. "We have all abandoned our homes, let our families flee to places in the Riverlands unsure of whether we will see them again, but that is the exact reason I will fight here. We all know the stories of the Long Night, of the winter storms and the generations of darkness. We were all terrified of them as children, but we have something that our ancestors didn't." He looked around again, before placing a Dragonglass dagger down on the table. "We have been planning for this for years. We have weapons that our ancestors didn't have that have been proven to work against the White Walkers!"

"Aye." Torrhen said firmly, placing Winter's Bite on the table. "And we have hope. We will hold out long enough for the dragons to get here. We will hold out for reinforcements, or we may not even need them." He grinned, more hopefully than anything.

"Torrhen is right." Robb said firmly. "I have fought with many of you in this room, there is no other group I would rather fight with."

Ned nodded. "I couldn't agree more." He said. "My Lords, My Ladies. Ensure your men are prepared and our defences are ready."

Torrhen nodded, picking his blade back up and slotting it back onto his belt before giving his Father a nod. As he left the room, he only hoped that those in the South were on their way.

The moonlight gleamed off the calm waters as the Royal Fleet continued Northwards towards the Iron Islands. After a quick resupply in Lannisport, they were now about to round Feastfires before charting their final course towards the islands. Bran was sat in his cabin with Summer, brushing the Direwolf's fur as he listened to the jovial muffled chatter from the men outside his door. He continued his movements, smirking as Summer panted contently, when the warning bell began to sound. Bran stood up and opened the door of his cabin to see what was going on when from out of nowhere the ship lurched viciously to one side, knocking the Stark to the ground as he hit his head against the wooden floor. Groaning, Bran got up and unsheathed his blade, stumbling over to the door and up to the deck.

Immediately he was met with a roaring, bearded Ironborn sailor racing at him with an axe raised high. As groggy as he was, Bran parried the incoming blow before throwing a back handed slash and carving the attackers face open. As the man dropped to the ground Bran swung his sword around and drove it into the back of the sprawling man's neck. Retrieving his blade, the Stark could finally survey the scene.

An Ironborn ship had crashed into the starboard side of the Fury and lodged itself there, and the Ironborn were all rushing off it, slaughtering as they went. Dozens of Stormlanders were already dead, and Bran found himself snarling in anger when he saw the unmoving armour of one of the Kingsguard. He rushed forwards, his blade piercing body after body to try and salvage the situation, although as well as the noise of the slaughter and the screams, the noise of the Fury cracking could be heard.

"DOWN!" Bran heard, and he was barrelled over once again by a heavy Stormlander soldier. Over their heads came flaming arrows lodging themselves into the wooden frame of the Fury, and the flames began to slowly spread. Bran wheezed as he could barely breathe, finally managing to shove his saviour off of him and noticing that the Stormlander had three flaming arrows in his torso. Grabbing his sword once more, Bran moved into the battle. He decapitated one man, followed by slicing another from naval to chin before stabbing him in the neck. A roar from behind him caught his attention, and he turned around just in time to see Summer's jaw clenched into another Ironborn leg, dragging the screaming man away.

It was chaos, but through the smoke and the fire Bran noticed Stannis fighting an Ironborn captain wearing a quartered sigil. The Stark raced towards his mentor, managing to slide along the bloodstained deck underneath a blade, bringing his own sword up and disembowelling the wielder in the process, but by the time he had got to the King the Ironborn was standing over Stannis, a sword buried deep into the Baratheon's body.

"NO!" Bran roared, gaining the attention of the killer. From his closer position he could see the sigils of Houses Harlaw and Serrett, meaning that this was the Ironborn knight Ser Harras Harlaw.

Harlaw smirked. "Your King begged for his life." He taunted. "As will you, boy."

Bran shook his head angrily. "Never." He flexed his fingers on his blade and screamed, rushing into the attack. The two blades clashed, and Bran used as much of his hatred and rage as he possibly could in each blow, battering the defence of the Harlaw Knight. Blow after blow rained down until Bran thought he had found a gap in the Ironborn's defence, so he lunged instead of swung his sword, only for the Harlaw to duck out of the way and bring his own sword down on Bran's, the now visible Valyrian Steel shattering the castle steel that Bran had been holding.

