Of Bonds and Blood

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.

***

7th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

Ser Braxton Bulwer the Red, Outside King's Landing

Ser Braxton Bulwer was a simple man, not one for overthinking or scheming. He was good with a sword and a warhammer, far from inheriting any lordships or even minor estates, so all he could do was put more effort into martial pursuits. Nothing awaited him in peace, aside from being a hedge knight and wrangling in tourneys with hundreds of others like him. He had almost sailed North to join the Watch and win some honour and glory there. 

But then the banners were called, and suddenly, the Seven Kingdoms were aflame in war, and the demand for swords and lances swelled. With his well-polished skill, a measure of luck, and a valiant showing against Marbrand and Brax knights at the Battle of the Red Crossing, he had managed to secure the white–no, the red cloak atop his shoulders.

Swearing off marriage and children would be troublesome, but a man from an impoverished cadet branch like him had no means to care for either. Not that he didn't enjoy a woman's warmth–the maidens found his new red cloak and crimson suit of plate particularly dashing compared to his drab grey armour from before. 

But it wasn't all glory and honour–especially standing guard on cold nights outside the king's tent. Honour had made itself scarce since the army had besieged King's Landing, and tragically, he had seen far more corpses than pairs of teats as of late, a black omen if ever there was one.

"I did not order this!" Renly's roar echoed like a thunderclap through the royal pavilion. Braxton shared an uneasy grimace with Ser Robert Errol the Orange. "Worse, whoever did it hired a bunch of incompetent lackwits. Three loaded crossbows, and they couldn't hit a target less than thirty yards away!?"

The small council had grown smaller since Hightower and Redwyne had left for the North, and the Queen was no longer here, gone along with her hefty retinue to convince the Stormlords to raise more men.

"It doesn't matter, for Joffrey has placed a price on the heads of men of noble birth as if they were common brigands. We must respond, Your Grace!" Mace Tyrell looked like an angry boar, his face dark, and a thick vein throbbed angrily at his temple. "My Uncle Garth was beset by three catspaws and barely survived by the skin of his teeth! Sooner or later, some daring wretch will succeed despite any guards employed." 

"More attempts shall doubtlessly follow," Randyll Tarly's cold voice echoed, but Ser Braxton could swear there was a sliver of dark amusement in the man's cold eyes. "The war has left plenty of lands without a lord already, and even more could perish by the end so Joffrey can follow up on his promise."

Eryk Cafferen shuffled, looking through a stack of parchments.

"We should do the same," the master of whispers proposed. "A lordship for each Stark, Tully, and Lannister slain, and a chest of gold to go with it."

"Our coffers are already strained," the Rose Lord objected. "We do not sit on a gold mine like the old lion does."

Tarly's lips curled. "Well then, just dangle the Lordship if you must. Neither Starks nor the Tullys are that numerous. Or we can try storming the city again."

"It's going to be just another bloodbath, and we don't have the men to win this one," Ser Loras objected weakly. His words were faint, contrasting his usually dashing and bold demeanour–the dashing Knight of Roses' complexion had turned increasingly pale over the last three days. Ser Parmen Crane had proposed that the young Lord Commander rest for the day, but the Knight of Flowers had stubbornly declined, "A Lord Commander must lead by example."

Renly snatched a flask of wine from the pale Tyrell knight, emptied it in one gulp and glared at the map of the Crownlands.

"Penrose says he can delay Tully for another half a hundred days at most by sweeping all the supplies and pastures clean," he murmured, more to himself than to the others. "Lord Tarly. Can we take the city before the Rivermen arrive?"

Tarly grabbed a piece of cloth to wipe the beads of sweat off his glistening head. "With the plague raging inside, I'd say they would crumble in less than three moons if that thing is as deadly as Cafferen's spies claim."

Braxton wasn't good with sums and numbers, but even he knew Tully would be here long before the three moons passed. 

"We also have seen plenty of men falling ill in the camps," Mace Tyrell cautioned. "I had the cases isolated to a far corner immediately, but the damned ailment spreads like the wind. Wait too long, and we will see our warriors mowed down by the Stranger's Hand as much as the Lion's men. We might have to retreat beyond the Golden Bridge and regroup."

The following silence was so heavy that everyone might as well have died. Ser Braxton dared not breathe loudly.

"The city was within my grasp," Renly hissed, face twisted with fury. "Everything was going so well–the Westermen were on the cusp of breaking without a battle. The victory was ours until the troublesome Stark showed up. How much did we sacrifice to get here?"

"Over thirty-two thousand Reachmen and ten thousand Stormlanders," Randyll Tarly recounted without hesitation as if he had committed it all to memory. "A significant number of reavers, but I'm not privy to their toll, though I would dare say it's in the thousands. Hundreds of thousands of smallfolk in the Reach and the Crownlands have perished, whether to famine, illness, or the tip of the spear. I imagine the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the North have taken similar casualties. And many more will die before the war ends."

