21-They Do Not Sow

Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. I also want to thank my beta-reader nicknm for helping me bounce ideas around.

***

Denys Drumm

Denys stabbed through the chainmail almost effortlessly, piercing the heart of yet another enemy. He headed towards the next opponent and was already crossing swords with him a heartbeat later. The Hightower knight was not his match even before he had acquired Red Rain. Now, with Valyrian steel in hand, he slew the man with ease. Soon, all the Hightower men were throwing down their arms in surrender.

"Put them in chains. We can always use more thralls or rowers. And if not, the myrish will pay dearly to take them off our hands," he ordered and his men quickly complied.

He couldn't help but marvel at the crimson blade in his hands. It was a light blade that had an impossibly sharp edge that never dulled and gave an enormous advantage to whoever wielded it in a fight. Red Rain had been in possession of House Drumm for a long time. Nobody remembered precisely how long ago they had acquired it, but the tale of Hilmar the Cunning was legendary across the Iron Isles. Stealing away the Valyrian steel sword with nothing but his wits and a wooden cudgel immortalised the name of his ancestor.

His father Dunstan wielded it only until a fortnight ago when he had died to a falling stone when they were storming the Arbor Keep. After the Redwyne fleet had been sunk, Euron had finally committed to sieging the seat of House Redwyne to bring them to heel. It would have been a hard battle had not the majority of the Redwyne men been sent to the mainland or sunk in the sea with their fleet. Still, they had nearly half a thousand casualties to barely a hundred defenders. With every following victory, the ironborn were becoming bolder and bolder and fanatic in their support of the Crow's Eye. He won every battle so far and let the other captains take the lion's share of the plunder, including the lands.

Dunstan had told him that the ironborn did not have the strength to hold the Arbor or the Shields against the might of the Reach, but Denys had no such doubts. They had already defeated all their fleets with seasoned sailors. The Greenlanders were weak, and Euron would continue leading them to victory.

Now, after they bested the Hightower fleet the ironborn were masters of the whole Sunset Sea for the first time in hundreds of years.

The next day all the captains and their king gathered on a nearby small island.

"At the kingsmoot, I promised you that we will take the Arbor. And I have delivered!" Euron shouted, unsheathed his sword and raised it. All the captains, Denys included, raised their blades and cheered. "And I will continue to deliver. Today we feast and drink to celebrate our victory. Tomorrow, we sail for Oldtown!"

A small voice in the back of his mind warned him that sacking a city with quarter million people would not be easy. After all the battles and garrisoning the newly taken keeps, Euron's might was little over ten thousand men. In the morning light, Denys noticed that the Crow's Eye looked unnaturally pale, and his usually smiling blue eye had gone stormy. It might have been his imagination, but Euron avoided moving his left hand as if it was injured.

Denys quickly shook his head, banishing the useless thoughts from his head. He was never good at thinking. Fighting and fucking on the other hand? His mind moved to his newest salt wife. Denys couldn't wait to enjoy Desmera's soft curves and sweet lips again.

"Here's how we'll breach the city..."

***

Samwell Tarly, Oldtown

Sam,

A letter from my brother came naming me heir. I killed a certain bloody bastard and I'm back home. The red woman is gone and Val wants her nephew back as soon as possible.

Stay safe,

Jon

The letter had vexed him for days. Scarcely a word reached Oldtown about the Night's Watch or the North. The Wall was more than 2500 miles away and was little more than a fairy tale to the people here.

If Sam interpreted the meaning correctly, Jon had killed the Boltons and had somehow retaken Winterfell and become King of the North. Which was plausible considering that the letter had arrived from Winterfell. Sam was not very good at fighting, but he remembered the lessons on warfare that his father gave him. With House Bolton vanquished and a Stark king in Winterfell, the north was nearly impossible to take from the outside.

