Interlude-Like Shrooms after Rain

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.

***

5th Day of the 8th Moon, 299 AC

Val, the Northern Mountains

Something was wrong. Her husband stiffened, and the hairs on her neck all stood up. All the direwolves halted in an eerie harmony like an invisible hand had frozen them in their step.

Ghost was the first to move. His enormous form crouched low, with his snout pointed towards the cloudy sky. His maw opened, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth, but no sound came out. Yet, whilst Ghost may have been mute, his pack was not.

The deafening howl of a hundred direwolves drowned out the hills. The dreadful symphony echoed across the hills and far away, answered by more and more wolves.

They had just been breaking camp before this, and the great cacophony caused by the direwolves caused all the horses to go mad instantly.

Men scrambled desperately to keep them in check and get their bearings. Still, many of the garrons and mules simply bolted to the trees and disappeared in the confusion. Everything turned chaotic, and the smell of voided bowels wafted through the air towards her.

Val cursed under her breath and rushed to Jon, but it was as if he were carved from stone, tense and unmoving, with his eyes squeezed shut. No matter how hard she tried to tug him or attract his attention, he remained still.

"Jon, stop this!" She hissed out to no avail.

The direwolves continued howling, the chaos worsened, and to her mounting despair, nothing she did was working.

Suddenly, she found Soren Shieldbreaker at her side, his face pale, hands trembling and panting from exertion, as if he had run a great distance.

"What's happening?!" His roar could barely be heard through the howls.

"I don't know!" Val despaired. The spearwife tried to tiptoe and kiss her man, but he did not move. Only the barest breath could be felt from his nose, which was how she could tell that he wasn't dead.

"He's warging into every canine," Melisandre's soft yet awe-filled voice somehow carried through the commotion, her eyes shining with wonder and reverence. "All of them."

"What do you mean all of them, woman?!" Soren turned to the witch, screaming at her from the depths of his lungs.

"Every beast he can reach at once," her eerie smile sent goosebumps down Val's spine. "And he can reach far. His mind is split into thousands of pieces, far away from his body. Fret not, for I know how to bring him back."

Yet, instead of approaching her husband as Val had expected, Melisandre simply craned her neck and stared off to the side in a particular direction. Swallowing a thousand questions which had been swirling in her mind, the Spearwife turned with her and followed her gaze.

Leaf hastily hopped through the chaos, Calla's crying bundle closely held to her bark-woven chest piece. Val watched with disbelief as the leafcloak carefully approached Jon's stone-like form and offered the bundle up. Her daughter stopped bawling immediately as if the sight of her father was enough to calm her. After a moment of hesitation, Calla's pale hand reached for her father's hair and tugged on it.

It was as if that simple tug of hair was akin to a wake-up call, and, by some miracle, Jon had awoken, and the thunderous howls of all the wolves were cut out in an instant, though the echo still rang in Val's ears. Jon Snow opened his eyes, revealing two steely orbs filled with fury. Yet his movements were slight and awkward, as if he had not moved for days. However, he held Calla's bundled form, not letting go. 

Rickon ran over, a small spade in his hand and his face covered with dirt from digging latrines for punishment.

"Arya is dead," he wailed, angry tears streaming down his eyes. "I–I promised Robb t-to protect h-her. I f-failed!"

"It is I who has failed," Jon said hoarsely. The battered grey direwolf they called Nymeria came to the two brothers, tail wagging happily, and leaned over to lick Rickon's face clean. "She's still here," his voice cracked. "She lives with Nymeria now…"

While her husband seemed conflicted at his own statement, Rickon, still sniffling, lunged to hug the grey direwolf.

After quickly glancing around, it seemed that the chaos in the camp was finally starting to dwindle, and Val noticed the kneeler chieftains hesitantly approaching Jon, who, despite everything, looked unnaturally calm as he slowly rocked Calla.

"What do we do now?" Soren asked, face grim. 

"We continue as we have," came the reply. But though her husband's face looked calm, his voice sounded more like a growl than human speech. "If the wretched Ironmen long to go down their Drowned God's halls so badly, who am I to deny them?"

The march was slow today; it took hours to find the escaped horses, restore order, and get the supplies in order. Yet this did not mean the Ironmen were let off easy: two more reaver parties along the shore met a very gruesome end. Jon even slaughtered one of them singlehandedly with his weirwood longbow and the unbreakable rippled sword he carried. There wasn't an intact body left; most were cleaved in twain despite their armour, with limbs and heads chopped up into an unrecognisable mess as a sign of his fury that quickly turned into a feast for the direwolves.

By now, five reaver parties had been slaughtered, and they had over three scores of longboats stashed up the hills, out of sight from more raiding parties coming from the sea. All the dead bodies were given the same treatment–or at least those not eaten clean by the direwolves. 

"Let them wonder if their kin have started deserting or disappearing," Jon said. 

"A hundred miles or so left to Stonegate Keep, I reckon," the weather-worn Ronarn Burley grunted as they stopped to make camp. 