Ser Braxton shuddered. The words were dispassionate, in the same tone one would discuss the weather outside–on days like these, Tarly scared him. Even the king and the royal council had sobered up, their previous rage replaced by grimness.

"All the more reason to win," Renly exhaled, closing his eyes. The golden rose crown atop his tired brow looked like a circlet of thorns now. "Otherwise, all these deaths will have been in vain. What is a king without the Iron Throne?"

"We will see how the situation develops in the next twenty days," Mace Tyrell proposed, face solemn. "Tywin found our sappers, and the fighting in the tunnels has turned gruesome. Men slog it in the muddy darkness and can hardly make out friend from foe. Furthermore, bringing down torches and lanterns simply results in the tunnels being filled with thick smoke, and twice now, Reachmen have tragically fought Reachmen, mistaking them for foes in the dark. It is not you, Your Grace, who benefits from this. Only Tywin Lannister."

"At least he no longer dares rush out on a sortie after we trapped and slaughtered fifteen hundred of his men outside," Tarly scoffed. "We have the siege towers, the trebuchets, and the battering rams for a full-scale assault now. I say let the plague soften the city for a fortnight and then make our move. Should we fail or the opportunity does not ripen, we can always retreat and make Lannister and Tully's forces bleed for the Blackwater crossing the same way the old lion did and buy us time for the second Stormlander muster to arrive."

"Any other plans?" Renly's gaze danced from one councillor to the next, but they all bowed their heads. "Very well. See it done, Tarly. And Lord Hand–spread the word about the Lordships. For each wolf, lion, or trout felled, I'll grant a castle."

"It shall be done."

A servant hushedly excused himself into the tent, going straight to the master of whispers, pulling the eyes of every man inside the royal council. Ser Braxton, however, was looking at his Lord Commander, the young knight whose face was damp with sweat and looked like he was in dire need of rest–despite sleeping till late morning. He was even swaying ever so slightly as if unable to stand upright. 

Lord Eryk Cafferen looked at the scroll in his hands as if it were a poisonous viper.

"What is it now?" Renly urged. "Out with it."

Grimacing, the Stormlord unfurled the scroll, and his blue eyes were filled with trepidation. "Word from the Disputed Lands."

"What, did Tyrosh lose to my niece at sea again?" Renly leaned in impatiently. "Already thrice bested by an eleven-year-old girl. Had I known, I would have never approached those lackwits but negotiated with that Onion Knight. Out with it, my good lord!"

"The direwolf banner has been spotted in the Ashen Plains near Myr–they say Eddard Stark is there, leading a band of Northmen and Dothraki-"

Mace Tyrell snorted, "Preposterous. Everyone knows the Quiet Wolf drowned at sea!"

The king shuddered, looking around warily. Cafferen looked as though he wanted to disappear in his seat, while the Rose Lord did what he always did when nervous or surprised–he grabbed the nearest piece of food, a ripe peach, and hurriedly bit into it. 

"Say Lord Stark survived due to his skill in dark sorcery," Tarly's voice thickened with contempt, though Braxton wasn't sure if it was for Stark or the claim that the wolf lord was a sorcerer. "Why would he ally with Dothraki? And why are we only hearing of this now?"

"Even if it's truly Eddard Stark, he's far too away to do anything," the Rose Lord said. "Perhaps he can make a play for young Arryn's regency, but Waynwood and Royce already agreed to decide the matter by a trial of the seven–even if that old fox Anya keeps trying to drag things on-"

The swaying Loras collapsed, slamming his face on the table.

Previous arguments were forgotten, and the king and Lord Tyrell rushed towards the Lord Commander. But not before the latter blindly threw his half-eaten peach, and Ser Broxton was too surprised to move when the wet fruit smacked him right in the face. 

"The soles of his feet have begun to turn black," Maester Alard said. "It's not the bulbous swellings under the skin yet."

"What are his chances?" The king asked, his voice tender. Even more tender than when he spoke to the pretty Rose Queen. A silken cloth, heavily perfumed with rose water, was clutched in his fist. 

"It's hard to tell yet," was the solemn answer. "Perhaps we can amputate his legs-"

"I shall not have another son become a cripple!" Mace Tyrell roared, spittle flying in the face of the maester. The poor acolytes tending to the healing incense flinched and startled at the lord's outburst. "Fix my boy, damn you!"

Alard calmly wiped his cheek, looking undaunted. "Yelling shall aid us little here, Lord Hand. Eight in ten die once their fingers go black. But half make it if the infection is incised in time."

"You're not cutting Loras' feet. I want the ten maesters best-versed in healing here yesterday," Renly's voice whipped like a thunderclap. His earlier desperation was nowhere to be seen, but his gaze kept moving towards Ser Loras' sickbed. "Summon those proud fools from the Citadel who claim they can stave off the Stranger's touch. Spread the word–I don't care if it's a maester, a hedge wizard, or a physician from the Far East. Whoever heals my Lord Commander shall be richly rewarded beyond his wildest dreams. Lands, Lordships, honours, women, riches–he can have them all upon succeeding."