It seemed that even a dead king's letter had managed to free Jon from the Night's Watch. Sam secretly wondered if Jon would do the same for him. But the thought was quickly squashed as even if Jon freed him, it would most probably not be acknowledged in the south. His father and brother were now dead, and he'd have to become Lord of Horn Hill. Could he even manage the lordship or lead House Tarly and his men into battle?

Sadly, Sam knew that he would probably only make things worse than they already were. With the Night's Watch at least he had a purpose and nobody expected too much of him. As dangerous as being a black brother was, it would still be safer there. He knew that whatever troubles came from the Lands of Always Winter, Jon would deal with them one way or another, his friend was always resourceful and successful.

But why would Val want to bring the babe North? Little Aemon would live a way better life as a bastard in Horn Hill than as a child raised by a wildling spearwife.

The three links he had managed to forge dangled in his pocket as he quickly headed for his cell. Black iron for ravenry, copper for history, and silver for medicine. He had studied hard, but this was all the links he could forge in a single year. Without the recommendation of an Archmaester, most of the library was restricted to acolytes and he had to rely on dry and boring lectures to learn. Sam wanted to stay and finish his chain so he could join the Order of Maesters but he had a sinking feeling that things were going to go very wrong soon. The news of the Redwyne Fleet's defeat had twisted a knot in his gut.

Everyone had underestimated the ironmen, but rumours said that Euron Greyjoy was the Drowned God's champion and could control storms. Naturally, the maesters and most of the acolytes quickly dismissed any notion of magic with a scoff, but Sam knew better. He had seen foul, dark things stirring at the far north. The memory of Melisandre's red eyes also made his skin crawl.

Now, the Hightower fleet had sailed out to face the ironborn three days ago, and no word had come back yet. This meant that they lost, and the ironborn might sack Oldtown next. But people around here did not even consider this a possibility.

How could a handful of reavers take a city with quarter million people down? But Sam knew how the many could get crushed by the few. Stannis Baratheon had crushed half a hundred thousand wildlings with only fifteen hundred experienced men on horseback. And the ironborn had fought and won plenty in the last three years, whereas the Oldtown city watch was lax and never fought with anything other than petty thieves.

Sam was a craven, but he knew when was the time to stay and fight. He had even slain an Other! But now, all of his instincts were telling him to get out of here immediately and he heeded them.

He started packing his things quickly. Not that there was a lot to pack- as a brother of the Night's Watch, he had almost nothing to his name aside from three silver stags, two sets of black robes, black boots, and a bow that his friend Jon made him carry everywhere and practice with until his fingers got bloody.

Five minutes later he was already headed outside but he met a familiar dornish acolyte in the hallway.

"Sam! Where are you going?" Alleras asked curiously.

"North!" He blurted out. Sam didn't want to go back to the Night's Watch but he had sworn vows.

"What about forging your links? Didn't you come here to become a maester?" Sam turned and saw that the other man was still following him.

"Yes, I did!" he said and stopped, realising that beads of sweat had formed on his brow. He gingerly wiped it away with his black sleeve. Was he going to tell his fellow acolyte that he was fleeing Oldtown because he was craven and feared the ironborn that might not even come? "I-I'm going back to the Watch. I don't think it's safe here any longer."

"Not safe? Oldtown is the biggest city in Westeros. It's way safer than going back north to freeze at the Night's Watch," Alleras said incredulously.

"Nobody expected the Shields to fall, yet the ironborn hold them now," The words spilled out of his mouth without stopping. "The Redwyne fleet was going to beat the Iron Fleet, yet it sank. Now the Hightowers have sent their ships and yet we have no word of them for three days. Euron Greyjoy has made everyone who underestimated him pay a heavy price and I don't think Oldtown is safe anymore." The face of the other man became more and more serious as he continued. "I'd rather leave now before the ironborn are here and the gates are closed."

"Are you sure about this?" the dornish acolyte asked solemnly.

"Yes, I might be foolish...but I even survived the Great Ranging beyond the Wall and the Battle of Castle Black," he boasted weakly. He survived them not because of his skill in fighting but by pure luck and because he did not fight in either of them.