Bran didn't have a second to stop and react to his sword breaking though as he was forced to duck and roll away from the new onslaught that was coming his way. He grabbed a Harlaw shield and used that to block the blows coming his way, but Valyrian Steel is famed for a reason and Bran soon saw the sword begin to chip away at the shield. Frustrated, Bran waited for one more sword blow to bite into the shield before he angrily wrenched it to one side, hearing a loud pop before an angry and pained roar. Using the distraction to his advantage, Bran threw the shield forcefully at Ser Harras and sprinted towards the Ironborn, jumping up and knocking him over straddling the man, before he used his broken blade and stabbed Ser Harras in the throat repeatedly, screaming unintelligibly as he did so.

A coughing and spluttering distracted Bran enough to stop his vicious onslaught of the long dead Ironborn knight's neck, and Bran took the Valyrian Steel sword, still stained in Baratheon blood and placed it in his belt before he crawled his way over to Stannis, picking up the King's head to try and keep him upright. "Your Grace, I'll get you to safety!" He cried through tears.

Stannis shook his head, blood trickling out his mouth. "Not me." He wheezed. He pushed a metallic object into Bran's hands. "Shireen."

Bran looked downwards at the object, seeing that it was Stannis' crown. "No." He exclaimed. "I won't leave you." He cried out stubbornly.

The sound of the ship cracking forced Stannis to grab Bran by the back of the neck. "You showed me… what it's like… to have a..." He gasped out, bringing Bran's forehead down to rest against his own.. "A son." At the uttering of the final word, Stannis relaxed in Bran's arms, lifeless.

"No!" Bran cried again. "Stannis!" The Stark tried to shake the Baratheon King awake. "Wake up!" He felt teeth grazing his collar. "No! I won't leave him!" The teeth felt more forceful then as Bran felt himself sliding towards the edge of the ship, and a loud crack ripped through the air as the deck began to tilt. Bran was forced to let go of Stannis' body then, gripping the crown tightly as his sobs filled the air, and before he could register what was happening, Bran felt himself being pulled over the edge of the ship as he dropped into the Sunset Sea.

As the main naval power within the vassals of Dragonstone, Daenerys and Jon had both boarded the Velaryon flagship Pride of Driftmark for their sea travels, and as they were the ones that had to prove themselves loyal, King Stannis had instructed the Targaryen's and their vassals to lead the convoy towards the Iron Islands. As the fleet began to round Feastfires Jon was sat in Lord Velaryon's cabin trying to put a plan together to move from the Iron Islands to the North most efficiently. He had picked the same route that the Ironborn had tried to invade through, the Fever River that got them as close to Moat Cailin by ship as they could get.

"Is it strange?" Lord Velaryon asked him from a chair in the cabin. Jon looked up to see Monford looking at him questioningly. "Growing up knowing who you are, only to find out that everything was a lie?"

Jon thought for a moment. "It was strange at first, but there are lots of strange things that have happened over the years." He shrugged. "I'd imagine it's stranger for you, serving a Targaryen again."

Monford shook his head with a smile. "My family prospered under House Targaryen. My Father, may the Gods grant him peace, was always adamant that we would serve them once again. I only regret he died without seeing it happen." He bit his lip for a second. "That being said, it is strange calling you, My Lord."

Jon had got that a lot since the peace talks had finished with Stannis. For 300 years his paternal family had ruled, looking down on all their vassals as beneath them. For Jon it made no difference, he had never been on top looking down on others, he had always been there at the bottom being sneered at or mocked. "You'll get used to it." He commented.

"I suppose I will." Monford nodded. "Although I wouldn't be adverse to seeing the Baratheon's overthrown…"

"We will stop there, Lord Velaryon." Jon interrupted coldly. "The way things are is the way they will continue to be. The King could have executed, instead he gave Daenerys and I our family lands back. There will be no talks of uprisings…" He trailed off as he felt the ship lurch to the right, turning around. "What is going on?"

