cp6

Chapter 6

The training pads felt heavy on my skinny body. Heavy, but necessary. Muscles needed to grow and martial skills needed to be learned. Desperately, in my case. I twirled my practice sword, glaring at my opponent. He was both older and more experienced in a fight than I was, and it showed by the fact that I had been knocked into the dirt nine times already, and he'd yet to fall the once. All the while, he showed no sign of smugness, no showcasing of serenity. He was all nerves and worry, constantly unable to discern if he should or should not fight me properly; propriety always on the mind.

Gods, but Podric Payne was, pun not intended, a fucking pain.

"Rah!" I shouted, swinging my sword hard, my hips twisting with the motion to provide as much force as could be provided. He parried it with a practiced ease, largely accustomed to stronger, quicker and crueler attacks by way of his lady master. When I made to assault him again he shunted me into the snow with his boot. I gasped into its cold wetness, my face dirty and body bruised.

Brienne of Tarth tutted from farther away, overseeing us. "Repeat the drill. Again. Do not lose your footing."

I groaned as Podric helped me up, an awkward and apologetic look on his face. It took him our first four bouts to get comfortable enough to fight me properly, and he'd yet to be anything but obdurate after.

"Why are we drilling in this way?" I asked her. We'd repeated the same motions continuously after a run and a stretch, two hours having already passed, and it dragged on my body.

"You requested training, my king." She helpfully said with but a hint of a smile that told of her enjoyment. "And that means drills, as you well know. Now go again. And remember to keep your stance strong. Even if Pod overpowers you, do not fall to the ground. A warrior can fight when standing, even when on the defense. Death is a constant when you are standing no longer."

Grunting, I wobbled back into position and held my training sword aloft, Podric doing the same.

Say what you will about Brienne; she knew how to fight. A proven woman of valor, honorable to a fault and bound by the codes of her pledge, there could be no better person to train me. Secrecy was important, my bannermen and our wildling and Vale allies could not see me as weak, lest they pounce on my station. Which made Brienne all the more perfect for this. She knew when to keep her mouth shut and was loyal to the Starks and only the Starks by way of her oath to my mother, Catelyn.

We trained in the godswood, where none but those I gave permission to were allowed to enter. It was a sacred place in Winterfell, and my word was law regarding it. Only three living souls were here, with four pairs of eyes, the weirwood our ever-present voyeur.

I initially did not approach her for combat training. True to my word to Tormund Giantsbane I struck conversation with her and offered a proper introduction to him. She was, quite bluntly, uninterested. So much so that she claimed more interest in a horse than she did in the leader of the free folk. Then, ever so politely, she requested that I no longer speak of such a thing.

I understood, though wished I could have had more fun with the matter. The North was dreary, and the war we prepped for brought us into a grim state of mind. There were few laughs to be had, and I hoped to have what few I could.

But more important than laughs and good cheer and Tormund Giantsbane getting into bed with this woman was the sword held at her side.

For well over four centuries did House Stark wield Ice into war, our ancestral greatsword wrought of Valyrian steel. It was out prize, our trophy; the rarest and most valuable item in all of Winterfell. Likely all of the North, in truth. Generation after generation of Stark wielded the blade, into combat and into executions and even into marriage. It was a comfort to our kin, one that Rickon had remembered clearly.

His favorite and most powerful memory of his father was in the aftermath of an execution when he was just five, nearly a half year prior to Robert Baratheon coming North. Ned Stark cleaned the bloody remains of a brigand off of Ice with Rickon by his side in the godswood, the pair alone save for the all-seeing eyes of the heart tree. He allowed his youngest son to marvel at the blade during those moments alone, and told stories of war and conquest and the bitter truths they brought, wanting to instill these details young, as they were with him by his own father, my grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark. He did this with all his sons, even Theon Greyjoy, who was only his ward. Rickon had loved those times and the stories they brought and grew to love Ice as a result. It was only when cleaning his sword that Ned Stark would make conversation like this. And that made a great deal of importance to a boy of five.

But Ice was no more. By way of conquest and greed and envy, Tywin Lannister had commanded the greatsword to be melted down and reforged into a pair of longswords. One was strapped at Jaime Lannister's hip, titled Widow's Wail by the bastard king Joffrey upon his nameday. And the other…

The other was wielded by Brienne, titled Oathkeeper in remembrance of her sworn vow to my mother.

One day, it would be mine. One day Widow's Wail would return to the rightful hands of House Stark and would champion our greatest warrior sons and daughters.

But until those days come to pass, I aimed to prepare myself. I need train in the use of a longsword, and I need ready my body to bear the Valyrian steel of my ancestors, though in a different form. And what better preparation was there than to learn at the heel of the woman that bore one of those blades?

None, I say. None at all.