Well, it seemed the treasury wasn't that empty, the knight realised with amusement. More coin could be squeezed out–but not for the Starks, Lannisters, and the Tullys.

The mood in the camp remained unchanged as Braxton walked through the orderly tents. The men did not look as enthusiastic as before. The cheer in their gazes was gone, and the meat on their arms and the swell in their well-fed belies had thinned. Supplies were already sparse, and forage parties had to go further to find food each day, though more fish, grain, and mutton flowed down the Blackwater Bay than before–it seemed that Ser Garlan Tyrell had managed to stave off the Blackfish's raids somehow. It was far from enough for everyone, though.

The once endless golden fields remained fallow–or scorched, whether from the Lion Lord's passing or for Renly's punishment for the Crownlords who wouldn't bend the knee, painting a bleak picture of a barren landscape. The pastures were swept clean, the cattle had long been butchered for food, and what few smallfolk that had escaped the slavers had fled or were taken by the army to dig trenches and build fortifications.

"The Seven abandoned us when we started consorting with slavers and pirates," Braxton heard some servants whisper once his shift ended. "This plague is a punishment from the gods, and even the proud roses cannot escape it!"

It was superstitious talk, but Ser Braxton did not entirely dismiss it–slavery was a sin in the eyes of the Seven. But his job was to obey the royal commands, keep his skills sharp, and guard the king, not to whinge like some babe, so he remained silent.

Tonight, he had no mood for sparring, so after leaving the king's protection in Ser Bryce Caron's capable hands, he joined Ser Robert Errol around his campfire as he carefully spun a piece of beef roast over the ruddy flames.

"I still don't get why you don't leave these mundane matters to the cooks and the camp followers," Braxton sighed, raising his flask of wine and letting the liquid pleasantly tingle down his throat. It was not just any wine, but a special spiced honey wine they only made in Cuy–something an ordinary hedge knight could scarcely afford once a year but an anointed member of the rainbow guard easily received. "Aye, most of the men barely get some mutton and hardtack on a bad day, but the kingsguard is always well-fed."

"But we're not the kingsguard, Ser," Ser Errol said faintly, motioning towards his orange cloak with his free hand. "We're the rainbow guard. And I roast because it helps me get my mind off things. My uncle Lyonel taught me how–before he died at the Battle of Ashford."

How many of today's foes had fought together during the previous wars?

"You're lucky–my uncles died long before I was born, and my father perished in the Battle of the Bells." Ser Braxton swallowed another gulp of wine and pushed down his apprehension. "Did something else happen?"

The Errol Knight laughed, but it was a sound of bitterness, not joy. "Too many things to count. I think… I think we're going to lose."

"Lose?" Braxton blinked owlishly. "Aye, no war is easy, but the Reach and the Stormlands are vast and have countless hardy men to call upon."

"But vast lands are the hardest to rule," came the solemn response. "Just an hour ago, I saw Lord Peake take what little remained of his men and leave–because neither his Grace nor Lord Tyrell would defend his lands while the Dornish bandits ravage them. None stopped him."

It bordered dangerously close to treason–which meant things were not going well if a High Lord such as Peake decided to leave, though some claimed he was a traitor because of his Lannister wife. Would the might of the Reach truly be defeated, or was this just a lone disgruntled man who looked for the opportunity to save what was left of his men?

Tarly made no complaints about the Dornish raiders, and his lands were also in the Marches…

"Here," Braxton offered his flask of spiced wine. His mentor always said good things were to be shared amongst friends. "Take a sip." 

***

9th Day of the 7th Moon, 299AC 

The Captain-General, The Disputed Lands coast

"I want to link up with my uncle Eddard," Aegon frowned fiercely. "His support would be invaluable."

They were in the privacy of the Captain General's tents, along with Ser Rolly Duckfield and three more trusted men Barristan had handpicked who were currently guarding the entrance against wandering ears. The Golden Company was already on the move, and a cobbled-up fleet of warships and trading cogs was recruited from the Volantine Harbour, leaving it empty once more.

"We talked about this, Aegon," Connington sighed. "Stark's heir is wedded to Robert's daughter. Even if Renly's accusations of bastardry have a grain of truth, those vows have been sealed, and your uncle will respect them regardless. Besides, what will you do with Tommen Baratheon? Do you think an honourable man like Stark will just surrender his page?"

The young king looked troubled–but ever since his proclamation, the weight on his shoulders had been crushing. He bore it shakily at first, yet Aegon looked more at ease as time passed. Alas, he craved a sense of kinship, and for good or bad, his closest family was Eddard Stark.

"It is true," Barristan agreed heavily. "Stark is made of the same stern stuff the Old Falcon was. Jon Arryn could have taken the heads of his wards and kept the oaths to his liege lord. But they were dear to him–as good as sons in all but blood, and it wouldn't be the honourable thing to do. Many say it was Aerys, Lyanna, Rhaegar, or even Brandon Stark who started the Rebellion, but they're wrong. It was Jon Arryn–and his refusal to choose duty over honour."