Monford didn't say anything, instead he immediately got to his feet and strapped his weapon to his belt, leading Jon out onto the deck of the ship. Jon saw Dany and made his way over to his wife, before his eyes followed the direction she was looking, and he gasped at the sight. Fires were widespread over their fleet, and in the burning embers the silhouettes of Ironborn longships were roaming, firing flamed catapults towards the royal fleet. In the distance, Jon watched as the largest ship in the fleet, the Fury, was cleaved in two and had started to sink.

"Bran…" Jon whispered emotionally. "No!"

Dany placed an arm on his hand. "We don't know what happened. He could be fine." She tried to soothe.

It didn't matter, as Jon's brow furrowed angrily, and a snarl formed. "We've sailed into a trap." He muttered bluntly. He could feel the rage bubbling up inside him at the thought of his little brother burning alive on the flaming wreck. Suddenly, a flash of fire lit up the sky above him, and out of it came Rhaegal, soaring above them. "Lord Velaryon! The fleet is yours!" He cried out before turning to his wife. "They will pay."

"Don't get hit." She said strongly back to him, knowing exactly what he was thinking. Jon nodded, pressing a kiss to her lips before he ran towards the mast, climbing his way to the top. Once he had reached the boom, he kept his balance running across it before he jumped off the edge towards the water, but Rhaegal was there to catch him.

Jon got himself settled in between the bronze spikes that gave him command of the great beast, and he urged Rhaegal to fly over towards the centre of the ambush. He was there in moments, and as he hovered over the Ironborn ships he could see the tiny people below running around in fear. An arrow volley came up towards him, but the thick hide of the dragon wasn't even grazed by the steel points. Jon smirked to himself while his dark eyes burned with anger at the site of Bran's ship being lost to the water, and he called out the only words that made any sense to him in that moment.

"Dracarys."

Rhaegal roared, and a jet of roaring hot flames burst from his mouth towards the nearest Ironborn ship, incinerating the offending ship immediately. Quickly, Jon urged Rhaegal to move, and one by one as he passed ships bearing the golden Kraken of House Greyjoy, Rhaegal wreaked havoc.

Bran had been rendered almost catatonic as he hit the water, and all he could do as he was dragged away from the burning mess that the Fury had become was watch as it sunk slowly into the water. Shock and disbelief made way for a scowl, and he stared at the wreckage until the very last of it had disappeared under the waves.

Then the flames erupted, and Bran watched as a shadowy figure raced overhead, absolutely destroying ships in an instant. Burning wreckage and people came flying over Bran's head, and the reality of the situation shocked Bran into movement again. He floundered for a moment, before turning onto his front and helping Summer swim faster away from the flames. It took them minutes, but soon Bran just about recognised the hull of the Black Betha, who was busy firing flaming arrows towards the Ironborn ships. As they got closer, Bran laid back on his back again trying to push as much of himself out of the water, and a call came from above.

"SURVIVOR!"

In an instant a net was thrown down from the deck, and after ensuring Summer was secured and he had a firm grip, he pulled tightly three times on the net to indicate they were ready. The crew began to heave upwards, and finally Bran felt the wooden deck of the ship and he collapsed onto his back.

"Get a healer." Ser Davos' voice came sternly from somewhere. "Now!" Bran coughed as some water was forced out of his lungs, but otherwise he felt fine. "Bran, what happened? We thought…"

Bran didn't respond as he looked over to his pet. Summer was laying on his side, resigned to his fate as a remnant of wood was lodged deeply into his side. "No…" Bran whispered, fearing tears once more as he crawled over to the Direwolf's side. Bran cradled Summer's head, as the Direwolf just looked tired. "You saved me boy." Bran whispered, feeling a tear drop down his cheek and onto Summer's fur. "You saved me." He repeated. Summer blinked once and licked away Bran's tears before settling down on his side again and closing his eyes for the final time. Bran did the same, closing his eyes to try and stop the onrushing emotions that were threatening to escape him. He felt hands on his shoulder trying to pull him away, and the Stark snapped. He turned and punched a young sailor as hard as he could in the face. "Don't touch me!" He screamed, before returning his hands to Summer's fur. He gripped it tightly, wanting to shock the wolf back to life, but it was to no avail.

"He's gone, Bran." Ser Davos' calm voice met his ears. "I'm sorry."