The kneeler chieftain had a fierce temper and oft quarrelled with the Knotts, Harclays, and Liddles but was as obedient as a puppy when Jon was around. The rest of the so-called clansmen were much the same, and Val suspected they would come to blows if not for her husband's presence. 

"Why do they follow the Warg Lord with such conviction?" Dalla voiced the question that lingered in many of the free folk's minds.

"Do you see that hill over there?" Duncan Liddle pointed towards a mound that looked no different than any other.

"Aye, I do. A hill as any other." 

The Big Liddle, the other clansmen called her good brother, and now he was clad in a heavy brigandine and new ringmail, a fierce visored helmet and led four hundred men, though half of them were greybeards. His younger brother, Rickard Liddle, wielding an enormous greatsword, had also come. Called Little Liddle, there was nothing small about him, and even one of the giantesses seemed to have taken a liking to the young man, much to his chagrin.

Regardless, some of the warband leaders and the chieftains like Sigorn and Soren neared, listening with great interest.

"A hill as any other indeed," Dunk laughed. "Perhaps. Long ago, a Stark of Winterfell fought against a reaver king here and slew him and his brothers. But his sons were numerous and overwhelmed the wolf king, and he, too, fell. But his brother picked up his blade and continued fighting until the damned sea scum were repelled."

The old Burley also approached with his usual frown.

"Three more squid kings fell here," he grumbled. "A Hoare down on the beach, a Greyiron over that ridge, and a Volmark near the cove two miles southward, and four more Stark kings and Princes gave their lives for it. Everywhere you step in the North, the Starks have shed their blood and given their lives to defend it."

"Everyone remembers the Ned," the scarred Harclay also came over. "He is fair and just, no matter how harsh his rulings appear. He raised his sons right, so we follow."

This was the first time Val had seen three kneeler chieftains in one place without quarrelling when Jon wasn't in sight. They even agreed with each other. 

Was this the power of kneelers? So many men who had never seen her husband or watched him fight flocked just because he raised a piece of cloth with a beast sewn in the sky.

Val didn't know what to say. She didn't even know what to think.

Her husband arrived after his usual tour around the camp and waved over the chieftains to discuss their plans, marching orders, tasks, and the lay of the land. Unlike with the free folk, each tiny detail was thought of and arranged.

Nymeria, the direwolf, had not separated from his side even once, and the young Rickon shadowed after him along with the Umber boy. She even greeted Val enthusiastically when Jon introduced them. However, she could tell that her husband was still utterly wroth at the murder of his sister, regardless of whether a part of her lived on in her wolf or not.

Getting rid of her grim thoughts with a shake of her head, Val busied herself, pitching their tent with the help of old Jarod while a dozen direwolves circled her protectively.

Her sister put her son to sleep while Val fed her uncharacteristically solemn daughter. Yet little Calla did not seem ready to fall asleep, and before long, the babe was lazily sprawled on Rickon's black direwolf's head, which remained unmoving, but his green eyes vigilantly inspected the surroundings.

"I think you're with child again," Dalla noted quietly as she started grinding down herbs for her concoctions while Val busied herself with fletching feathers for Jon's arrows. "When was your last moonblood?"

"It's been nearly a moon," she said, her hand running through the shaggy fur of a brown direwolf bitch that had curled by her feet. "Still too early to tell if it will take, but it would certainly explain the direwolves not leaving me out of sight again."

Dalla looked at where Jon, Duncan, and the other chieftains and warband leaders had gathered. "Look where we ended up at. I'm the wife of a chieftain too, and they call me a damned lady."

"Lady Liddle and Lady Snow," Val tested the words in her mouth. "You will get to live in one of those stone castles, safe behind tall, thick walls."

The Shadow Tower was impressive, but Jon had wasted no time there. Besides, they said it was small and weak compared to other fortifications. 

"Duncan wants me and little Jon to retreat up to the Little Hall in the hills," her sister said, looking torn. "War is no place for a wife and a babe, he says. And that he'd be more at ease knowing little Jon and I are safe."

Jon had not said anything on the topic to Val, but the spearwife knew he worried just as much. But Val knew how to care for herself and fight, and her husband seemed more at ease when she was nearby.

"You always misliked fighting and violence," the spearwife noted. "Perhaps you should go."

"And what about you?" Dalla sighed.

"I'm not leaving Jon," Val stated. "I will fight by his side. My skills with the bow are as good as any hunter."

"Dunk claims the old woodswitch at his home, an old crone named Lena, had a daughter named Valla, who was spirited away on a raid. The same age as our mother, too."

"Our grandmother?"

"It might be," her sister started gathering her ground-up herbs into clay jars, looking all tired. "I didn't think we'd have kin alive. I might just go to see her, along with the stone castle."

It sounded distant and impossible. A part of Val wanted to see her supposed grandmother, but another part struggled to accept an unknown woman as kin so suddenly. It didn't matter; her husband and daughter came first.

