Shadows

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

27th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC

The Young Wolf, south of Crakehall

Rage was a curious thing. Some men said fury ran hot like a raging volcano through the veins, while others claimed it cut like the frigid chill of a blizzard in the coldest days of winter.

Then, there was the Lord of Barrowton, who received word of his son's ignoble death at the hands of zealots in the North. He did not say a thing then, looking like a statue more than anything, reminding Robb of his ancestors immortalised in stone in the Crypts of Winterfell. After the meeting, he requested an audience with Robb, but it was not about returning North to defend his land as the young Lord of Winterfell had expected.

"Let me lead the assault on Crakehall. I'll give you the castle tomorrow."

The words were plain and spoken without an ounce of feeling, and Robb almost denied him, for he had other plans to dislodge the seven hundred Reachmen hiding in the Crakehall seat. Yet the dark, simmering rage in Beron's grey eyes gave him pause.

"Very well," Robb acquiesced. "Try not to die." 

Crakehall had fallen two days prior, but Beron Dustin had not died. His arm was broken, his nose crushed, and his body was bruised blue. An axe had mangled two of the fingers on his left hand badly enough to require amputating one of them, but he lived despite being the first over Crakehall's walls.

Robb couldn't help but feel a hint of admiration–the Barrow Lord had buried the rage deep inside of him, keeping a cool enough head to organise the assault properly. And then he let it all out during the battle, slaying scores of defenders and carving a bloody swathe through the Reachmen with the aid of his retinue of Barrow Knights, who fell to a battle fury of their own. They had all lost kin in the North and had been undaunted under the rain of arrows, burning pitch, and stones, rushing up the ladders while the Flint slingers and Wolfswood longbowmen provided cover from two siege towers. 

In the end, some of the Dustin men had to be restrained, for they had lost their wits in their bloodlust and attacked their friends once the foes had all been felled.

What would have been a bloody storming had turned out far less costly than Robb had anticipated. Castles were hard to take, especially well-defended ones. Crakehall was a particularly strong fortress with its thick curtain walls and tall squat towers because of its position at the edge of the Westerlands. 

But it hadn't mattered in the end; Dustin's mad assault had only lost Robb two hundred and fifty men, which was less than half of what he had expected. A good chunk of the losses had been Westermen led by Ser Daven Lannister, who was also baying for vengeance.

And finally, two moons later, Robb could get on with his original plan. What was supposed to be a short jaunt in the Westerlands before harrying the Reach for all it was worth had dragged on for too long.

"Each stalk of grass from here to Oakheart is either grazed clean or burned," Derek, one of his scouts, reported as the army marched down the Ocean Road.

"We were too slow," Robb frowned, looking for a way out. "It gave Oakheart two moons to prepare."

His army was mobile with over fifteen thousand men ahorse; most had a spare steed or a mule to carry their supplies–not to mention the nobles who, even on a campaign, had their own supplies and tents carried by more horses. But all those beasts of burden had to drink and eat, and thirty thousand of them could sweep a pasture clean within an hour. 

At least he had managed to organise his men and propose a new method of spoil distribution. Plenty grumbled about it, but in the end, all complaints were forgotten in favour of vengeance once word of the Reachmen attacking the North had arrived. 

Ser Daven Lannister frowned at the map. "The Ironmen could have cut us off. The two moons brought us five thousand men and consolidated the Westerlands. Even with no grazing grounds, supplies can be gathered for the army, even if it will be slow."

Five thousand men, yet most of them were former brigands, hedge knights, or sellswords, riff-raff that no lord would entertain unless they were out of options. But there was nothing else left in the Westerlands.

"And this gave time for Oakheart to gather just as many men, if not more," Bolton pointed out. "Doubtlessly, every road into the Reach from here is now blocked or turned into a trap, every holdfast fortified, and each able-bodied man has been called to arms."

"It doesn't matter," Dustin grunted out, his broken right hand bound by plaster to his side. "Once they're crushed, the whole of the Reach will be bared for us. We should bathe these lands in blood–everything from the Red Lake to the Hightower. Let the damned flowers cower behind their walls as they watch their kingdom turn into ashes. Let them weep with regret for sending their last swords North."

"It would be prudent to wheel through the Northmarch and strike Renly in the back. Cut off the head, and the body will fall." Umber proposed, and Robb couldn't help but shake his head. What had the world come to when the hotheaded Greatjon was the voice of reason in his army? Yet it came with a silver lining; the Giant of Last Hearth had proved himself loyal, and Robb found himself relying on him more.

Lord Rodrik Ryswell, however, did not look particularly enthused about either.

"What of our homes? With Flint's Fingers fallen and Barrowton abandoned, the damned Hightowers and Redwynes can march deep into the North." His worry was understandable; his seat, Rillbrook, was amidst the Rills, standing alone between the Stoney Shore and Barrowton without any support left. "We should try to send our fastest riders up the Kingsroad lest they manage to wrangle away Moat Cailin."

"The land entrance to the North is well defended." Ser Wendel Manderly said. "Have you forgotten the garrison we left there? The Crannogmen were also notified to expect an attack on the Neck or the Moat, were they not?"