"I can spare Tommen," he grudgingly declared. "I have no need to kill young boys."

The Griffin Lord snorted. "Young boys grow into men with time and become dangerous. Should you leave the boy alive, he will become troublesome later on."

"There are ways to remove such candidates without resorting to distasteful things like murder or maiming," Aegon insisted. "You told me of them. Tommen can be sent to the Citadel or the Watch–both honourable callings-"

"The Watch is no longer for life," Ser Barristan reminded. "Your uncle's reforms saw to that."

"House Stark is powerful and well-connected; I must have them on my side. How would it look if my own kinsmen fought against me?"

Connington's face softened. 

"The road ahead is perilous, Aegon. I understand your desire to connect with your family. No matter how much I mislike the wolves, their lineage is old–as old as the Wall, with the power to go with it. But Eddard Stark is a different breed of man. It is also a test of your character and mettle. You lack the dragons the Conqueror did, but should you beat the Starks on the battlefield and show yourself generous and merciful in victory, they will doubtlessly kneel–and do so with honour without breaking their oaths."

"All this is a moot point for now," Barristan cleared his throat loudly. "Stark is all the way at Myr, and we cannot reach him easily now. Shireen Baratheon and the royal fleet have Tyrosh and the Tyroshi Straits in a vice grip after defeating them at sea for the third time. What did Lysono Maar claim?" 

"That she's methodically sweeping every outpost the Tyroshi have outside their island, leaving them isolated, and there's nothing they can do but watch," Jon snorted. "As meticulous as her father, that girl, and just as dangerous. Our best bet to reach Myr is by sea, which places the Stepstones and the little Doe on our way there. Attempting to pass her will be risky in more ways than one, and marching through the Disputed Lands to Myr would lose us precious moons–a lengthy delay that might see our opportunity to join the war at the Seven Kingdoms melt."

"So," Aegon's voice thickened. "Dorne, then. Marriage with Arianne Martell, the niece of the wife my father spurned."

"A marriage is a good way to mend fences," the old knight said. "And I can't help but feel that Doran's standing in Dorne is shaky with the sons and daughters of his most loyal bannermen held hostage in Lys. He needs us as much as we need him if rumours of his western bannermen stirring hold any truth."

"We already decided to pick up the Dornish contract anyway, and our man is in Plankytown, ready to bring our final decision to the Prince of Dorne," Connington did not look pleased. But then again, the exiled Griffin Lord rarely showed any joy. His smile had died with Rhaegar at the Trident. "Now, we only need to deal with Lys. It shouldn't be too hard. They have invested all their fleets in the Stepstones, and we can come to the negotiation table from a position of strength just by the force of our presence here." 

***

10th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC 

Theon Greyjoy, Mormont Keep

The seat of House Mormont wasn't anything special. It was a squat wooden keep protected by a square-shaped plastered curtain wall with a brick tower at each corner. The wall wasn't overly high, just shy of thirty feet and poorly maintained as the plaster had begun to peel at places, showing how destitute the Northerners were. It also made scaling the wall with hooks quite easier–something he had done under the guise of the night while his father's men stormed the far side of the walls as a distraction. More than half of his men had died, but they opened one of the gates, and the castle fell after a bloody slog.

The insides were just as unimpressive. The only things worth here were sealskins, a mere handful of silver ornaments, and the Lord's chair hewn from inscribed ivory.

"Good job, my son," there was the barest tinge of pride in Balon Greyjoy's voice. "You took the castle, and now you can keep it. Alas, Longclaw wasn't here as I expected. Probably the old She-Bear took it with her. A pity–this one was a fierce fighter and would have made for a good salt wife to bear you strong children."

He stared at Alysanne Mormont's plump body and resisted the urge to scoff. Theon had seen Lady Mormont's stocky, war-like daughter before, and she wasn't a beauty by any standards, especially with her muscular body, thick thighs, and crooked teeth. She was even less a beauty now, with one of his arrows sticking out of her eye, the nasal helmet offering little protection. The battle for the Bear Isle was bloody–they had been repelled twice, but in the end, the Northmen simply lacked the numbers to protect the whole length of their shore against the fleet his father had mustered. Theon had repeatedly proven himself, leading one of the bloodier landings successfully. The Ironmen looked at him with respect, so why did he feel worse than before?

"The war is far from over," Theon's voice came out hoarse. "You did most of the fighting and leading–"

"Your uncle Victarion already has Fair Isle," the Lord Reaper of Pyke leaned in, his eyes bereft of any warmth. They were so cold that Theon still felt unsettled and struggled to meet his father's gaze. "You can keep this one and show the Ironmen how you rule. Elryk Irontooth will stay to help you root out those Mormont Men and women who fled into the forests. But for now, the captured thralls will start cutting timber to season for our longboats when next year comes. We shall need to build shipyards and a proper harbour for a further staging ground."