The sun sank into the sea to the west, and the commotion around the camp quickly began to dwindle. Her sister returned to Dunk's tent while Val took Calla, who was already snoozing and placed her in the wooden crib the old Harlon Knott had gifted Jon.

Val hastily brought hot coals to light up the brazier to warm the tent. While her little daughter didn't seem to mind the cold, she knew that a babe's health was fragile. Some of the clansmen offered their daughters–or even younger sisters–to help, but Val declined them all. She knew the offer was meant in good faith, but it felt no less insulting, as if they wanted to imply that she couldn't take care of her babe or man.

Just as she finished, so did the meeting between her husband and the chieftains. 

"I want you by my tent at the crack of dawn," Jon told Rickon and Edwyle, the kneeler boy with giant's blood. Pages, the other southrons called them. During the day, they stuck near Jon and watched, learned, and ran errands for him.

"For how long must we dig latrines?" Rickon asked, his small face looking particularly sleepy.

"Until the lesson sinks in. Your Lady Mother might not be here, but that does not mean you get to defy her explicit orders without punishment. Off to sleep now."

After Duncan, Rickon's tent was the closest to Jon, within the 'shaggy guard' as some clansmen called the ring of direwolves that always lingered around her husband's sleeping place.

The other Stark men lingered around, watching over Jon's brother, but were forbidden to help him. 

Since they left Warg Hill, Val had observed her husband like a hawk. He had changed after the letter from Winterfell arrived that day. There was a new, harsh coldness in him. The change ran deeper somehow, but the spearwife struggled to pinpoint what exactly was different. There was a newfound sense of resolve and a tinge of… melancholy. And something fleeting, a feeling she never thought to see in her husband. Fear.

She had many questions swirling in her mind but asked none. This was a new, strange land to her, but Val trusted Jon. The weight on his shoulders was not light, and she found herself helpless to relieve it. There wasn't much she could do but listen, watch, learn, and wait patiently for her husband to confide in her.

When Jon joined her in their fancy tent, she closed her eyes, basking in his scent; he smelled of leather, pine, and smoke. The cool air tickled her bare skin as she shrugged off the furs. The vain part of her was satisfied as her man's eyes wandered across her teats. 

Val stood up, inspecting his body for wounds and his attire for tears and cuts that needed to be patched up. "Are you well?"

"As well as a man whose mind had been scattered to a thousand pieces at once." Jon looked at his calloused hands. "Too many voices, too many sensations, yet all were drowned out by fury. I almost lost myself in it. If not for Calla…"

He gazed at the crib, and Val felt powerless. She loved helping her man, but she was helpless before magic. It made her angry, but her fury quickly melted away at the sight of her husband.

"A part of me still doesn't believe," he continued. For once, her husband looked far more exhausted than she had ever seen him. He didn't look so weary even when he had fought each night for over a moon against the Others. "I don't want to believe Arya is gone, but closing my eyes won't change the truth."

"Were you close to your sister?" She asked, pulling him into the silken cot.

"More than everyone else," he whispered. "Yet, I… I feared facing her. But now I won't face her ever again."

Val helped him remove his garb and pulled him under the warm furs. As usual, Jon didn't resist, but there was no desire in his movements this time. Even so, having his strong arms wrapped around her and his body felt like a furnace, soothing her.

"Why would you fear your sister?"

"I didn't fear Arya, but facing her. I… there are some things I haven't told you."

"I figured," Val said wryly. "At first, I thought it was your apprehension about how the free folk would work together with the clansmen from the hills. Or perhaps how to become a proper kneeler lord. But I realised something else has weighed on your mind since you decided to come here."

"Why didn't you ask me, then?"

"Figured you'd tell me if you thought it important."

Jon chuckled, his warm breath pleasantly ghosting upon her bare neck. 

"I myself was unsure," he said. "What if I told you I was an impostor? A fake?"

Val spun around, facing his two soft grey eyes. It pained her heart to see the sliver of fear in there.

"Are you not Jon Snow, son of the wolf lord?"

"I am," he sighed. "But I'm not–"

"Are you not my husband before the eyes of the Gods?"

"I am. But I am also not. I… I am not from here. I am not from now."

"Jon," she warned, suppressing the irritation welling up in her heart. "Don't speak in riddles, damn you. I am your wife before the eyes of the Gods and don't understand your Southron games. How can you not be from now?"

"I am Jon Snow," the words came out slow and thoughtful. "At four and ten, I volunteered to join the Watch."

"But you're seven and ten now and were never a crow-"

"Listen," he whispered softly, his voice so brittle it made her freeze. "Just listen. At four and ten, I volunteered to join the Watch. I said my vows shortly after turning five and ten. My father was arrested and later executed for treason in King's Landing. My sisters had been with him and disappeared, nowhere to be seen. Uncle Benjen was missing Beyond the Wall before I could even give my vows. Lord Commander Jeor ordered a great ranging-"

Val listened. She heard an odd, almost impossible tale. Of how her husband or not-her-husband became the Lord Crow. Of a cruel betrayal and a bitter return from death. Then he became the wolf lord, and then the wolf king, and fought and fought and failed and died- "And then I woke up in Winterfell. I thought it was the afterlife at first–to reunite with my dead kinsmen. But no, it was real. But it was wrong. The whole world was wrong, but it was real."