Bran knew that. He wanted to shout at the Onion Knight, to pound him until something felt better. Then he remembered that he was still gripping the King's crown. Sighing, he said a final, internal farewell to his faithful Direwolf and got to his feet. "The King is dead." He announced, throwing the crown to the deck. He heard the gasps and the cries of the crew, but he only had eyes for Ser Davos. "I saw it." He whispered emotionally.

Ser Davos was horrified, but the knight regained his composure as he looked around at the crew. "We can deal with that later." He said, though his voice was shaky. "We have to deal with this first though." He gestured to the flaming ocean. Bran looked over and saw that the battle was all but over. A dragon was mopping up the last of the Ironborn ships that hadn't been able to flee, and Bran scowled at the scene.

"We need to resupply." Bran muttered. "Regroup."

"Aye, Lannisport will do." Davos nodded. "You there! Send a signal to retreat to Lannisport!" The elder knight walked closer to Bran. "We have prisoners too. A ship tried and failed to board us at the beginning."

Bran's scowl grew even more. "Where?" He asked coldly. Davos escorted him over to the front of the ship where a group of three Ironborn sailors were knelt down, their hands tied behind their backs. Bran surveyed them all for a moment before he settled on the man on the left, a smaller, older man wearing the sigil of House Sparr. "You. Where is Euron Greyjoy?" He asked.

The small, hairy man grinned. "I don't know." Bran punched him hard in the face, hearing the crunch of the man's nose. "Great Wyk!" The man cried out as blood from his nose filled his mouth. "If the ambush didn't work he wanted to draw you in!"

Bran couldn't sense any lies, especially as the other two men looked at the talker incredulously. "Very well." He muttered and reached for his sword. The handle felt unfamiliar, and Bran remembered that it was Valyrian Steel. He stared at the blade, noticing the blood of Stannis was still on the steel. Hesitating for only a second, Bran then lashed out, taking the Sparr man's head off with a clean swipe. Bran watched emotionlessly as the body flopped to the floor spilling blood, and he sheathed his new blade once again. "Kill any prisoner or straggler you find." He ordered.

"Bran…" Davos protested, but Bran glared at the Onion Knight.

"That was an order." Bran snapped. "With the King dead that makes my wife the Queen." It was only as he said the words that the reality began to sink in, and he stared at the crown that Ser Davos had picked up. "Shireen is the Queen." He whispered. Steeling himself and setting his face into an icy scowl, he repeated himself. "No prisoners, Lord Hand." And he walked back over to the spot where Summer had breathed his last and knelt down in mourning.

The ships arrived in Lannisport just after dawn broke, and after Jon had flown further towards the Iron Islands to try and chase the fleeing ships, he landed Rhaegal on a grassy plain by Casterly Rock, where Lord Tyrion and Lady Joanna had invited the commanders in to rest and recuperate before the Lady of the Rock had gone to check up on the few months old baby Jaime, the heir to Casterly Rock. As Jon re-joined the command group the first person he saw made him audibly gasp, and he immediately rushed to embrace Bran.

"I thought you were gone." He whispered, tightening his grip. He felt Bran half-heartedly return the hug and pulled away, bringing his hands to cup Bran's cheeks. "What happened?"

"The King is dead." Renly Baratheon stated bluntly. He was sat down at a table resting on his elbows, Loras Tyrell beside him. The news of Stannis' death should have shocked Jon, but he had seen the state of the Fury even before he had joined in the battle. "We need to decide what to do now."

Bran jumped in immediately. "We kill Euron." He told them all. "He's played us this far. He wanted Stannis dead to scatter us while he took what he could. We cannot let that happen."

Loras scoffed. "There are more pressing things than continuing this folly. The King is dead!"

"And Euron will follow him!" Bran roared, slamming his fists on the table and silencing everyone. Jon looked over at Daenerys, concerned, and she just shrugged. Bran took a deep breath. "He caught us out at Oldtown and fled. He caught us out in that ambush hoping to break us and he fled again to Great Wyk. We will follow him, and we will end the Ironborn once and for all."

The dwarf of Casterly Rock cleared his throat. "We have some more important things to consider." He had a raven message in his hand, and he looked around the room at a few people, wondering who to give it to. In the end he sighed and put it on the table. "Moat Cailin calls for aid, they say that the dead are coming."