Wasting no time, he turned around and decisively headed towards the Main Gate.

"Wait, I'm coming with you!" Alleras caught up to him.

"Why would you do that?" Sam was bewildered.

"I-I've seen some... ominous signs in the glass candle," the dark-skinned acolyte explained with a gulp. "And I've always wanted to see the Wall. Castle Black's library is said to be one of the oldest in the world with unique tomes that could not even be found in the Citadel. Even if we're both wrong and it's safe here, we can always come back later to finish our studies. Give me a few minutes to gather my things and warn my friends."

Samwell realised that he wouldn't mind a companion on the road. It would make things safer for him, as Alleras was quite skilled with his goldenheart bow.

"Be quick about it, if they decide to close the gates, we're going to be fucked," he urged quietly before Alleras ran off to his cell.

As he waited near the yard, Leo Tyrell passed by and threw him a contemptuous look. Sam opened his mouth to warn the boy but quickly reconsidered. Leo had always mocked him, why would Sam waste his breath on the boy if he's probably only going to get insulted for it?

Thankfully, in less than fifteen minutes Alleras returned wearing a brown traveller's cloak and a big bag slung over his shoulder.

"Let's go!" his new companion said and they quickly headed towards the stables.

"What about your friends?" Sam asked quietly.

"Mollander has passed out from drinking again. I warned Pate and Roone, but I don't think they believed me," Alleras replied with a shrug. "So, how exactly are we going to reach Castle Black? If the ironborn are coming we cannot take a ship here."

Sam realised that he hadn't planned much.

"I was planning to walk to Hornhill, where I have to pick up someone and get some supplies, then ride to a port town on the Eastern shore and sail for White Harbour or Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," he hesitantly replied with a shrug.

Alleras scoffed at his words. "You're lucky I agreed to come with you. I have enough money to buy a couple of palfreys which would make the journey faster."

He simply nodded, as his new companion spoke true. Walking on foot from Oldtown to Hornhill would have been an arduous task for someone like him. Though he could have maybe hitched a ride with some merchant's caravan travelling along the roseroad in exchange for some work.

***

Jon Stark

Sadly, Winter seemed to tire after flying for about ten minutes, so Jon was forced to head back to Winterfell.

It shouldn't have been a big surprise, considering his dragon was barely more than three months old. Winter's growth had been insanely quick compared to the usual Targaryen dragons, who could only be ridden after at least two or three years of growth. But his familiar was already bigger than the other two dragons after hatching. Winter also grew from the size of a large domestic cat to the size of a small pony in about two weeks during his stay at the Wall by feeding on its magic.

The ritual enhancement that Winter had undergone also accelerated his growth. In the about two months and a half after the rituals, the dragon's body grew to be nearly twice the size of a big horse, while Stormstrider and Bloodfyre were only as big as a small horse. With his dragon growing so much in just three months, Jon wondered how big his dragon would get to be in a few years and if he could even keep it around anymore, let alone feed it.

As they descended towards Winterfell's courtyard, the guards quickly moved out of the way. As soon as Jon dismounted Winter, the feeling of unity and sharing minds disappeared, making him feel somewhat empty. Jon shook his head and quickly became aware that his hips were bruised and bloodied, and that his hands were deeply cut on the place where he held Winter's spikes. He had felt discomfort while flying, but he did not think it would be this bad. This would have been quite problematic if he could not use magic on himself. He focused his magic and in a few moments, his body was as if it was never wounded.

The courtyard was quickly filling up with curious lords and ladies, who had heard about the dragon but had not seen it. Winter, tired from the flight with an extra passenger, seemed to bask in the attention and decided to lay down in the middle of the courtyard. Though, if someone got brave enough to approach his dragon too closely, things could very well get ugly.

Jon quickly waved the Blackfish over, who cautiously approached while eyeing the dragon.