Some long-dead prince sired her man, but he didn't care, so it wasn't important if he didn't seem to care and still called the wolf lord 'Father'. But it did explain why her daughter had those purple eyes.

Val believed him. While it didn't make much sense, she didn't need it to. If her husband said it was so, she believed him. It was a bitter story, but her heart was glad at the raw display of trust. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath and continued. "It was my body, but not my body at six and ten. My kinsmen were alive, but were they my family anymore, lineage be damned? I tried hard not to think of it. It wasn't supposed to matter–we were all going to die to the Cold Ones anyway. But now the Others are gone. A part of me knows I killed Jon Snow, a young man who did nothing wrong with my arrival. I robbed his siblings of a brother and his father of a son, and here I stand, wearing his skin. Even so, I longed to see my sister again, even if she was not the same Arya I remembered."

"You are not at fault," she said. "Your sister did what she did despite everything else. Are you not still Jon Snow?"

"The wrong one," he sighed. "Gods forgive me, but I tried so hard not to think of it."

"I'd say you're the right one," Val latched onto her man and kissed him. "It is the will of the Gods that you came here. Why else fall at the heart tree as you did?"

"Champion of the Gods, they say, yet it's a cruel curse as much as a blessing. Words are winds. I still dream of my childhood," his voice thickened with grief. "But it is so… distant. It feels like it has been an eternity since then. I'm not even sure if I'm dreaming of my childhood or of the one whose body I took. Sometimes, I can't help but wonder if all of it was just a delusion or perhaps a long, painful dream. Maybe even the Gods were showing me what could have happened in another world. A small part of me still thinks I lost my wits and I've gone mad."

"Does it matter?" She shrugged off the cover and climbed over his torso, straddling him. "Perhaps it was a dream indeed. Maybe there were two Jon Snows before, and now there is one. You told your father. You told your uncle, and they treated you the same. You answered your brother's wife when she asked for aid. You love your brother Rickon despite your harshness, and you mourn your sister all the same."

Jon Snow let out a brittle laugh.

"I know it doesn't matter, but I wish I had the courage to face my kin instead of running headlong to what I considered to be my death. Seeing their faces again would have been enough, even if they looked like ghosts. Now I won't see my sister smile again for my cravenry. I won't get to hug her or hear her voice again. She was always wild and willful, and once again, it is her undoing."

"Death is just another part of life, in the end. We all die." Val sighed, even if her man knew that more than most. His recklessness and savagery at the start made all the more sense. He did not fear death; for Jon, it was but an old friend. Loss, however, was another matter. "You will avenge her. Yet you do not seem in a rush."

"I will avenge her," Jon agreed, voice turning frosty. "But who ought to be the target of my vengeance? Theon Greyjoy, who took her hostage? Or perhaps the hand who held the blade–Denys Drumm, whose father Arya killed? Balon Greyjoy, who decided to attack the North? Hightower, who thinks he can strut around with his Seven gods and do what he wants? Renly Baratheon, who started this war?"

"All of them," Val proposed seriously.

He shook his head sadly.

"Oh, how I want vengeance. My blood boils for it, my heart thunders for it, but my mind knows no amount of vengeance will bring Arya back. War is not some game to be rushed, my father always told me, and he has the right of it. A warrior too tired to swing a blade or hold a line from days of forced marching is of no use in battle. An angry or overeager commander is prone to blunders. Worse, the Ironmen have the numbers, and while it won't save them, I must be clever. I need to be cunning. Anger can lead to haste and mistakes, and I cannot afford any right now. But I swear that Theon shall regret having turned his cloak, Balon Greyjoy will rue the day he stepped foot in the North, and Hightower will weep for setting his sights on my home."

She felt the tension finally bleed out of his body as if the burden weighing upon his shoulders was no longer as heavy. Grief had disappeared from his eyes, replaced by the resolve that she was so used to seeing. 

"Good," she smiled warmly and daringly stole a kiss. "It's why we came here. But first, let me give you a son. All men must die, but first, we'll live."

"Yes," his voice was thick with feeling, and he looked at her oddly. "First, we'll live."

"You were made for battles, for war, but I am made for this. I want to give you twenty sons, an army of your own."

***

Earlier that day

Theon, Outside Stonegate Keep

Wolves howled far in the distance as he stared at Arya's decapitated head. She looked so small, so… afraid. So not-Arya. Her usual liveliness and defiance were gone, replaced by the grim horror forever frozen on her face in death.

His sister, in all but blood, was gone. Killed. The irksome septas were finally of use for once, taking care of her body and giving her last rites that Theon knew Arya would not give a shit about.