"We knew that already." Loras explained.

"And who knows how close they are." Jon added. "When did you get the raven?"

"A day ago." Tyrion explained. "If we leave now, we might make it on time."

Bran shook his head. "I know my family, they can hold longer than you think. The issue we must face is Euron."

"The issue is we have no leader!" Renly exclaimed. "My brother is dead!" He sighed, rubbing his temple with his hand. "I will assume command."

Loras nodded, but the others that had come from the ships scoffed, Bran chief among them. "You are second in the succession, Lord Renly." He said sternly. "King Stannis made his wishes very clear as he died, the crown is Shireen's."

"Shireen isn't here." Renly argued.

"No, but I am." Bran retorted coldly. "I am her husband, and as such I will act with her interests."

Jon shook his head. "Bran, you're grieving, you aren't thinking straight."

Bran glared over at Jon. "Don't tell me what I am thinking, Jon."

"If we could all calm down!" Tyrion shouted. "As far as I can see, we have four people in this very room with legitimate claims, and not enough nobles to agree and confirm to any of them." He was looking at Jon and Dany.

Jon cleared his throat. "We can argue over who will rule once the wars are won. For now, we may as well stick to the same plan. How are our forces?"

Renly sighed. "We lost half our ships." He told the room, speaking about the Stormlander fleet.

Loras nodded. "Around a quarter of the Redwyne Fleet is gone." He reported.

"Our own forces were too far ahead, they couldn't reach us before Rhaegal joined the battle, we are at full strength." Dany explained.

"Good." Jon nodded, staring at the map of the West on the table. "Then we stick to the plan. We will use the dragons as much as we are able and burn the Ironborn strongholds. The rest of us will sail to Great Wyk. We take the island, we end House Greyjoy, we sail up towards the Fever River and aid the living." He waited for arguments, but everyone was too tired by the looks of it. "Rest up, we sail at dawn."

"Not alone." Tyrion said firmly. "My men have already mustered to sail to the North, we will join you."

Jon appreciated that, but Dany looked concerned at the Lannister. "We? You will join us?"

Tyrion nodded, a smile on his lips. "My succession is secure, I have a healthy, normal sized male heir that will rule when I am gone." He smiled proudly. "But I cannot stand by safe in the Rock when everyone else is risking their lives. My brother is up there, I would help him if I can."

"You will be welcome, My Lord." Bran said firmly. "The more ships, the quicker this will be."

"Aye." Jon agreed. He looked at Dany and could tell that both of them just needed to sleep. "Unless there is anything else?" Nobody said anything, and so Jon offered his arm for his wife to take and the pair left the room, eager to find any form of bed to fall into and shut their eyes for a while.

The atmosphere around Moat Cailin had turned eerie after the news that the scouts had gone missing spread, and Torrhen found himself keeping inside the Main Keep to get away from the majority of the doom and gloom. Sleep evaded the Stark, and he often found himself wandering around the keep just looking for something to distract him. As he walked into the main hall on the third day after the scouts had vanished, he noticed a familiar face sat at a table buried in a book.

"Samwell Tarly." Torrhen greeted. "It has been a long time."

Sam looked up from the pages and had a warm smile. "Lord Torrhen." He said kindly. "Longer for me, I think. The last time I saw you, you wore a crown."

Torrhen looked around nervously, but there was nobody else in the room. "A fact you should keep to yourself." Torrhen warned, placing himself in a chair opposite the Reachman. "How are you?"

Sam chuckled bitterly. "I keep thinking back to last time." He admitted. "I was a different man then."

"As was I." Torrhen nodded. He thought for a moment before asking. "What did you do, the day before we fought?"

Sam smiled sadly. "I spent it with Gilly and little Sam." He told Torrhen, a tear dropping out of his eyes. "They were with Mance Rayder, last I heard. I don't think they made it."

Torrhen's heart dropped. "I'm so sorry." He murmured. "Too many people have died."