"Ser Brynden, post some guards around Winter. He can seem friendly enough from a distance, but anyone getting close would invite his ire easily," Jon said and the master-at-arms quickly barked out orders to the guards. He also mentally reminded Winter to not harm anyone who approached, but the dragon only rumbled deeply and smoke wafted out of his nostrils in response, making the curious crowd back away cautiously.

Ignoring the crowd he headed towards Winterfell's saddle-maker, who worked and lived right next to the stables in a small wooden workshop. Jon entered the workshop, only to see a man working hard over a strip of leather. He loudly coughed to announce his presence.

The man quickly turned around and nearly jumped in surprise.

"Yer Grace," the man mumbled after a stiff bow. "It's an honour to have you here. How may I help you?"

"Doren, my good man, I require a special saddle," Jon said. He had made sure to remember the name and face of every new person in Winterfell, which was quite easy with his mastery of Occlumency.

"Special how?" the saddle-maker asked cautiously.

"A saddle for my dragon," he simply said.

"I will have to see the b... dragon in person to take measurements," Doren stated after half a minute of hesitation.

Jon reached out to Winter mentally, who sluggishly roused from his resting place in the yard and flew over in a few seconds, dispersing the nearby crowd. The saddle-maker cowered fearfully at the dragon's heavy gaze and Jon had to go over and gently rub Winter's snout to keep the dragon calm. Though he probably could have skinchanged into his companion, that would have left his body vulnerable out in the open, something Jon would loathe to do. He had tried to split his mind and control both Winter and his own body, but that had not worked very well. It seemed that this type of skinchanging was only possible when he was atop his dragon.

"Take the measurements, Winter won't harm you with me here," he urged the man who looked like he would piss his breeches any moment. The dragon was a savage visage of spikes and teeth and the fact that the saddle-maker had not soiled himself spoke volumes of his courage.

The whole process took a dozen minutes because the saddle-maker's hands were trembling all the time while near the dragon. After Doren was done, Jon nudged Winter, who slowly flew away to rest in his favourite clearing in the godswood.

"Your Grace, I don't think leather straps would hold the saddle with all those sharp scales," Doren said fearfully after wiping his sweaty brow with a hand.

Jon frowned. The man was probably correct though, his previously wounded hips were a testament to that. Winter's sharp scales would quickly slice through any leather straps, making the saddle fall off.

"Get Artos to make you the highest quality steel chains and use it instead. You can also use ironwood from the stores for the saddle itself. When will it be ready?"

The saddle-maker scratched his head and Jon could see the gears of his mind moving slowly. "Five days, Your Grace."

Jon nodded absentmindedly and headed back towards the Great Keep.

***

The next morning, after a quick breakfast, Jon headed towards one of the large chambers in the building adjacent to the Great Keep. The walls were made of grey granite and the floor was covered by varnished pinewood. There was a large oaken table in the middle of the room, surrounded by luxurious chairs- the seats and backs had velvet covering, and various animals were masterfully carved on the armrests. He sat at the head of the table, where the chair was the grandest looking of them all. The back was emblazoned with the familiar direwolf head with red eyes and the carvings on its arms were done in a way greater detail than the rest and depicted only snarling direwolves or dragons spewing fire.

He had grown tired of holding meetings in his solar, which was rather small and near the top of the Great Keep. Jon preferred for the Great Keep to stay exclusive for the members of House Stark. Though, Shireen Baratheon was staying there too, as his ward. So was Princess Myrcella, as the Great Keep was the safest place in Winterfell. The fact that Lord Manderly was old and quite fat also helped his decision. It wouldn't do if his Hand got a heart attack from climbing too many stairs. He had plans for the reconstruction of a lot of things around Winterfell including the now half-collapsed First Keep, but any such work would have to wait for late spring or summer.

Five minutes later, Galbart Glover and Wyman Manderly joined him.

"Welcome, My Lords, to the council," Jon greeted them as soon as they took their seats.

"Not the small council?" Galbart asked curiously.