"Aye." Robb pinched the bridge of his nose. Despite his father's lessons and his own plans, predicting everything in war turned nigh impossible.

"Besides, we're too far," Karstark drawled. "Even if we abandon all of our plunder and armament to rush back home, we'd be at the Moat in three moons and too tired to fight."

"In four moons, the cold season shall come and deal with any attacks in the North," Lord Wells added. "Even more so now that it's autumn. Winter looms upon us like a cold shadow that always swallows the unprepared."

"So it does." Bolton frowned, cautiously glancing at the scarred Matrim Wells. No love was lost between the two men. Their lands were adjacent, and minor trouble arose once every few years. "And as much as we want the wretched zealots to be lackwits, Redwyne and Hightower are cunning and ambitious men. Doubtlessly, they know of such dangers and must have planned accordingly."

None of them were wrong, nor did they say anything he had yet to consider. Yet a wise lord had to let his bannermen know their voices were heard, even if their advice was not heeded. 

Robb could feel their desire. Some wanted more spoils, more plunder, of which the rich lands of the Reach could provide plenty. Others wanted to defend their homes and the North, something that was the responsibility of the Stark of Winterfell. His responsibility. Yet, there was nothing he could do in this case. They were too deep in the South, and all Robb could do was trust that his previous preparations would hold. They had to hold; a raven had been sent to Winterfell, commanding that the garrison never leave the walls, no matter what.

Even if the Reachmen and the Ironborn won almost all the battles, so long as Winterfell stood, the snow and cold that would come by the end of the year would see most of them perish.

Robb took a deep breath and cleared his mind. At war, each distraction can turn deadly. As usual, his father's words brought him solace and much-needed certainty as he was torn by indecision. In the end, a strong enemy will always try to misdirect you and divide your attention from the main goal–victory.

"I have already inked a letter to my uncle Edmure, requesting any assistance he can spare to bolster the Moat. He's far better positioned to provide such," he said. "And we're not going anywhere. Oakheart has to die, and then we'll cut a bloody swathe through the Reach." And strike Renly in the rear or cut off his supply lines completely. But Robb would not voice everything out loud, for he suspected a spy lingered amongst his forces.

It made him uneasy, especially as Oakheart had somehow found out about his movements. It could just be an unknowing informant or a willing traitor. It didn't have to be anyone from the lords but could be a cook, a smith–even one of the dozen maesters and their acolytes they were dragging in the campaign. Or a more influential man-at-arms privy to the happenings of his lord, a sellsword, or someone disgruntled from the Westerlands.

Robb struggled to trust the Westerman after their lethargic response against Oakheart and the Ironborn. Sure, some houses had fought back and mustered what little men they could, but other Castellans were slow, or perhaps reluctant, to send any men–especially those from Estren, Falwell, Jast, Vikary, Prester, and Banefort.

"It's not going to be an easy fight against Oakheart," Ser Wendel warned. "He knows we're coming, and he's prepared aplenty. Didn't the scout say he had the fields along the road ploughed?"

Lord Ironsmith snorted. "So what, should we fear them planting wheat and cabbages?"

"It's a trap meant to funnel us into the road or lose our mobility ahorse, Ethan," Ryswell drawled mockingly. "Lancers can hardly gain momentum and charge if the land underneath their hooves sinks like a quagmire."

Ethan Ironsmith scoffed at the Lord of the Rills but remained silent otherwise. The return of Alysanne's gift had seen his House return to prominence, but two centuries spent decaying in a small corner of the North had left their mark. While he was more than capable with an axe in hand, the Ironsmith Lord knew little of leading men in war beyond minor skirmishes with wildling raiders.

"We still have over a hundred miles to Old Oak, so it's useless to speculate before we arrive in the Reach," Robb said, inspecting the faces of the lords and the landed knights. Grim resolve and disgruntlement mingled in equal measure in their stormy eyes. "We shall break camp at dawn tomorrow. Dismissed."

As his lords left his tent, Robb felt stiff as he stretched his back before turning to his direwolf, standing guard by the pavilion's entrance and patting his furry neck. The situation was not as bad as it could have been, but it was far from good.

Grey Wind was also sluggish, seeking the cool shades of trees during the day while screening around the army at night. Robb felt guilty for always sending his companion to scout and explore at night, which was quite a daunting endeavour that was rarely rewarded. Sure, the direwolf had the choicer cut of meat, but it wasn't the same as hunting on his own. Despite the stringent training, Grey Wind wasn't a mere dog and the wild forests and hills called to him. Alas, there were hardly any proper forests in the Westerlands, only sparse woodlands kept by the lords for hunting.

Robb could feel a vague sense of dissatisfaction well up within his companion and decided to let him loose for one night. The surroundings had been scoured for enemies a hundred times, and Grey Wind had been eyeing the Sunset Sea with a hungry desire, doubtlessly aiming to catch some fish.

Tentatively, Grey Wind tilted his head, his golden eyes almost shining like lanterns as twilight approached.