Theon swallowed his trepidation. A whole island for himself–even one as drab and cold as Bear Island, was not a small matter. There were plenty of Houses in the Iron Islands that possessed far less. And… that overproud Redwyne could hardly keep his wife away anymore, now that she could have a keep to stay in, no matter how shabby.

Desmera would have no more excuses to avoid him now. Theon shook his head, focusing on his father's words. 

"We're… going inland?"

Balon Greyjoy's smile was hard and joyless–just like everything else in the man.

"Indeed," he nodded, taking the barest sip of his flask of wine. "The forests here are good–full of old, thick oak, ash, and pine, but it's hardly a drop in the bucket compared to the Wolfswood."

"That forest is too vast," Theon said carefully. "Full of trouble–old huntsmen, wild bears, and wolves." 

"Old huntsmen can be dealt with, and wolves and bears are just prey that can be hunted down with time," his father dismissed. "I'll lead two hundred ships to aid those fools Botley and Farwynd–Glover broke their siege on Deepwood Motte, sending them scurrying back into the sea."

"Didn't Weaver, Volmark, and Wynch land on Sea Dragon Point?"

"Yes–they're building another harbour and sweeping clean the place of any problems as a reward for their full support."

"Why not order them to move to Deepwood Motte?" Theon scratched his head. "Glover is one of the few Houses with his full strength remaining here, and taking their keep is going to be bloody."

"Of course, it shall be bloody," Balon Greyjoy scoffed. "I sent those most disgruntled with my rule to waste their strength against the hardest Northmen so I can sweep in for a victory. My prestige and influence shall only rise while theirs dwindle, and even their sworn men will begin to doubt them. Either way, I have another task for you."

Theon kneeled. "Anything, Father."

"I hear of some wolf pup making trouble for the Drumms at the skirts of the mountains. A direwolf with golden eyes and silvery fur the size of a horse, attacking the scouts in broad daylight."

"Must be Arya's wolf," Theon groaned. Oh, why wasn't she in bloody Winterfell? Fighting the North was one thing, but he didn't want to fight House Stark and Arya even less so–especially after he had taught the little helion so much. Last year, he would have said Arya was more of a sister to him than Asha–despite being annoying, proud, and loud, her stubbornness had grown on him.

"One of Stark's get as I thought. I'll give you three thousand men, Dagmer, and a hundred longboats–go help Drumm and capture the damn girl and take the Wull seat. A hostage would be invaluable should that fool Renly manage to lose anyway."

A massive force to capture a single girl who probably didn't even have much of a retinue to guard her.

"I…"

"Don't tell me you are attached to the chit?" Balon stared at him, making Theon squirm. "Perhaps I should give the task to your sister instead."

"No, I'll do it," Theon said, the words burning on his tongue, better him than someone else who would not care about Arya.

Then, his father smiled–almost softly, as if he had passed some sort of test.

"Good. If you like the girl so much, just take her as your salt wife when she grows up."

Theon felt queasy then but managed to give a quick nod and excuse himself to the privy.

11th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

Edmure Tully, the Crownlands border

Revenge was as sweet as it was empty. Harrenhal was taken, and his grand-aunt Shelia was avenged, and so were his friends who fell to Reachmen's swords and lances. Harren's folly was broken, and Rowan was slain; everyone proclaimed him a hero, but Edmure only felt like a butcher.

But neither kindness nor weakness won wars, and he would never forget the bitter lesson learned at the Battle by the Rushing Falls. 

"We have to help the North," Tytos Blackwood proclaimed loudly as soon as the request for help from Winterfell arrived. "Give me two, no, three thousand lancers, and I'll be at the Moat within fifty days and make those rabid dogs rue the day they burned a man alive!"

Edmure had also contemplated sending assistance–but he had sent his friend Patrek with the second muster to the western coast to repel and guard against the Ironmen's raids.

"Pah, what do you know of leading lancers?" Bracken scoffed. "With twenty-five hundred riders, I'll be there in forty days and smash those heretics!"

"Twenty-eight thousand men we have left after Harrenhal," Lord Piper cautioned. "We will need all the swords we have to fight Renly!"

"Numbers are hardly an advantage when you struggle to feed them," Ser Nestor Royce pointed out. "Penrose is an old fox, leaving only a barren land for us, and the lands around Harrenhal have already been squeezed dry and struggle to provide enough for us."

"King's Landing is dangerous," Ser Lynn Corbray rubbed his brow, looking tired–rightly so, for he was one of the more aggressive scouts, constantly clashing with Penrose's outriders and coming out on top. "The men have no fear of testing their mettle against the flowers of the Reach, but one can hardly fight an invisible enemy like the plague with swords and arrows." 

Ser Walder Frey cleared his throat. Edmure had begrudgingly allowed Black Walder's presence here after the knight had been the first to storm Harrenhal, leading the rest of his kinsmen after they collapsed the foundations of the walls. And he had slain plenty of Rowan's knights, too.

"Sending too many men can be for nought if the Moat falls before you arrive," he pointed out. "The causeway of the Neck is dangerous even with the Crannogmen guarding it and providing guidance."