"This is a slight against you," his wife whispered in his ear, her voice trembling at the sight of the decapitated head, if for entirely different reasons than him. "A test against your mettle and authority. If you do nothing, you will seem weak before your men. If you allow this, they will forever question your orders. Nobody will take you and yours seriously."

Many claimed she was a soft Greenlander woman, and perhaps they were right. The flowery daughter of Lord Redwyne was as pale as chalk; she had probably never witnessed death such as this or such senseless violence. 

He wagered a part of Desmera probably relished the prospect of seeing him humiliated again. She had been there at the Blackwater Rush when he was clasped in Irons and forced to beg for his life before Renly and the proud Reachlords. But Renly Baratheon was nothing but a beaten dog now, and the proud flowers were scattered and trampled while Theon was not only alive but thriving and a prince besides.

If only… if only that fool had not killed his sister in all but name. Arya… little Arya who still came to him when everyone else in Winterfell shunned or avoided him. When Robb started treating him coldly like a lord would a hostage, Arya still treated him as a friend–a brother, even.

A part of him wanted this to be just a nightmare that would be gone once he awoke. But Theon was no stranger to failure and the woe that came with it and knew this was real. The howling over the hills–and the kennelmaster who struggled to get the wolfhounds to calm made his skin crawl. They all turned rabid in unison and had to be put down after tearing Daug alive.

It was unnatural and a bad omen besides.

"You have no proof I did it," Denys Drumm claimed, sounding all too satisfied as Theon confronted him. 

His eyes were too smug, and Theon was no fool. Nobody else had a real reason to kill Arya. A part of him recognised the impossibly smooth cut; he had seen it countless times after Eddard Stark beheaded deserters, brigands, or rapers. Ordinary swords did not cut bone so cleanly; Arya had lost her life to dragonsteel. The iron post she was tied to had an impossibly smooth scar–once again, something that could have only been done by a Valyrian Steel sword.

Nobody else could have so effectively dealt with his men guarding her tent. The men who were all passed out drunk. A black rage took Theon, and it took all his self-control not to lunge forth.

Instead, Theon took a deep breath, wordlessly took his yew longbow, and strung it.

"Quiver," he demanded, and Dagmer hastily ran over, bringing his prepared arrows. 

"What are you doing?" Denys Drumm tensed, putting a hand on Red Rain's gilded hilt. The rest of his men turned cautious, reaching for their axes and blades. All the camp was suddenly ready to erupt into violence, even if all the shields and armaments were not at hand because of the earlier festives. The new Bone Hand had as many men as Theon, but it didn't matter.

"I feel like practising with the bow right now," Theon said, notching an arrow and slowly pulling the string. "May the Drowned God be my witness. Let him guide my arrow. I will close my eyes and let it loose, and whoever killed Arya Stark, who was under my protection, will be struck down."

Denys Drumm stepped closer, his face reddening.

"This is slander, pure madness-" 

Even now, they didn't take him seriously. The wielder of Red Rain sputtered and cursed and denied, but he tuned him out and focused. Theon the Greenlander, some whispered behind his back. Theon the weakling, Theon the Craven, and Theon the Turncloak.

Perhaps he was all of that. But he was still a Prince of the Iron Isles now, and he had loved Arya as a sister. Perhaps he was mad. Theon needed the Drumms' allegiance if he wanted to become the next Lord Reaper of Pyke and King of Salt and Iron. He might be an heir, but the last year had taught him a bitter lesson–he needed to prove himself, to build his own connection and support. And the Drumms of Old Wyk were his most significant support by far.

But his wife was right; he needed to punish someone, or he would look weak. 

Damned if he did and damned if he didn't.

Perhaps he was a madman.

Theon didn't need to see to hit a target, especially one not even thirty yards away. He pulled the string as hard as he could, his muscles groaning under the tension. With a snap, the whistle of the arrow cut through the air.

A feathered shaft stuck out of Drumm's eye as he fell on the ground, as dead as a doornail.

"The Drowned God found him guilty," Theon loudly proclaimed, daringly looking at Donnel Drumm, Denys' brother, his captains and men. There was no satisfaction. His heart thundered like a war drum, one wrong word, and everything would turn into a bloody slaughter. "Clearly, Denys Drumm is but a traitor who has conspired with Hightower; otherwise, he wouldn't have killed such a valuable hostage. But such fine Ironborn like you do not consort with Greenlanders. Isn't that right, Donnel?"

"Aye," the answer came through gritted teeth. The loathing in his dark eyes was unmistakable; Theon had just made himself another enemy, one that would bide his time instead of striking immediately.

Gods, he was tired. He was so very tired of being pushed around and underestimated.

Theon nocked another arrow.

"Perhaps I was wrong," he conceded. He turned to Elinor Tyrell, Denys' former salt wife, who was watching on from the side next to the Septas with dark satisfaction. For good or bad, she did not lack for wits and loathed her husband. "Lady Elinor. Did you see Denys send secret envoys under the guise of the dark, too?"