"Go, boy," Robb urged. "Might want to take a dip in the creek. You stink, and I don't have time to wash you up." Perhaps it was time to find a proper squire to assist him with all the minor duties.

After one hesitant look, the direwolf trotted out of the camp. 

Sighing, Robb dragged his feet out. The worst part about the South had to be the heat. Even the hilly Westerlands provided little respite from the persistent sun. Moreover, the cold time of the year here, at the onset of autumn, was far more unbearable than the warmest summer months at home. He missed the soothing cold of Winterfell and the fresh chill of the white veil of snow. The heat didn't help when fighting either; wearing over fifty pounds of steel in battle sapped your strength far quicker than anything else.

Not that the Saltcliffes had been much of a challenge. Ice had sliced through the lightly armoured reavers like a hot knife through butter, and the rest of the Ironmen had finally retreated. Probably because their ruse had succeeded, and the Westerlands had finally mustered men to defend their coastal holdings. Robb wished he could claim he repelled the reavers, but he knew it would be a lie.

Sure, his men had managed to crush a few overly daring raiding parties lingering for long, but the Ironmen mostly retreated to their boats once they saw the lancers riding in, and there was nothing Robb could do without a fleet to chase them at sea.

The problem in the North was not much different. Without a proper fleet to defend thousands of miles of shore on the western coast, the Northmen were doubtlessly reduced to reacting to the invaders, which never boded well in war. Robb didn't know whether to curse Brandon the Burner or his father, the Shipwright. He understood the Burner's fury better, but a fleet's strategic advantage was too much to ignore, and now his kingdom was being punished for the folly.

Wiping off the sheen of sweat from his brow, Robb headed to the nearby stream of the so-called Laughing Creek, along which most of the army was camped. It was a queer name, but he couldn't bring himself to care about its origins in this particularly sweltering evening.

Definitely getting a squire. He could always order one of his guardsmen to bring him a bucket of fresh water, but reducing warriors to menial tasks was unbecoming.

Robb tensed as he saw Bolton approach him as he walked through the forest of tents.

"Lord Stark," he greeted dispassionately. But the Leech Lord's demeanour and mannerism were always bereft of even the slightest ounce of feeling as if nothing mattered to him. It was what made the Lord of the Dreadfort so unsettling. Some might claim it was just a lordly facade, a mask, though no facade could remain forever. 

But Robb had never seen the man drop the act, and he was beginning to think that this was how Roose Bolton was–simply unfeeling. Or perhaps uncaring.

"Lord Bolton," Robb greeted, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. Alas, his attempts to get Bolton slain in battle were unsuccessful. The man was a canny and cautious commander but always completed his tasks successfully, no matter how dangerous. "If I had known you required a meeting, I would have made the time."

"Not a meeting but merely a quick chat, Lord Stark," Bolton said. "I know a commander's time is precious, and I do not wish to take from it more than I must."

Despite knowing that the Flayed Man would never do something in the open, Robb tuned apprehensive, feeling naked without armour. But it was too hot and cumbersome to lug around all that steel away from the fighting. He was almost tempted to return to his tent or simply pull up some random young man as a squire.

Yet a glance at the surrounding soldiers told him they were all Stark men. Captain Derek was also lurking with a dozen guardsmen at a respectful distance–just out of earshot–shadowing him while looking for threats as always.

Robb sighed again; the day had been long and exhausting, and the coming ones would doubtlessly prove the same. Running an army was daunting, but this could be a good opportunity.

"A chat, you say," he rubbed his stubble–another downside of the damned heat was that beards and sweat made a poor combination. "Might as well, then."

Roose Bolton gave a faint nod as the tents dwindled in number, and the horses increased as they reached one of the many arms of the Laughing Creek. "I have a humble request to make."

"Very well. What is it?"

"A fortnight of respite." Bolton's pale eyes bore into him like a pair of daggers. "I mean to finalise the arrangements with Ser Josmyn Drox for his daughter's hand. As you know, I am the last of my line. Of course, my men will continue to march forth under the command of my trusted captains."

Robb knew all too well. That's why he was looking for an opportunity to do away with the blood of the Red Kings for good. But it was not a deed that could be done in the open; he was not an honourless cur like Aerys the Mad to openly slay his bannerman with no due cause. Alas, Bolton was not so easy to kill.

"You have a sennight," Robb decided after a short pause. "I planned to send you with fifteen hundred riders to slip behind enemy lines and harass Oakheart's supplies. You requested command before, yet now I find you shirking it."

There was only so much Robb was willing to trust Bolton in the end. Finding a balance between giving him an important position that would not be insulting but also not too important enough to risk victory was getting exhausting. It made Robb feel like a mummer balancing on a tightrope. At least the Leech Lord had completed every assignment he requested flawlessly, though that also had the unfortunate effect of him gaining the begrudging respect of his fellow Northmen. 

Far from enough to consider entertaining a union with the cursed House Bolton, though. Two dead wives, a gaggle of stillborn sons, and the only one that lived to adulthood supposedly perished to a burst belly. That was not to mention his dead cousins, who had died mysteriously during the time of Robert's Rebellion. The man's eerie demeanour, Robb's subtle displeasure, and House Bolton's poor reputation made everyone even warier to sacrifice a daughter for an alliance that might never bear fruit.