They all looked at Edmure as if he had a magical solution to everything. Each and every small decision returned to his shoulders, and he had to keep them from bickering. Favour one lord too much, and all the others considered it a slight. Or deny accolades, honour, and a chance to prove themselves, and they would grumble at best or outright start disobeying you at worst. 

Things had gotten better since the Rushing Falls, though. For all it had been a disastrous defeat, it had bound the men under his command against the Reachmen, making things easier.

"The Northmen and House Stark aided us in our darkest hour, honouring our alliance," Edmure began. "I can hardly turn my back on my kin now that they are in dire need. Lord Blackwood, I will give you fifteen hundred knights and heavy lancers bolstered by twice as many outriders and mounted footmen. And a message for the elusive Crannogmen–should you succeed in finding any."

Blackwood threw a mocking glance at Bracken, making Edmure groan inwardly. 

"Lord Bracken," he added. "I will give you the rest of the horse. See how hard you can harry Penrose's retreat. Bloody him, but beware of traps; this is the man who lured the Kingslayer to his death."

***

12th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

Sansa Stark, Winterfell

She absentmindedly brushed Lady's fur as they had gathered in the lord's solar once more. At the start, things had gone well. The assaults by Orkwood, Ironmaker, Drumm, Botley, and the Farwynds had been repelled, leaving thousands of dead reavers in their wake, but that had been far from enough to deter the Ironmen. 

Dark wings–dark words, for the last raven had brought word of the fall of Bear Isle. A few days prior, they had found out Seadragon Point had fallen and that the zealots led by Lord Osbold Serry and Lord Humfrey Hewett were approaching Moat Cailin. Manderly's forces had clashed with them. After a day of heavy fighting with no decisive victor, they retreated to the Moat with significant losses.

Things were not looking good–the mourning Lady Dustin arriving with a small entourage had only brought the spirits down further when she spoke of the slaughter, the burnings, and how the old barrows had been dug out–and weirwoods cut down. Many had been angry–but just as many were afraid. Sansa was amongst the latter. 

And the word of the attempt on Robb's life, how he lay poisoned, and none knew if he would recover, felt like a death knell.

"There's just too many of them," her mother closed her eyes. "Balon Greyjoy must have brought the entire might of the Iron Fleet and every skiff from those pile of rocks he calls home here. To be unphased by the heavy losses at Flint's Fingers and Bear Isle... Out of a dozen members, no Orkwood survived, and the Ironmakers are down to a young man and a swaddling babe from their previous eleven, but more reavers just keep coming. We have to hold out on our own and pray the onset of cold towards the end of the year will be enough to halt them."

"Perhaps Ser Rodrik can win against Hightower and Redwyne," Sansa said, wringing her fingers nervously. "Surely that will lessen the pressure?"

Even now, the old master-at-arms was drilling the newly arrived men and organising the eight thousand swords gathered inside Winterfell's walls. But they provided her with no sense of comfort and safety. Robb had gathered even less, but all those lancers had looked like a river of steel, carrying an imposing momentum as if they were invincible, and victory was just a matter of time. These men were much less impressive, though it could be the lack of horsemen.

"Aye, he can maybe win despite being outnumbered, but he'd have to keep winning." Luwin nervously tugged his chain. "He has to win against the cunning foxes Redwyne and Hightower, the zealots gathering around the Moat; he has to win against Victarion Greyjoy and his Ironmen, and then against the flood of reavers gathered at Deepwood Motte–all in all, more than thirty thousand men that we know of. The invaders can afford to lose a dozen battles, yet if Ser Rodrik suffers one defeat, the North shall be ripe for the taking."

"They can weather the cold in Bear Island and Barrowton, too," Myrcella exhaled slowly. "Sure, not all, but enough for them to continue their campaign once the warmth inevitably returns. After Torrhen's Square falls, Hightower will move to the Rills or continue towards Castle Cerwyn and Winterfell."

Not if, but when–there was no doubt that the seat of House Tallhart would fall, especially since most of their swords had perished with the young Benfred Tallhart–a loud but headstrong boy that Sansa remembered laughing along with Robb often. But he wouldn't laugh anymore because the Reachmen burned him alive and would most likely not even spare the rest of the Tallhart women and children.

Oh, how she felt the irony of the tales of chivalry and valour from the south, which were almost always set in the Reach. Now, the truth laid bare to her: those pious knights were nothing more than savage barbarians, worse even than the wildlings.

Sansa hated this. She hated how everything had become grim and dark as an invisible noose slowly tightened around their neck. She hated the loss of the innocence she held onto, the looming sense of desperation and the bitter hatred in the eyes of the men and women here.

"The Rills still hold strong, for it is difficult to reach their castle. Glover holds on well for now," Catelyn consoled, but her voice lacked conviction as if she was trying to reassure herself more than them.

"If we lack men, perhaps the Watch-"

"No," Myrcella shook her head. "The Watch takes no part, and even if it did, half of the new members hail from the Reach and the Stormlands–they might just side with the wretched madmen."