"I…" The young woman shrunk under the gaze of hundreds of Ironmen, all eyes alight with violence and anticipation and hands on their axes and swords. Theon gave her an encouraging smile and a quick wink. "I s-saw him. The two brothers always spoke together late into the night-"

"Lying Greenlander whore!" Donnel roared, threateningly waving his axe instead of reaching for a shield. They still underestimated him. 

"That's precisely the sort of thing a traitor such as you would say," Theon smiled darkly. Donnel Drumm tried to leap away, but the bowstring thrummed as he released his fingers, and the arrow flew, striking true.

***

8th Day of the 8th Moon, 299 AC

The Onion Knight, outside of Myr

His whole body ached from the previous battle. His torso was bruised all over, his left hand broken, and the only reason he was alive was courtesy of the breastplate he had looted from a Tyroshi armoury, and Shireen insisted that he wore. 

The Myrish were not better sailors than the Tyroshi, but there was a lowly cunning to them. Their attempt to rush and overwhelm Shireen's flagships with numbers had failed, but the fighting had been brutal. There had been more than one moment at which Davos was unsure if they could even win. Despite losing after hours of bitter struggle, the Myrish used incendiaries to devastating effect, setting many of the Westerosi ships on fire and a fifth of the fleet lost. More ships had been heavily damaged and urgently needed repair. Allard and Maric, his second and fourth sons, had perished, along with many others.

After the fall of Tyrosh, the Westerosi no longer lacked ships, but each sailor and mariner were still precious.

As cunning as the tactic had been, it had cost the Myrish more. Shireen had eventually encircled the opponents, and only one out of every seventh Myrish ship managed to retreat. Thus, Shireen Baratheon gained control of the Sea of Myrth.

Yet the city of Myr was not so easily stormed by the seaside without a traitor to open the gates for them.

And so, Davos, along with Lord Velaryon and a small retinue of knights, were riding from one of the minor coastal towns to the siege lines where Lord Stark was said to lead the siege of Myr.

"Impressive earthworks," Monford Velaryon allowed. Davos understood little of warfare, but the extensive system of trenches, dykes, and hammered-in sharpened stakes facing the Myrish walls was visibly imposing. The trebuchets tirelessly hurled rocks at the city and the walls, and what looked like Dothraki rode between the trenches and the city walls, drawing their bows from time to time.

"Shouldn't the wall give the defenders a longer range?" Davos asked.

"The Myrish crossbows are dangerous but only good from up close, and the Dothraki composite bows outrange them at least thrice," the silver-haired lord drawled. On his hip rested a heavily jewelled hilt belonging to a dragonsteel blade, looted from one of the magisters' manses in Tyrosh. "It seems there is some truth to Eddard Stark's adventures here."

Their approach did not go unnoticed for long, and a group of heavy lancers under Dustin's twin axes approached.

"Look what the tides washed over," the man at the front whistled. Despite his dry, bored tone, everything about him screamed violence, even more so than the bloodthirsty Ser Clayton Suggs, Ser Jason Melcolm, and Ser Jonothor Cave, the newly dubbed Shireen's Butchers. "The infamous Onion Knight and the Lord of the Tides."

He was a tall man with a sharp face and a closely trimmed beard that revealed a fresh scar from his chin to his ears. His yellow armour had a few slight dents, and what looked to be miniature axe ornaments on the shoulders had been cleaved away but was otherwise in good condition, with a curved blade on his hip that could only be an arakh.

"Ser Dustin," Velaryon dipped his head. "Lady Shireen Baratheon, Mistress of Ships on the council of His Grace Joffrey Baratheon, wishes to coordinate the assault on Myr with Lord Stark."

"Very well," the Mad Lance allowed after scrutinising them, his eyes settling on Davos' fingerless hand. "I was beginning to tire of this siege anyway. The damned Myrish have been cowering behind the walls since Lord Stark slaughtered their first night sortie to the last."

The man led them through the camp at a brisk pace, and Davos' eyes wandered. Most of the men were clearly former slaves, judging by the brands gracing their faces, shoulders, and chests, along with their ragged attire. But all the brands were covered by an ugly cross, as if in defiance of their former status. Some had even covered their marks with the running direwolf of House Stark, of all things.

Despite their motley appearance, all of the former slaves seemed to be in high spirits and good health. Each one had a spear and a shield, half sported kettle helmets over their heads and rough padded jackets; a scant few carried mismatched hauberks or battered pieces of plate.

A good chunk of them were gathered in a line, doing drills under the watchful eye of a stout Northman.

"I see that Lord Stark's standards have… decreased," Monford drawled as he eyed the former slaves.

"Gods, I had forgotten how annoying dealing with you Southron twats can be. A part of me wants to throw my glove and see if you're any good with that dragonsteel blade on your hip," Dustin clicked his tongue while Velaryon's face reddened like a lobster. "But Lord Stark wouldn't be happy if I killed an envoy, even if it was in a fair duel."