"Dustin would be a fitting man for such a job," came the dispassionate reply. "He's certainly eager for blood."

"Hence why I don't want to send him. The man is still grieving a son, and he's more likely to look for a fight once the time comes rather than avoid it and keep burning fields and villages." Ultimately, it was far cheaper–and easier–to defeat the enemy's potential to wage war than to fight an endless number of men. Years ago, Robb would have thought it was a brutal and craven method, but now he realised that it was simply the gruesome reality of war–if his foes won't follow the same courtesies, why should they hold back?

Robb crouched by the chirping stream and splashed his face with pleasantly cool water. "I suppose Ryswell can go instead. He's a man of ample experience in warfare and an old hand at hit-and-run tactics. Still, I have lingered enough in the Westerlands. A sennight, not more. Go, wed and bed your bride, and I expect you back here. Castle Drox is not that far."

"Very well," the sinister man inclined his head. "I suppose a week should do."

It was amusing that Bolton was forced to wed a daughter from a minor lordly line. Sure, the Droxes were old, but they hailed from a union of a local First Man hero and an Andal Warlord's daughter. Plenty of masterly and knightly houses were wealthier or could control more land and men than the Droxes. The campaign and the quick pace in the Riverlands had also denied Bolton the opportunity to look for a third wife there, but alas, two moons in the Westerlands had seen the Leech Lord finally bag a bride. She was not even the lord's daughter but the child of the Castellan belonging to a cadet branch.

"Is there anything else?" Robb asked, dipping his fingers in the cool water, seeking a semblance of comfort. 

"No-" Bolton paused, his pale eyes widening slightly with surprise as he looked at the other side of the Laughing Creek. Robb followed his gaze, and his heart skipped a beat. Three men emerged from the shrubbery, the tips of dark bodkins pointing at him from miniature crossbows. 

His mind barely registered that they all seemed oily in the waning light, as if dipped in something purple. Poison. Their dark eyes were all filled with resolve and, more importantly–violent satisfaction.

His instincts, however, screamed for him to move. And his legs moved as if they had a mind of their own, launching him behind the nearest obstacle–Lord Bolton.

Many things happened at the same time.

The collision with the ground knocked the air out of his lungs as something whistled in the air. Bolton crumpled on the ground wordlessly.

"CATSPAWS!"

Derek's angry shout rose a mighty clamour, awakening a stampede of footsteps as the familiar sound of swords being drawn choked the air. Robb kept his gaze on the three assassins, who tossed away the small crossbows and pulled out a second loaded one each, once again aiming at him.

He tried to roll out of the way, but no other obstacle was in sight, and the burning pain as a bolt punctured his leg told him it was not enough. Desperate, Robb grabbed Roose's shoulder and pulled over the Leech Lord's body as a human shield; the searing feeling quickly turned into numbness, his vision clouded, and his breathing was shallow.

Far too shallow.

The effort proved too much, and his mind faded into darkness.

***

He dreamt of being a wolf. This dream wasn't particularly new, for he had often had wolf dreams, but it felt more real somehow. The colours were unnaturally vivid, and Robb's mind felt completely bereft of any bodily feeling, like a leaf fluttering in the wind, about to be blown away into the vastness of the Sunset Sea. Yet somehow… somehow, he could feel the wolf clinging onto him and refused to let go.

Then, he kept dreaming of home, of Winterfell. Despite the familiar presence in his mind, his thoughts drifted aimlessly, but sometimes, voices echoed in the distance.

"...Wolfsbane, only damned cravens would resort to poison and sulking around in the dark…"

"...There's more than aconite in this…"

"...There's some hope. Didn't reach the heart, or we'd be arranging a funeral…"

"...Bolton selflessly protected Lord Stark with his body, I saw it…"

"...Leech Lord still expired before the maester could get to him…"

"...Must have been planned. Bolton was seen valourously commanding too many…"

"...This must surely be that cretin Renly. We cannot let such vile attacks stand…"

"...What do we do now…"

"...Umber is second-in-command…."

"...Send out scouts and fortify our position in case the Flowers counterattack…"

"...Damned heathens…"

"...Know how they sneaked here..."

"...I say give the one you captured to Bolton's torturer. He'll make them sing…"

"...Wasn't flaying outlawed?..."

"...Only in the North..."

***

3rd Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

Beyond the Wall, Warg Hill

"Any last words?" Jon asked solemnly as Duncan Liddle mercilessly pressed the man, Rorn, down on the block. 

He had expected that his word and patience would be tested sooner rather than later now that the threat of the Others was gone.

"I just took her axe," the wildling whined as a crowd gathered in the muddy square. "She couldn't keep it from me either, so who cares? What use does a woman have for a nice, steel axe after her man died fighting the Cold Ones?"

"Perhaps her son would wield it once the boy grows up," Jon said coldly. "Perhaps she could trade it for some food. But I've long made the rules in Warg Hill clear. The rules that you agreed to but broke anyway. No stealing, no killing, and all the disputes can be brought to me. You could have left Warg Hill if you didn't like them like many others."