"Many of the Reachmen are rabble with no training," her mother closed her eyes. "They are undisciplined and would surely slow the march down–even if they want to make a play for Winterfell, it will be moons before they arrive–and that's without Rodrik denying them ground resources on the way. We have Arnolf Karstark and Jarod Ironsmith linking up with Mors Umber, who ought to arrive before the Reachmen do. Lyessa Flint of Widow's Watch has also sent nine hundred swords."

"Barely five or six thousand men at most. Together with what we have here, it'd still be less than half of what our foes are fielding, even without the zealots." The Princess scoffed. "Ironsmith is more a huntsman than a commander, and Mors Umber is a hoary old brigand, in your own words. Arnolf Karstark might have been a great warrior half a century prior, but now he barely fights a flight of steps with his cane. And his remaining son is well–he takes after Lord Manderly more than anyone else…"

Luwin coughed. "In war, nothing is decided until armies meet on the field."

"Indeed, but so what? Three heavy defeats in a row - Bear Isle, Flint's Fingers, and the Barrow River–and now my husband has been brought down by poison, and no word has come of his well-being ever since and only the gods know if he still lives!" Angry tears began to stream down Myrcella's reddened cheeks. "Should the worst come–my Edwyn can hardly crawl, let alone take up a sword and lead armies in defence of the North. All the skilled commanders went with Lord Stark and Robb, and there's none here to match hardy veterans like the Iron Captain, the Lord Reaper, Redwyne, or Hightower."

The silence was damning, and Myrcella only continued to weep, and Catelyn leaned closer, trying to console the princess. "Robb shall make it–he's a fighter." 

Yet once again, it sounded weak and even fearful, and Sansa felt so small and useless. 

"I pray for his recovery every day," the blonde-haired maiden sobbed. "But it d-doesn't change things. The numbers, the commanders, the morale–n-nothing is in our favour. We will fight to the last–" she hiccuped, and Sansa urged Lady forth. The smart direwolf wisely stood up and padded over to the princess, trying to cheer her up. "We will not surrender to zealots no matter what–but we need something. A little grain of hope–a chance of victory to make the men fight harder." 

Sansa was angrily tugging on her crimson locks. She knew little of warfare, truth be told–but this talk had cleared up things for her. The North did not lack men to fight, even if outnumbered. No, they lacked a strong commander to even the odds against dangerous men like the Greyjoy brothers and the Hightower. 

"There's one more," she said, realisation sinking in as hope bloomed in her heart. "Father and Robb did not take everyone."

Myrcella, sinking her fingers in Lady's fluffy fur, paused, blinking wetly at her. "Who?"

"My brother," Sansa smiled weakly.

"Rickon can barely swing a wooden sword-"

"No, mother," she sighed. "Not him, but Jon."

Myrcella, Luwin, and her mother were all taken aback. But the quick rejection she would have expected from her Lady Mother never came. Instead, she turned pensive. 

"Did not Uncle Benjen claim he's a capable warrior–and a commander with thousands of wildlings, and even giants, under his banner?" Sansa continued, feeling far more bold than before. "He rushed alone to face the Cold Shadows that everyone dismissed as a tale of myths and legends and lived where men older and more experienced perished. No, he thrived if Uncle Benjen's last letter held any truth, forming his own fiefdom and even building his own castle! His skills with a blade notwithstanding, Jon attended all the warfare lessons Robb did with Father and-"

"Done against my advice–I remember," her mother coldly cut in. "Enough–you've made your case."

"Lady Sansa speaks wisely." Luwin coughed, his tone practically dripping with hesitation as he looked at Catelyn Stark. "Yes, Jon Snow has always been a bright and capable lad–and war against the Others has surely hardened him. He could muster the Mountain Clansmen against the Reavers and secure our western flank–and is technically a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms by King Robert's decree."

"You all speak true." Her mother sighed, looking as if each word pained her. "There's no need to look at me as if I am a leper. I hold no love for the boy, that is true, I do not deny the truthfulness of your words. But bear this in mind. The Jon Snow you remembered might not be the same boy–no–the same man that has made his name Beyond the Wall."

"What do you mean, Mother?"

"Time–and power changes a man." Her mother's tone was quiet and odd, but Sansa couldn't put her finger on it. "Wives and children do, too, and I heard he's now wedded with a daughter. Should you call him here, will Snow's loyalty be to House Stark or his new family? And if he succeeds on the field of battle where the rest fail while leading with your blessing, would the clansmen follow a proven son of Winterfell over a swaddling babe? Especially should the gods decide in their caprice to take away another of my sons." She laughed then, but it was a bitter, cold thing. "Regardless, the decision does not lie with me but with the Lady of Winterfell. Are you willing to gamble our future on it?"

"You speak as if Robb won't recover," Myrcella's reddened eyes turned to Catelyn. "He will, I know it. I only need to know one thing about Jon Snow. Tell me true–can he defeat the Greyjoy brothers and their endless swarm of reavers on the western shores?"