"You dare-"

The Northmen halted, and the Mad Lance and his barrowknights slowly turned around.

"Look, Velaryon," Dustin pulled up his visor, revealing a savage smile under a pair of harsh grey eyes. "Nobody cares about your worthless pride here. When your ancestors were still nobodies herding sheep at the Lands of the Long Summer, my ancestors were kings and lords. I didn't kill scores of Dothraki, dozens of reavers, and hundreds of bloody slavers and sellswords to listen to your drivel, you who never lead your men from the front. Nobody insults Lord Stark in front of me. If you want to fight, just say so, and I will oblige you here and now."

The man was as mad as he was violent and bloodthirsty. No wonder they called him the Mad Lance.

For all of Lord Velaryon's pride, he swallowed his retort and spent the rest of the ride in silence, settling instead for glaring at Damon Dustin's back.

A mournful howl echoed in the distance as they climbed up the hills, and Davos had to struggle to rein in his horse. The dilapidated tents gave way to taller, well-organised rows of Westerosi tents, and Northern banners graced the sky, the grey direwolf of House Stark above them all beside the crowned stag of House Baratheon.

Even the former slaves here looked better at this side of the camp. Taller, better fed, all garbed in clean clothes, and clad in far more steel with greater access to better armaments, if still mostly mismatched. They stood straighter, moved with purpose, and looked far more dangerous.

Then there were the Northmen, all armed to the teeth. The furs were mostly discarded in the Essosi heat, yet their discipline was nearly impeccable.

They were led before a large pavilion stitched together from dark grey leather. By the entrance, they found the source of the howling: a horse-sized grey direwolf mournfully howling at the heavens every other minute.

"Your arms." The Red Wake, somehow looking even scarier than before, greeted them. His wicked poleaxe seemed especially dangerous, and its dark, smoky ripples could only be Valyrian Steel. Davos gave up his arming sword, but Velaryon hesitated to give up his dragonsteel blade. He eventually surrendered it, along with a brace of daggers.

The insides of the pavilion were plain to the point of austereness and were colder than the sweltering heat outside. There was a weapon's stand, the ground was covered by hides, and a cot was hung between two poles in the corner.

Eddard Stark sat beside a table near the centre, face akin to a block of ice as he quietly spoke to Tommen Baratheon. The blonde-haired boy had grown at least two inches since Davos last saw him, and there was a newfound hardness in his previously cheery face.

"Ser Davos, Lord Velaryon," Stark greeted them with a curt nod. Davos finally found the source of the chill in the air–the bared crystalline blade beside the Northern highlord was stabbed into the ground, a faint mist rising from it. "What brings you here?"

"Lady Shireen has royal orders to secure a passage for you, the prince, and your men back to Westeros," Monford began, though his voice was far more polite than Davos was used to hearing. "But the Lady Shireen desires to take the city of Myr first."

Lord Stark could easily be mistaken for a statue with how still he turned. Yet, for some reason, the former smuggler couldn't shake off the feeling the man was wroth, even if his fury was not aimed at them.

"Very well," Stark said, his voice utterly bereft of feeling. "It shall not take much time anyway. The Myrmen have yet to discover my sappers, probably because the Dothraki and the sellswords never resorted to such things when sieging. In another sennight or so, I can collapse a portion of their wall and begin an assault. We shall talk details and coordinate our attacks later. First, tell me about the war in Westeros, for I grow tired of the uncertainty of hearsay."

***

11th Day of the 8th Moon, 299

Robb Stark, outside Old Oak

Grey Wind had finally stopped howling last night, but the feeling of loss still weighed upon his heart. Robb had no idea what had happened, but deep inside, he just… knew that one of his siblings had perished.

There was a time for grieving, and there would be a time for vengeance, but now was not it.

It was a tiny, delicate woman beyond her childbearing years clad in mourning black who fearlessly met him for parlay beneath the castle walls with a paltry retinue of ten men-at-arms. But they were all old and tired, judging by the grey beards peeking from beneath their helmets. 

"So you're the one who killed my son?" Her voice was as scathing as her face was furious, and the wisps of silver running through her dark locks looked like a crown of daggers. She did not seem daunted by Grey Wind's presence either, unlike most others.

"He fought well," Robb dipped his head with respect. "And he died with more honour than most have in life. A true warrior and leal where others would have turned cloak. I bring you back his bones."

"What use do I have for a bag of bones?" She closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her cheeks. "Three sons I had, one even won the white cloak, yet all three perished, fighting for the two stags. Killed by pride and loyalty."

"As is a lord's due," Robb replied. "We might have been foes in life, but he won my respect in death. I promised to leave his home and land unmolested, should you bend the knee. Regardless, I am here, returning his bones and his arms to you."

Arwyn Oakheart's lips thinned as she darkly gazed at him.

"I suppose you're the same make as your father to return the house's ancestral blade. I thought you'd be like those brigands who steal what isn't theirs."