"Please-"

Dark Sister blurred, and the head rolled off. A spray of blood painted the mud as the body grew limp. 

"Put his head on the main gate," the cold words rolled off his tongue as one of the raiders, Dryn, rushed to obey. Chopping off a hand was good enough for theft, but Jon knew how wildlings thought. They would prod and poke, testing your limits, so he decided to draw a hard line instead, especially since those unsatisfied with the state of affairs could simply pick up their things and leave.

Jon knew that true change would be hard for the stubborn wildlings, especially as there was nothing to unite them. But he had already made his bed and had to lie in it. Some groundwork had been made in the desperate fight against the Cold Ones, but the road to civility was long. That didn't mean Jon would remain complacent or tolerate some of their baser behaviours. He didn't harbour any delusions that he could unite all the wildlings under one banner and civilise them, but he saw some hope for those lingering in Warg Hill.

They had tasted the power and many boons of pooling manpower under one banner. Now, Jon planned to make them swallow the perceived drawbacks slowly–or make them more palpable, at least.

He could always let them return to their wild ways in Warg Hill, but a part of him detested their savage behaviour. Another part of him was unwilling to abandon all the effort he had poured into the place and the people here.

While the crowd dispersed, the chieftains and the warband leaders gathered around him, some looking unhappy while others pensive.

"How'd you know Erna was telling the truth?" Curiosity burned in Gavin the Trader's amber eyes.

"Direwolves," was the laconic response, making the chieftain groan with disappointment. "Liars always have tells if you're observant enough." And the direwolves had an instinctive read on human body language.

"You plan to turn us into fancy kneelers, Snow?" Tormund tutted.

"The Thenns have laws and lords, yet they do not kneel," Jon said calmly. "You have seen the benefits of law and order. If folks knew that their possessions, no matter how meagre or important, could be stolen at the tip of a spear, they wouldn't bother crafting or building beyond the basic necessities. Why do you think the Thenns are so prosperous and have managed to develop metalcraft where the rest of you failed?"

"Laws," Gavin cheerily provided. "They have laws and lords."

Sigorn Thenn stood straighter while the disgruntlement on the other faces melted, if not completely.

"You're a cunning man, Lord Snow," Morna chuckled. "And we can hardly complain when we're free to leave anytime. But you're right–I want to know my sons are not left with nought should I perish too early. We know you're worthy, so we follow."

The rest of the day was calm, but the looming sense of foreboding did not go away, and his feet led him to the Heart Tree in search of solace. Yet the usual quiet of the grove failed to soothe him this time.

Jon's gaze fell on the heart tree. The carved eyes wept crimson, and the leaves rustled with unease despite the lack of wind. One would claim it was an omen, but of what?

He had come here to clear his mind, yet was only met with more questions. His dreams had been uneasy of late, for an inexplicable looming feeling hung upon his mind like a shroud, as if something important was happening. Something that required his undivided attention.

It was not the Others. No trace of their presence lingered here. Over two moons prior, everything was covered with a veil of frost, yet now the bright sun hung above the cloudless sky. The warmth had covered the harsh lands with a carpet of green–as it did in the warmest part of the year–and all sorts of beasts had crawled out of their lairs. While some were unhappy in Warg Hill, Ghost and the direwolves sensed no hint of treachery. The rest of the wildlings were hardly a problem, and the scouts kept an eye on them just in case. 

It couldn't be the Watch either; Jon had forged a tentative but decent relationship with the Order. Sure, some black brothers were doubtlessly unhappy to ally with wildlings; he knew how these things went first-hand. But Uncle Benjen was a tried and tested veteran ranger. He had spent nearly two decades laying his roots in the Watch, and he had far more support than Jon had managed to acquire–and he had left a warning to his uncle, just in case.

Jon stared at the heart tree, his fingers brushing against the pale, bone-like bark as if looking for answers. But none came. The tree remained mockingly silent as it always did.

"The gods cry out in rage," Melisandre's voice echoes from behind. 

"So you feel it too?"

"I do, yet the Wall hampers all my senses, leaving only a ghostly echo behind." Jon didn't bother turning to face the priestess, but she came to him, giving him a generous view of her ample cleavage. "But it's hard to say what can bestir such fierce feelings. They barely cared when the Others retreated as if it was a natural happenstance."

He snorted. "Perhaps it is–this is the second time it has happened… that we know of. But why would I feel such a thing? I am not a priest like you are."

"No," Melisandre gave him a sweet smile, but it made his skin crawl. He had seen her do exactly the same with Stannis in private, but now her green eye looked as if it was about to weep while the red one was smouldering with desire. "You might not be a priest of the gods, but something far more important–their champion."

Jon's mouth went dry.

"I thought it was a mere title borne from a wayward blessing," he said slowly, tasting the words. They were bitter on his tongue. "A stroke of luck, perhaps, completely unearned."

Twice, he had failed now, yet the gods had seen him fit for a third chance. Yet he didn't feel worthy; the success came out of luck more than anything else. 