Her mother closed her eyes again and clasped her hands in a prayer. "He can."

Myrcella straightened up, though her hands did not leave Lady's soft fur. 

"Good enough for me," she declared. "I'll deal with any problems his presence brings as they come later–if they ever come. Maester Luwin, draft a letter to Lord Commander Benjen Stark requesting they send their fastest messenger…"

Now that a decision had been reached, Sansa's mind wandered, not bothering to listen to the dull details. She was never close to Jon, but she knew her solemn half-brother–he loved them all–even her, despite her attempts to avoid him because of his bastardry. Yes, there was a desire in him to prove himself, a fierceness, but he was not malicious, never malicious. 

When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

Surely, they were worrying for nothing–Jon was Jon, wife and child or not. Sansa would never admit it out loud–not before her mother– but she couldn't help but wonder what her little niece looked like. 

Would she take after her brother, dark and solemn–or that unknown wildling spearwife who managed to capture his heart?

Would the little babe like her singing like the young twins did? 

Would Jon's daughter fit right in with Lyarra, Artos, and Edwyn? 

How would the four of them look together in one big crib?

The last thought made her giddy for some reason.

***

The Black Death came to Braavos, with the first men falling sick at the harbour, their flesh swelling with black, bulbous aberrations. While some claim it was the work of the gods, others believe it was our enemies aiming to weaken us. Or, more specifically, one of the many Pentoshi trading cogs anchored in our waters. There was hardly anyone else—both kings of the Sunset lands had mustered all ships for the war effort, and so had Lorath, and the Myrish were keeping theirs at their harbour in a bid to preserve some naval strength.

The greatest healers the city had to offer were quickly gathered, trying to determine whether the plague was magical in origin or if it could be fought with mortal means.

But as usual, the cautious Sealord was slow to move.

Alas, but these are matters for my other treatise. 

The war of the Sunset lands continued without fail, but let it be known–may he who had unleashed that deadly disease be thrice-cursed for twelve generations.

Aegon's city was choked with the plague, and according to testimonies, thousands of corpses were being burned in the ruined Dragon Pit each night. The disease didn't spare the attackers either, for many started falling ill soon after.

It almost looked like the war would be decided soon with Edmure Tully's march to King's Landing. But despite the Northmen's initial success, the situation in the North looked ugly, as Balon Greyjoy and Baelor Hightower proved themselves seasoned commanders, knowing how to exploit each of their strengths and how to choose their battles.

There are many speculations about why Princess Myrcella did what she did, but after some research, I realised the truth was far more mundane. The sole raven in Crakehall that was trained to fly to Winterfell had been sent immediately after the Young Wolf was probably lost on the way, and thus, no word of Robb Stark's quickly improving condition arrived until much later when a rider had to go all the way to Casterly Rock to send it. 

The raven from King's Landing, with word of Eddard Stark's survival that was confirmed to be sent, had never arrived in Winterfell either. Bad weather, a vicious hawk, a cunning tree cat that got the bird while it was resting–or perhaps some hungry zealot in the North who struck it down with a sling for food. Redwyne and Hightower might have helped ship many of the zealots to the cold kingdom, but they had no means to feed them, so they were released like a swarm of locusts upon the North.

Regardless, the deed was done, and the summons to the infamous Warg Lord–or, as the clansmen called him, the White Huntsman—were sent posthaste.

Meanwhile, Eddard Stark had finished sweeping through the Ashen Plains and was approaching Myr to lay siege to the city while the once mighty city of Tyrosh was humiliated by the Lady Scars's genius at sea. Of course, many had tried to downplay her success and ascribe them to the Lord of the Tides and the other skilled sailors by her side. It could not be denied that all her captains were capable, and the men who agreed to follow her were either skilled veterans, bold, hungry for glory and plunder and revenge–or all three. But all that was another mark of her skill–the ability to effectively command the loyalty and obedience of such men. 

The situation in the Marches worsened significantly as bandit raids grew increasingly bold–and had even managed to kill the Blackhaven castellan, who sallied out with fifty lancers to chase them away. Only House Tarly managed to hold out rather well. House Martell in Dorne was hardly faring any better, for the lack of a fleet had come to haunt them, and thus, they lacked the means to wrangle with Lys for the Stepstones directly. The scores of hostages Lys took from the Water Gardens only added salt to the wound.

Despite the infamous motto of House Martell, just as it looked like the Prince would have to bow his head in shame and accept defeat, the Golden Company swooped to the rescue and threatened Lys from the sea. Their quick appearance was unexpected so soon after Volantis' fall, yet here they were in full, including the five thousand slave soldiers recruited from the Tiger Cloaks–an impressive show of discipline and organisation. 

While the sellswords lacked the ships and naval power to best Lys at sea, the city's might was almost entirely invested in the Stepstones and thus had no choice but to come to the negotiation table. The infamous First Partition of the Steptones–later known as the Pact of Grief was made in less than two days-

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