Smalljon had taken the Valyrian Steel longsword from John Oakheart after defeating him, but it didn't take much convincing him to give it up(mainly a greater share of the plundered plate armour), especially after his father already had taken a dragonsteel greatsword after the Trident. "This toothpick is too small for my hand anyway."

Robb sighed at the sight of the prickly widow.

"Ice is enough for me," he stated evenly. "I have now fulfilled my promise to your son. What shall it be, Lady Oakheart? Will you bend the knee or try and test the might of the North with your walls?"

"Bend the knee?" Arwyn Oakheart tilted her head. "An old woman has no choice but to bend the knee to save my grandsons' lives; that much is true. But who do I bend the knee to? These kings seem to be sprouting like mushrooms after rain, I'd say. Your Joffrey has expired, fallen to the Black Death in King's Landing."

Robb's men turned uneasy, and he himself had to school his face to hide his surprise. Yet it was normal for days on the march to leave him behind on the latest happenstances, for ravens were trained to only fly to keeps. 

"The Iron Throne is now empty, and the question remains. Who will sit on it? Is your wife now the queen? Maybe Myrellie Lannister's unborn child? Or perhaps Stannis' scarred daughter?" The widow laughed bitterly. "Some claim Tommen's alive, and he's to be our next boy king, stranded on the other side of the Narrow Sea. Renly still lives and demands more swords, but we have none left to give. Hightower proclaims himself a righteous and godly man, chosen by the Seven themselves to rule. Then there's Balon the Reaver, and my castle faces the sea, yet the five warships my House possessed cannot withstand even a lesser reaver lord's raiding party, let alone the might of the Iron Fleet."

It was a good question. Who was king now that Joffrey was dead?

But Robb did not need to dwell much.

"If Joffrey is truly dead, his younger brother comes next," he said with far more calm than he felt. "Unless Myrielle Lannister gives birth to a boy, Tommen shall be king."

"Perhaps," Arwyn Oakheart rasped out, and her shoulders sagged. "But there's one more man claiming a crown and demanding my allegiance. I received a raven from Sunspear last morrow."

"The Martells have no claim to any crowns." Ser Wendel Manderly scoffed. "Has Prince Doran lost his wits?"

Her following words chilled Robb to the bone.

"Perhaps he has, for his daughter has wed an Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name," her lips curled. "A supposed son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen raised by the exiled griffin lord, the most leal friend of the silver prince." She watched him like a hawk, but Robb could detect a sliver of mockery in her tone. "I've heard some of the lords down the Cockleswhent had already bent the knee to him."

"This is vile slander," Beron Dustin exploded, his axe angrily waving in the air, making the Reachmen uneasily reach for their swords. "These damned, shameless Dornishmen! Using the late Lady Lyanna's good name to grasp legitimacy!"

"Curs!"

"Lying Oathbreakers!"

His bannermen clamoured angrily while Robb tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. His muddled mind finally moved. This was not Jon–his brother was Beyond the Wall. And he had nothing to do with the Golden Company. But Robb had not forgotten Jon's letter.

While Elia had never given birth to a son, the Golden Company and Jon Connington were again here, supporting an Aegon in a bid for the Iron Throne. Things were different, yet they were the same. 

Robb got angry. Did they think him fool to support such a mummer?

"This mummer is no kin of mine," he growled. They dared to use his aunt's name for legitimacy! To try and pretend to be his brother-turned-cousin? "A man cannot have two wives besides, and everyone knows Rhaegar was wedded to Princess Elia Martell. Aegon Sand–or Blackfyre–or some Lysene boy the griffin lord fooled–can claim whatever he wants, but shouting it loudly will not turn falsehoods into truth. Long live King Tommen!"

"Long live King Tommen!" Greatjon bellowed, raising his sword high.

The taciturn Ser Daven Lannister was the next to proclaim his allegiance.

"Long live King Tommen!"

Robb said nothing as the rest of his bannermen loudly professed their allegiance for all to hear. He did not need to; he had already told his piece. His rage from the insulting deception cooled, turning into a chilling cold that lingered in his belly. Aegon Targaryen, as his brother had written. Another Aegon, if this one was by the wrong mother. Another army to fight, another king to defeat.

Unwilling to think on it further for now, he settled on watching the widowed lady before him, whose face turned into an expressionless mask.

"Long live King Tommen, then," she announced without enthusiasm, bending her knee before Robb. "My bones are too old to travel to Essos to search for Cersei's last son, so for now, you ought to do. How about you take my grandson, Harys, as your squire?"

A cunning old woman, Robb decided. In truth, the next Lord of Old Oak was offered to him as a hostage. But should the seat of Oakheart come under attack from any of the other kings, the boy would be safe, protected by the Northern swords and lances. 

"I'll take him," Robb decided. 

He was in dire need of a squire, and someone had to start mending the open wounds in this war. Perhaps teaching the child of a man he personally beheaded wouldn't be the easiest or the wisest thing to do, but a part of him relished the challenge. It also helped him shake off the feeling of grief creeping into his heart.