The priestess leaned on her staff, tilting her head quizzically as if seeing him for the first time.

"How can mere mortals comprehend the minds of gods? Clearly, they saw something worthy in you. Did you not pick up the torch of hope and light the way in the fight against the Others?" She leaned in dangerously close, her ripe teats nearly spilling from her dress, and the soothing scent of jasmine and thyme tickled his nose. "Did you not rush to fight the darkness where many others fled or perished in the attempt?"

"Perhaps. I… I wanted to die, you know?" Fighting and dying against the Others was all he had amidst a Winterfell filled with the faces of people he had mourned. At least until Val sneaked into his tent that night, clumsily attempting to steal him and remind him of the sweetness of living.

"Does it matter?" Melisandre closed her eyes. "It was the gods' will to choose someone like you, and it worked quite splendidly."

"Perhaps others could have done the same with a similar blessing," Jon pointed out wryly. "The North does not lack great warriors or commanders. I was only lucky-" or cursed, "to be blessed with the knowledge of fighting the Cold Shadows."

The priestess craned her neck, gazing at the blue sky.

"I have seen great men of staunch character buckle under the allure of power, doing everything to cling to it–even falling to untold depths of depravity," she chuckled. "It is an ugly thing. Some say power twists your very being, but I believe it only removes the veneer, revealing what was underneath all along. And here you stand, a man with a sense of justice and fairness despite it all. You could have become a King Beyond the Wall. A quarter of the wildlings mutter about it every now and then, and twice as many doubtlessly think it. Yet you didn't grasp for the power within your reach."

"A fool's hope. Their hearts yearn for glory and plunder, and they imagine what could have been without sparing much thought to the consequences. A dead end." Jon couldn't tell her that he had feasted himself on power to last him for several lifetimes and found its taste far more bitter than sweet. Instead, he sighed, "I still don't see what that has to do with anything."

"The gods only unearthed what was already hiding in your lineage. I can feel it, you know. Enough weirwood sap to topple a small herd of mammoths has merged seamlessly into your flesh. A small bowl was enough to nearly kill me, and even then, it runs in my veins, which is a far cry from what you have achieved."

The old gods' will would explain why he was here; that was true enough. Jon hadn't agonised over the why or the how but the daunting challenge ahead. It had been easy to pick up the fight again after doing it for what felt to be an eternity–it was not only the only thing he knew, but it felt right.

Yet he felt empty now. Aimless. The struggle against the Others had ended for this generation–and forever, if his Uncle succeeded in his ambitious plan spanning decades to venture into the Lands of Always Winter. 

But the newfound sense of unease clung to him like a shroud, refusing to melt away despite the warm kiss of the sun above.

"So," Jon pointedly looked at the heart tree, avoiding Melisandre's not-so-subtle attempts of seduction in favour of the crimson sap still weeping from the carved eyes. "So you do not know what is happening either. But surely you might have an idea?"

"I can only speculate."

"Well, speculate for me," Jon snarked.

After a minute of stilted silence, Melisandre's following words chilled him.

"Someone is committing a vile act that offends the gods again and again. Based on Westerosi history, The old gods care little about the life or death of men, so I'd say the weirwoods are cut down in large numbers. Or even burned."

The only weirwoods in the wild were Beyond the Wall and in the North, and Jon's scouts would have noticed if someone had chopped them here.

It didn't take him long to realise what was happening. His Uncle had warned him of rabid zealotry of the Faith, but to think it would reach even the North…

"It is but an idle speculation of mine," Melisandre warned. "In the end, a persistent yet vague sense of wrongness is hardly proof of anything."

Giving a final nod, she stood up and left him to his thoughts, and Jon rolled his eyes at the tantalising sway of her hips. The talk had left him with more questions than answers, but it was expected when dealing with Melisandre. Even when the Essosi woman had kept to her Red God, talking with her was like fighting against riddles and had always left him more apprehensive than before, if for entirely different reasons.

That is how his wife found him, carrying Calla's fussing bundle in her arms, a shaggy retinue of direwolves lazily shadowing after her.

"She turns restless when she doesn't see her father," Val said, sitting in one of the pale roots. "Come, hold her."

Jon carefully picked up the bundle and was met with the most striking pair of amethyst eyes gazing at him again underneath the ethereal tuft of silver-gold hair. Her pale, pudgy hands greedily reached for one of his dark locks. A warm sense of fuzziness spread in his chest at the adorable sight.

"She's going to be a lot of trouble when she grows up," Jon noted lightly. Calla adorably whined at him when his locks remained out of her reach. "A beauty like her mother, too."

It had taken him a moon for the fact that he had finally become a father to sink in. He had made this little bundle of trouble and joy. While the act of making Calla had been pleasurable, the responsibility of her now weighed upon his shoulders along with everything else. 

He dreaded it–not fatherhood, but failure.

Despite commanding kingdoms, an ancient order, waging war for years, or even taking the fight Beyond the Wall, the mere possibility of failing as a father chilled his blood more than the Others' cold presence. It was why he was so insistent on slowly changing the wildlings' ways here–for his daughter. And now, the unknown trouble looming unsettled Jon. It was easy to fight the Others; they were a foe he knew well, but the problems south of the Wall were not his to handle.