"I am not sure how many members we will have. More positions will be added when necessary," Jon explained and he received nods from the other men in the room. "Let us begin the meeting."

"Your Grace, I've procured fifty barrels of dragonglass so far, but none of the men knows how to work the fragile stone. At least three-quarters of it is wasted in any attempt to shape it" Lord Glover spoke first and scratched his shaggy chin.

"Have the men focus on crafting daggers, arrows, and spear tips. And tell them that whoever finds a way to reliably work dragonglass will be rewarded with three hundred golden dragons," he said. That amount of gold was more than enough for a big family to live comfortably in the north for tens of years. Or to equip two dozen men in decent full plate and buy a good warhorse for each of them. "Lord Manderly, do you have any possible candidates for a spymaster?"

"Only Edwyle Locke, a distant cousin to Ondrew Locke. He has travelled around the Free Cities in his youth. He manages the sea trade of House Locke and has a lot of connections with the east and the south," Wyman gave a sign and his page Alyn Woolfield quickly came over and filled his goblet with wine. Alyn was a boy barely nine name-days old, and the Woolfields were a vassal house sworn to the Manderlys.

Jon searched his memory for information about house Locke. Their seat, Oldcastle, was the southmost point of the eastern shore, which gave it a prime position for sea trade. But the keep was also quite close to the Three Sisters and never really grew even half as prosperous as White Harbour. The heir Donnel Locke had fought for Robb in the War of the Five Kings and perished in the Red Wedding.

"Summon Edwyle Locke to Winterfell, the king needs his service," Jon ordered. He decided to trust his Hand on this. After all, he had nominated Wyman Manderly in that position because he had faith in his capabilities. In the end, if this Edwyle turned out to be inept or ineffective, he could always remove him from the post of spymaster.

"It will be done, Your Grace," Manderly replied after a short pause. After a few moments of hesitation, he continued, "My king...have you considered candidates for the future Queen of the North?"

Jon barely managed to contain the scowl on his face. He had expected that Manderly would try to sell off his granddaughter to him. Though, Wylla seemed to be the best possible match for him, only on par with Alys Karstark.

"Yes, I am considering my options, Lord Hand. Don't worry, there will be a Queen before the end of the year. Is there anything else?" There were five months left until the beginning of the next year and he was waiting for Sansa to conclude her observations on both Alys Karstark and Wylla Manderly before making a decision. Seeing that neither of the members of the council had anything else to say, he spoke up once again, "We'll converge twice a week from now on, and any of you can call for an urgent meeting of the council if something urgent arises. Dismissed!"

***

Sansa Stark

Just as she was stitching another white direwolf to the doublet, the door opened with a bang and the loud noise made her hands tremble. Arya entered the room like a whirlwind, but thankfully she was not covered in mud this time.

"Don't you ever get tired of sewing?" her sister as she curiously looked at her work.

"Could you please knock on the door before entering?!" Sansa asked with a shaky voice as she tried to relax and get her trembling hands under control. Ever since her marriage with Ramsay, loud and sudden noises had sometimes caused tremors and worries within her. Maester Wolkan said that the tremors would go away in time if she stayed in a calm and peaceful environment without much stress.

"I'm sorry," Arya guiltily mumbled and lowered her head at the sight of her distress.

Sansa would ask her sister how she got past Brienne, but she already knew the answer. Her sworn shield never barred Arya or Jon entry as they were royalty. After a few deep breaths, Sansa finally managed to calm down and resumed sewing.

"It's all forgiven, just don't do it again. And to answer your question- I don't think I'll ever tire of sewing. It helps me stay calm and keeps my mind and hands busy," she quietly explained. "And you know Jon would wear a simple linen or woollen tunic if he could," Sansa finished with a small huff.

Her brother would rarely bother with luxurious clothes when simple ones would suffice as he was never one for pomp. Sansa was not sure if he simply indulged her, but Jon always gladly wore whatever she made for him with relish. As king he must only wear the best, so she stubbornly got the highest quality fabrics and kept making clothes for Jon to wear. The doublet she was working on was made of rare blue wool.