"It's so different here." Sam whispered through his emotion. "Before… I grew old. I had Gilly and Sam, and my own son. I had Jon as a friend and for some reason I was trusted by the Queen. Here… Gilly barely knows me, Sam likely has a different name. Jon doesn't know who I am…" He sighed, trailing off.

Torrhen honestly felt awful. "They could have got out." He lied.

Sam shook his head. "It wouldn't matter if they did." He sighed. "What did you do?"

"What?" Torrhen asked.

"The day before. After our meeting." Sam explained.

Torrhen thought back. "I had just fought with Wylla and tried to focus on the battle ahead, but I just remember feeling overwhelmed. Everyone was looking to me to lead, and I didn't feel very Kingly in that moment."

"You were well loved." Sam told him. "Years afterwards the memory of you kept the friendship between the North and the Iron Throne alive." He chuckled at a memory. "I remember being asked by the future King Aegon VII about you, Jon and Daenerys' grandson. He was studying the Northern royal line in preparation for his first visit to Winterfell and wanted to be able to make good conversation with your Grandson, also named Torrhen. They became good friends in the end."

Torrhen felt relatively self-conscious at that, and the thought of having a grandchild was strange to him. "I wasn't a role model, Sam, you shouldn't have made it out like I was."

"You were, you still are." Sam shook his head dismissively. "You have such an impact on so many lives, Torrhen Stark. You don't even know how important you were even after your death."

Torrhen smiled sadly. "Sounds like I did my legacy a favour by dying." He joked darkly.

"Perhaps, but many would mourn you for as long as they lived, even those that didn't get a chance to meet you." Sam sighed. "As they would now. I really am happy you got your family back, Torrhen."

Torrhen nodded. "Thank you. And look, your family is still around too. The ones that matter, anyway."

Sam smiled at that. "I'm looking forward to seeing Dickon once more, if I survive of course."

Torrhen stood up and placed an arm on Sam's shoulder. "You will, Sam. You will."

A comfortable silence fell between them, until the mood was completely shattered as the horn bellowed out a blast. Torrhen froze in place for a moment, until it became clear that no more were coming. He bid Sam farewell and raced out of the Hall and the Main Keep to the courtyard. The Winter Gate was opened and in came a steady stream of battered Dornishmen. A couple of them had been pulled to one side by Ned, so Torrhen rushed over towards his Father.

"Ah, Torrhen." Ned called. "My Princes, this is my son and the Lord of the Causeway, Torrhen. Tor, this is Prince Oberyn and Prince Quentyn."

Both had died last time before Torrhen had a chance to meet them, the Stark thought. "A pleasure." Torrhen greeted the southerners with a brief smile. "Your arrival here is most needed."

"There were more of us." Oberyn stated bluntly, crimson blood staining almost the entirety of his faces right side. "Much more."

"We had 20,000 spears." The younger man, Quentyn, spat. "Now we are lucky to have even half as many."

Torrhen's eyes widened in horror at the implication. "You fought them?"

Oberyn snorted, before he winced in pain. "Fought? No, we did not fight. We ran."

"You should get that wound looked at." Ned said calmly. "Our Maesters have set up in the Library, I will take you."

Oberyn looked to complain, but he winced again and nodded. Torrhen looked over at Quentyn Martell and noticed his spear had a steel tip. "You'll need your spears adapting for the enemy. Dragonglass, not steel."

Quentyn looked distrusting, but he nodded and grabbed Oberyn's spear too. "Lead the way to your smith, Stark."

Torrhen nodded as he scratched his beard quickly and walked further into the castle courtyard. "How long ago did you face them?" He asked.

"Last night." Quentyn explained. "It all happened so quickly… The winds came, then the chills."

Torrhen nodded. "Aye, they're unlike anything we have ever faced before."

"I have no wish to face them again, and I did not expect to do so behind a Stark." Quentyn told him. "We do not like you so much in Dorne, not after your aunt…"

"That's the past." Torrhen said firmly. "We in the North are also good at keeping grudges but look around." He pointed to Stark and Bolton soldiers eating and training together, and he found Arya and Domeric sharing a joke. "Old enemies for thousands of years united as one to face the common enemy."

Quentyn smirked. "You are right, of course. And by nightfall we won't have a choice but to be the best of friends. For we will all be fighting when the sun sets."