The direwolves stalked off to the edges of the grove, and surely enough, Ghost's gargantuan form padded over; his companion was now a whole head taller than Jon while standing on four legs and could be easily mistaken for an overlarge if slim snow bear from afar. At least he had stopped growing.

Carefully, his enormous snout approached to inspect Calla, but she only giggled and tugged at his whiskers. It only got her hand licked, making the babe giggle harder.

"You're all spoiling my daughter too much," Val said, a heavy frown resting on her face, but there was no heat in her voice. "If this coddling continues later, she'll grow a pampered weakling."

Ghost's ears twitched, and he huffed silently before giving Calla one final playful lick and curling by Jon's feet like an enormous fur rug.

"Perhaps," Jon cooed one last time and reluctantly surrendered his daughter to Val's waiting arms. "But is it truly a bad thing if she doesn't have to struggle to survive day by day?"

His wife snorted, "Nay, but that doesn't mean she has to be weak." Her grey eyes softened, and she sighed. "You seem ill at ease still. Did the chieftains give you trouble?"

"No, some are unhappy, but it will pass with time."

"Is it that bad feeling from earlier, then?"

"Melisandre claims trouble is brewing in my childhood home," the words felt heavy on his tongue.

"Trouble?" Concern crept into her silvery eyes, making her look even more beautiful. Gods. "What trouble has she felt now?"

"Something you'd call a Southron matter. Perhaps an attack on the North…"

"And now you wonder what you ought to do," Val finished with a fierce frown.

"There's not much I can do without finding out what's actually happening," Jon admitted. "Rushing to action blindly has been the undoing of many. I'll have Deer send her owl with a message to my uncle to see if he can give me a better picture of the situation. But even then, it's a matter of whether I can help."

"But you're the finest warrior I've seen." The spearwife tilted her head, and her silver-gold braid dangled in a way that made Jon unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. Clad in white, Val looked like the very visage of motherly beauty with a svelte body and an ample bosom, especially while she slowly rocked their daughter. Birthing a child had only made her hips and bosom fuller in a way that pleased his eyes. The flames of desire stirred in him again but now was not the time.

"It's not a matter of martial skill of a single man, for no matter how good I am, I cannot best a thousand on the field alone," he said. "Even the best warriors cannot swing a sword without respite, but the issue is different. In the North, I hold no authority."

"Are you not the son of the former wolf lord? What did your crow uncle say–that you're a kneeler lord now."

"Aye, but not from his wife, so I'm named Snow instead of Stark," Jon admitted. "What good is a Lord without a castle and lands to draw power from? Nothing, that's what. Even if I wanted to help, I would be limited in what I could do. Say, a word from my Uncle confirms that Winterfell is under attack. Even if I want to aid my kin, I lack the authority to lead the Northmen in battle."

"Perhaps it is so. You understand these matters better than me, but I know some of the men here would fight for you," Val noted after a short silence. 

"Less than three thousand warriors are left here after all the campaign against the Others," Jon reminded. "They call me the Warg Lord, yet there are no vows to bind them to me here. There are no oaths of fealty that they must follow. All those who followed did so because we were cornered with no way out, and I proposed a way forth where none saw any. Yet, the looming threat that banded us has faded. How many have left to return to their dwellings?"

"Less than one in six," she counted. "It's not that much. Most prefer the safety of Warg Hill's walls. Only fools dare steal cattle and poultry with you here, and Gavin is already wrangling with the Watch to buy proper tools for farming."

They proudly called it Warg's Hill as if it was a grand city, but in truth, it was merely a fledgling walled-off town with a little over eight thousand inhabitants left. The Others and the relentless chill had taken the lives of far more than just warriors.

"Yet only two moons have passed since the Others retreated, and plenty chafe under the restrictions I have imposed now that they can simply leave without dying. Less than three dozen giants linger, too; the small houses do not agree with them. How many would leave in two more moons? How many more would turn away or rebel if I tried to bring all of my kneeler ways here?"

His wife ducked her head, refusing to meet his eyes.

Jon could have clung to his position of power. He could have forced the wildlings to stay and got them in line through fear. But for how long would it last? What right did he have to dictate how they wanted to live? What right did he have to impose his voluntarily accepted position with fire and sword? This was why he had been careful with the changes he had made. Step by step, moving in the right direction, if small, would get him far over the years, but it had to be a gradual process.

Things seemed harmonious on the surface, but that was because Jon knew not to give orders that would not be followed.

Perhaps he could take bolder steps in time, but any big moves had to be made after a solid foundation was laid and certain concepts had ripened in the wildling's hearts. Jon knew that true change took time, patience, cunning, effort and, of course, a chance. If the circumstances were not right and the gods' caprice was aimed at you, no amount of preparation could ever prove enough.