I took a deep breath, making to ignore my bruises, and donned my fighting stance. I pivoted my feet against the dirt powerfully and held my sword with both hands. Podric was the one to start the bout this time, charging with a quick lunge. I ducked to the side and parried the sword away from my body and kicked him in the shin. He groaned but did not buckle or fall. My legs were not yet strong enough to do such a thing. They would be though, soon enough.

Grimacing, he twisted his sword at my ribs, and I barely was able to catch the flat of my sword against his own. My muscles whined as Pod forced more of his strength into me, inching me closer and closer to the muck of the ground. I was on my knee now, barely holding my blade up, and knew I would not be able to do so for long.

So, I didn't. I ducked into a roll and bunted my shoulder against Podric's knees. That time he buckled, and with the momentum lost against me he fell, though not without kicking me into the much as well. It was a tie.

"Better." Brienne complimented, hoisting us both up with far more ease than either of us could manage. "But still not enough. Pod, don't push your foe for that long. If you have him down, then take him out. Don't ever let him have the chance to get up. And Rickon, your guard was better and your footwork more stable, but you need to attack more. That entire bout you were on the defensive, save for a kick and a shoulder shove. A warrior that does not attack cannot win."

"Right," I mumbled, adjusting myself back into a stance. Podric faced me as well, and we made for one another once more. We would have started a spar anew, had Ser Davos not come upon us.

"Your grace," he called out, that Flea Bottom accent a strong thing against the drawl of the northerners and the proper tones of Brienne. I blinked at him and motioned him forward. He did so gladly, casting a curious eye to the setting of the godswood. "You requested some days ago that I gather you just before we left for Dragonstone. It is near time."

Ah. That. "Thank you, Ser Davos. Lady Brienne, I will have to excuse myself for now. There are matters I need to take care of with Jon. Shall we meet again tomorrow at dawn?"

She nodded dolefully. "That should suit well, your grace. Come Pod, it's me and you now." Her squire's face turned even more worried, throat audibly gulping. I could not help but snicker.

Davos led me away from the clearing and into the war room, where Jon was speaking low tones with Maester Wolkan over a map of Westeros, a pair of letters in his hand. They eyed me, and nodded me towards the table, ignoring the scent of sweat wafting from my body. The war room was not meant purely for war, though it was built for such eventualities. Seafarers and merchants were invited into its confines to confer with lords and maesters on the best routes to take, and that was what Jon was doing.

"I would have thought you would be in the courtyard readying a horse." I said, taking a chair. I near jumped when I felt something wet against my ankle. Peering under the table, I grinned at Ghost. The direwolf was sniffing at my leg, his great body barely fitting beneath the in the space.

"I intended to be, but news came." Jon said grimly. "Maester Wolkan? Show him."

He passed me one of the letters, and I scanned it. It was from the Citadel, sent by Samwell Tarly. It confirmed that Dragonstone was home to Dragonglass. "Is this not a good thing?"

"It is," Jon concurred, smile strained. The smile was quick to leave. "But that is not all. Maester Wolkan also received a raven from Dragonstone." He then handed the other letter over. "Read it aloud."

"To Jon Snow, King in the North." It began, confusing me. Jon was neither a bastard nor was he king anymore. I blinked and turned the letter over, eyes widening at the red wax splotch denoting a three headed dragon. She had landed then. Shit. "On behalf of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, rightful monarch of the Seven Kingdoms, you are cordially summoned to Dragonstone to discuss the wars to come under the white banner of parley. Queen Daenerys has heard of your expertise in military matters and hoped you could offer insight as to the best ways for her to use her army of Dothraki, her Unsullied legions, her fleet of ships, her alliance with Dorne and the Reach, and her three fully grown dragons. Should you ignore this letter, it would behoove you to know she might think to use her forces against the North after her conquest of King's Landing. Or before." I read, my frown turning dourer by the second. "Signed by Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen. I guess Sansa was right, he really could say much with only a few words."

"They threaten the North." Jon said lowly.

"No, they inform us of a threat should we ignore them." I countered, running a hand through my hair. It was turning into a habit of thought, that motion through my curls. Likely I would begin to bald as a result in my thirties. "Why does she think you are the King in the North? Cersei even knew it was me."

"Pardon my king, but news is slow to be offered in these troubled times." Maester Wolkan said. "Queen Cersei has access to the networks of the previous Master of Whispers and would have an easier time of gather intelligence. Queen Daenerys does not."

I hummed, nodding. That made sense. Though at the same time, it didn't. Even if Cersei had what remained of Varys's spy network, Daenerys had Varys himself. She should have been able to-

…Ah. Now I remembered. The Red Priestess, Melisandre. She idolized Jon as a key member of the prophecy she dedicated her life to seeing through, and the last things she heard upon being exiled from Winterfell and the North were the words King in the North being shouted through the halls. It was easy to guess that she'd presumed Jon had been named king, his rebirth and command of our military making him the obvious candidate, and she relayed that information to Daenerys Targaryen soon enough after.