"Want to come to the yard?" Arya almost bounced with excitement. "Jon is about to spar!"

"Yes, but give me a few moments." It took Sansa a minute to carefully finish the direwolf. She gently placed the doublet on the nearby desk and smoothened her gown as she stood up. Taking a small walk to the yard would be refreshing. She threw the nearby fur cloak on her shoulders. "Let's go."

They quickly headed out and entered the training yard. Almost all the young maidens had gone out and watched Jon spar with four of the guardsmen together at the same time. Though it was to be expected- Jon was quite handsome in a rugged kind of way. She sighed inwardly and quickly banished those thoughts from her head.

"Do you think Jon would let me spar with him if I asked?" her sister asked.

"Yes, but you shouldn't do it when all of Winterfell is watching," Sansa replied with a sigh. Meanwhile Jon had already disarmed one of his opponents and another one had fallen on the ground.

"Didn't you say Jon is very fast and that he killed Roose Ryswell in mere seconds in a trial by battle?"

Sansa leaned in and directly whispered in Arya's ear. "He's using magic to slow himself down, otherwise he would have toyed with all of his opponents. Jon is very strong and fast."

The memory of the Battle of Winterfell was still vivid in her mind. Her brother had quickly and brutally cut a bloody swath through the enemy men and horses. Sansa had heard some of the guardsmen still call him the Demon of Winterfell even a moon's turn later.

While she was reminiscing, the king had brought his last two opponents to the ground, giggles and cheers erupted from the surrounding ladies. Sansa felt a stab of jealousy at the sight of the women swooning over Jon but quickly pushed it down.

"They are drooling at our brother as if he was a juicy piece of meat at a feast," Arya scowled after looking at Wylla Manderly who seemed as if she would gladly follow Jon into his chambers should he invite her, marriage or not. Though Sansa knew how appealing the prospect of being married to the King was first hand.

Morgan Liddle came forward to challenge her brother next. The mountain chieftain was half a head shorter than Jon, but nearly twice as thick.

"They are eyeing the position of the Queen. Every noble lady dreams of being one as a child," Sansa explained.

Morgan Liddle managed to hook Jon's sword with his axe, but Jon twisted his hand and suddenly both of them were without weapons and started fighting unarmed.

"Not every noble lady. And there is only one Queen and too many ladies," Arya replied teasingly with a small smile.

Her brother had managed to grab the mountain chieftain's arm. Jon then pulled while spinning around, finishing with a sharp twist and Lord Liddle flew a few yards before landing heavily on his back. Or not so heavily, considering that the frozen ground had grown muddy where they fought. Jon went to his fallen opponent and easily lifted him up.

"Once Jon marries there will be two Queens though. One in the North and one in the south," she replied absentmindedly.

Greatjon Umber was the next person to step forth and challenge her brother.

"Who do you think Jon will choose?"

"Wylla Manderly," Sansa said, making Arya scrunch up her nose. Her sister really didn't like the green-haired girl drooling over her brother. But the new Hand's granddaughter brought the most benefits as a potential bride for Jon. Wylla was also very good with her sums and was loyal and quite smart when she was not fawning over her brother.

"I remember she wouldn't even look at Jon at one of the harvest feasts. And now she's all over him," Arya said with a sigh.

The two Jons were furiously trading blows in the yard. The Umber Lord was nearly half a head taller than her brother but the king did not lose out in strength. Her brother was even pushing back the Lord of Last Hearth slowly but steadily.

"That was Lysara Flint of Widow's Watch, not Wylla. Though she was far from the only one that ignored our brother when he was a bastard," she said quietly with a tinge of regret.

The sound of the clashing steel became louder and louder making Sansa feel dizzy.

"I think I'll retire back to my rooms," Sansa muttered and headed back to the Great Keep, leaving a confused Arya behind.