"It's one thing for the men to agree to fight against a threat promising to extinguish them all, yet entirely another to follow me to a faraway land to fight for people they care not for with no vows or obligations backing them," he continued solemnly. "But should the gods decide to smile upon my cause, and half of the able-bodied warriors join me, would they still do it for no gain? I can not promise them lands, plunder, riches, or women. Even then," Jon insisted as his wife opened her mouth. "Fifteen hundred men against the armies of the South that number in the tens of thousands, even the common soldiers armed better than some of the warchiefs…they would be slaughtered in the first battle."

A well-made padded jacket, a spear, a steel cap, and a shield were deadly in a formation far more than the angry wildling armed with bone, bronze, and wood. And discipline beat numbers nine out of ten times, and the wildlings lacked both now. Sure, Jon could train them into other basic formations aside from 'hold that line' and drill them into shape… if he had another half a year.

"But surely they are one of the finest warriors after surviving-"

"Val." He stared at her eyes, conveying his seriousness with every fibre of his being. "From Sunspear to the Last Hearth, Most men-at-arms train with the sword since they can walk. Fighting a war is not the same as the skirmishes or duelling man-to-man the raiders and hunters here know. The men of the Seven Kingdoms know how to fight with an axe, mace, or sword. With and against armour. They know how to fight in a formation or ahorse and have the discipline. They know war in ways you cannot even begin to imagine. And that's assuming the Watch allows us to pass the Wall in such numbers."

Val sighed, looking baffled. "Surely your crow Uncle will not bar your way?"

"If it were just me with a small retinue, it wouldn't be as troublesome," Jon said. "But hundreds of men is another story. My uncle's duties lay with the Watch first and foremost. He only managed to aid us against the Others, but the Order takes no part in the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, an important tradition that had yet to be broken for millennia. I would loathe to force him to choose between his kin and duty."

"I can feel that there's more to it," his wife squinted his eyes.

A bubble of laughter escaped from her throat; Val was quite observant when she wanted to be, and nowadays, Jon felt like an open book before her.

"Should I leave Warg Hill to go fight a battle in a land they have never seen for a cause they care not for, my position here would melt away like snow under the summer sun. Or someone else will rise to lead in my absence. Someone who might not want to surrender his newly gained standing and power easily. Besides, it would mean leaving you and Calla behind."

"Should you go South, we're coming with you," Val declared, then gently placed the snoozing babe amidst the weirwood roots by Ghost's head. The direwolf's ear twitched, and he opened a red eye, inspecting the bundle before gently moving to curl the babe in his tail like an enormous shaggy white scarf. "You still have that lordship that the kneeler king promised you."

"I thought you didn't want to become a kneeling Southron lady?" 

"You are mine, Jon Snow," she came over and stole a kiss, and by the gods, it tasted sweet. "Whether it is Lord Warg or Lord Kneeler Warg to save your kin, I'll be your Lady Snow." She tugged at his belt and shrugged off her cloak. "Come now, let me give you a son–a mighty warrior that would protect his sister."

"What happened to not touching-" her lips quickly silenced his objections. 

***

The attempt on Robb Stark's life was met with fury from his bannermen, his Uncle, Lord Tully, and his royal good brother.

"My traitorous Uncle and his band of turncloaks have crossed the line by using catspaws and poison," the young boy-king had announced, redfaced with rage at his court the morrow the word arrived from Crakehall. "Let it be known that it is the Reachmen who started this. From this moment on, I solemnly vow that for every Tyrell, Hightower, Redwyne, and Oakheart slain, I shall grant a castle–whether it is to the man who does it or his kin should he perish after succeeding. The more important the fallen, the bigger the castle. Let it be known that Joffrey Baratheon does not suffer treachery lightly!"

It sounded like an arrogant declaration as the Dark Death crept through the streets of Aegon's City, killing hundreds on a good day and weakening Lord Lannister's forces. But the hordes of headhunters and catspaws that suddenly appeared in the Reach showed that many still believed in the legitimacy of he who sat on the Iron Throne. 

The king's grandfather promised a chest of gold in addition to the castle, which definitely helped. Ser Gerrick Hightower, a cousin to the main House, found his untimely end not even three days later. While the assailant was slain, his son was raised as a landed knight.

Renly's forces were not spared by the plague either; his men fell ill shortly after those in the city.

Things were turning poorly for the North, with the Reach securing a landing for their force. The burning of the young Tallhart and Dustin lads had the small folk flee for their lives, but while Barrowton was abandoned, the Castellan in Torrhen Square decided to dig in and gather as many defenders and supplies as he could muster, but the morale was low. The Tallharts knew no relief force was coming anytime soon, and their numbers weren't enough to hold.

While Hightower and Redwyne decided to march northward, Ser Mern Grimm led his forces towards the Moat, dragging along a significant part of the zealots and vagrants with him.

To add insult to injury, weirwoods, even heart trees, were being cut and burned, and some more daring fools had decided to dig up the old barrows of the first men in search of treasures buried with their owners, though they didn't live long to enjoy their spoils.

Meanwhile, the young Iron Lady proved her victory in the Blackwater was not a fluke and crushed the Tyroshi fleet, this time in direct battle near the shores of Cape Wrath-

Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'.