Melisandre knew Jon little though and hadn't guessed of his willingness to abdicate for me.

She had to have travelled quickly, however. Quicker than I expected. It had only been a month since her exile. The winds on route to Dragonstone must have been kind, as must the winds returning northward for the ravens have been, to better carry their messages.

Regardless, the threat of doing nothing was clear and we already had a set course. "You were already going to accompany the ships to Dragonstone to parlay with whoever manned the island now that Stannis was dead regardless. Now we know who holds the land. That's one less worry to have, at least."

"One less worry replaced with something else." Jon sighed, slumping into his chair.

I licked at my lips. "Something worse?"

"…I don't know." He admitted after a moments pause. "She means to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, and the North is one of those kingdoms. But with her as an ally… Dragons, Rickon. Think of it."

I did. I thought of how much of a boon those three would be. Drogon, the black beast the Daenerys mounted. Rhaegal, the green dream that Jon might have a chance to tame.

Viserion, the white dread that might become the greatest threat to the world should the Night King slay it. Should the Night King slay any of them. Or worse, all of them.

"Dragons are fire made flesh, it is said." I began. "But flesh they still are. Dragons have been killed before, both by themselves and by man. And that means they can be killed by White Walkers. Think of the opposite, Jon. How horrible it would be for a dragon to be turned into a wight? What if its fire remains even past death? The Wall would be lost. The dead would march on us all the sooner, with a weapon unlike anything we could prepare for."

He paled, shaking. Such a thought had not occurred to him, and troubled him greatly, as it did me. I loved the thought of dragons on our side, the fantasy of riding one into battle, but I recognized the risk involved. It was a risk that could jeopardize everything. Much as I wanted to do so, I could not take it.

Grabbing a roll of parchment and a quill and inkpot, I began to draft a letter. Maester Wolkan silently left the room, returning moments later with a pot of grey wax and a stamp with the direwolf of Stark carved into its wood. I rolled the paper up after finishing my words, poured a dollop of wax onto it, and pressed the sigil onto its back.

I held the letter over towards Ser Davos. "When you two land, should talks not go well, ensure that Queen Daenerys reads this. Keep the seal unbroken, they are the words of a king meant for a queen."

"I will, your grace." He said, taking the letter. "But what of Jon? You say should talks not go well, what's he supposed to talk on?"

Nodding, I looked to my brother. "I want you to write your own letter to be delivered to Dragonstone by raven. It will surely arrive before you do. Explain that you will go to Dragonstone solely on the conditions that it be under parley, as Tyrion said it would, and that you may bring a crew to begin the mining of dragonglass. To the rest of the world it is an entirely useless resource, too brittle for fighting and too dull for ornamentation, and it's likely that Daenerys doesn't even know it exists. Any sane person would give something they have no use for in exchange for something they want."

And that would also help me determine if Daenerys was sane. I wasn't actually certain. She was more mild with all three of her dragons, at least. The hope was that that would continue to be the case.

Jon nodded slowly, still looking troubled. "And the rest?"

"They do not know that you aren't King in the North. I want that to remain the case until you arrive. Sign your letter only as Jon Stark, do not mention being either a king or a prince. From what Sansa has told me, Tyrion Lannister would assume you legitimized yourself to keep the crown in Stark hands. Nobody would question it."

I paused, pondering. "When it comes to the talks… She will try to make you bend the knee. You are one of my heir's, Jon. You may not be the king, but you are our prince, just as Sansa is a princess. But you cannot do that. Try to convince her of the White Walkers, speak on your relation with Maester Aemon and the stories he would tell of the Targaryen's on the Wall, hells offer her suggestions in her war against Cersei Lannister, but you do not have permission to bend the knee."

"I understand," he solemnly said. "Is there anything else?"

"Not that I can think of." I said, licking my lips. "I would recommend you bring Ghost with you, but I am uncertain he would fare well in the south."

"I'm afraid I can't do as you recommend, Rickon." Jon said.

My brow furrowed. "Why?"

"With me gone, you are more open than ever. Northern lords will scuffle, the free folk with be difficult, and the Vale… I trust them, I do. Good knights and warriors. They respect you as the cousin of their lord and are seeing you as a good king. But Littlefinger is another matter."

I rolled my eyes. "I know not to trust him." Trusting Baelish would lead me to an early death. Again.

"Good. But simply not trusting him isn't enough. He's proven that over time. Ghost will guard you until I return, never leaving your side."

I eyed the wolf whose snout was lain between my feet, and he peered back up me with those big red eyes. As if to accentuate Jon's decree, Ghost performed the very human gesture of nodding his head, muzzle grim and serious like his master's was.

Well… I wouldn't say no to that.