Winter has Come
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.
***
The End of Autumn
Sansa Stark, Winterfell
Sansa wept when Bran died. She cried when they said her father had perished in the Narrow Sea and that her eldest brother was poisoned, his fate in the hands of the Stranger. Even when word arrived that her father still lived and that Robb survived, the feeling of sorrow and loss lingered. So, Sansa had promised herself she would cry no more because it solved nothing.
She didn't cry when Winterfell was besieged. No tears were shed when a third of the Godswood burned down, and many of the refugees in the outer courtyards were smashed into meat paste from the constant bombardment by the trebuchets. There were so many people behind the walls of Winterfell that some had to be placed in the more vulnerable outer courtyards. Ser Rodrik had explained that the Reachmen were firing their trebuchets at too high of an angle to overcome the walls; that meant that the inner courtyards, where the Keep, Princess Tower, Guest House, and Glass Gardens, were relatively safe and unscathed from the blind bombardment.
Sadly, the refugees had to take the brunt of the damage from all corners of the castle. The enemy was so numerous that they surrounded Winterfell. The bulk remained in Wintertown across from the southern gate, while smaller groups blocked the three others with the enemy camp at the north gate, which was the best fortified, as it faced Mors Umber and the army he commanded. Yet they all had those terrors of engineering that rained death upon them.
Even though her mother forbade her, Sansa still went to see the flesh and guts scraped off the masonry. Sansa managed not to cry, but she heard many women weeping for their husbands and sons and many children crying for their fathers and mothers.
When that inexplicable sense of loss struck her heart, and Lady started howling mournfully, Sansa knew she had lost yet another sibling, but she swallowed her tears. What right did she have to cry when everyone lost far more than she was?
Then Winterfell's outer walls fell, Ser Rodrik was wounded during the retreat and perished three days later, and they lost eight hundred of the defenders that day; the Reachmen could afford to lose five times that amount to take the outer walls, yet Winterfell could not. Sansa was too numb to cry, even though her friend, Beth Cassel, wouldn't stop weeping at the loss of her father.
"How did the outer wall fall?" her mother asked the new castellan she appointed, a veteran man-at-arms Artos, named the Ironhand, for the plate gauntlets he always wore.
"After the damned Southron contraption ripped off the old portcullis with hooks and chains, we were swarmed by the zealots. Err–pardon my foul language, m'ladies," Artos gruffed out, scarred face looking like a piece of old leather. "They fought like rabid beasts no matter how many we killed–Rodrik was wounded by one of their spears. They keep smearing their arrowheads and speartips in faecal, and anyone who gets wounded rarely gets up."
"Then we shall do the same," Myrcella commanded, her green eyes glimmering with fury.
Sansa couldn't help but admire her good-sister. The war had awakened something hard in her, and the former princess, full of courtesies and smiles, had turned ferocious. The morale within Winterfell would have hit the rock button if not for her Lady Mother's calm and experienced commands and her good sister's fierce demeanour.
Luwin's wrinkled face was weighted by sorrow, and the bags under his eyes had long turned dark. There were many wounded, but he was the only maester here, aided by a handful of acolytes, hedge wizards, and witches.
"It's not honourable-"
"Honour is wasted on the honourless," the golden-haired princess sneered. "Where was the honour of invading a kingdom for personal gain? Where was the honour when they cut down the weirwoods and dug through the old barrows? Where was the honour when they hunted down smallfolk and killed all who resisted? Where?"
The grey-robed maester had the decency to blush, and Myrcella angrily scoffed. "I thought so. Hightower and his ilk have shown themselves to be nothing more than rabid beasts, and we shall treat them as such. We only need to hold out until the cold kills these Reachmen."
"Can we hold on for that long?" Sansa asked, her voice wavering.
"We'll have to hold out a tad longer, m'lady," Artos dipped his head. "The chill and snow are insidious, but they do not kill as quickly as sword and spear. It takes time until the damp cold seeps through clothing and the lack of warm blankets creeps in. And they have Wintertown, and it's more than generous supplies of firewood to weather the cold for some time."
"It might help him for a time, but we shall endure," Her mother declared coldly. "Baelor can never breach the inner gates of Winterfell."
Perhaps she was right, for Baelor made no effort to break through the inner portcullis, which was made of thick iron, unlike the outer one, and shielded by the thick oaken drawbridge and a double Ironwood gate. Instead, he focused on slowly but surely filling sections of the moat with wooden bridges thick enough to withstand the weight of the ridiculously long siege ladders. The Reachmen scaled the walls with the cover of crossbowmen atop the makeshift fortified platforms on the outer wall.
The defenders fended off the assaults for now. Sansa could only watch numbly from the Princess Tower as the battle turned into a game of marksmen and bitter struggle as the zealots and Reachmen climbed up the ladders, only to fight tired on the ramparts. But even tired foes were dangerous. Thankfully, the outer wall was designed to have no crenelations facing the inner wall. The defensive siege engines were also fixed to point outwards, and only trained engineers could hope to remove the locking mechanism to use it against the defenders.
Naturally, the Reachmen would not waste their precious engineers on the walls. That was a job for the zealots.
Nevertheless, Hightower's forces were still capable of launching their trebuchets even further without the threat of scorpions. It took them several days, but Sansa could see them from the vantage point of the Princess Tower, moving their numerous engines closer to the walls.
One of the days, she had overheard some of the men-at-arms lamenting that it was a shame they did not have many mangonels or catapults on the inner walls to return fire.
Dozens of Stark guards and hundreds of smallfolk died due to the constant barrage of rocks and debris. The dead were faces and names Sansa knew and had gotten used to seeing in Winterfell. Farlen the kennelmaster and Barth the brewer had died the second day after the outer wall fell. Osha, Gage's wildling lover that Robb had spared, had her neck snapped by a rock that had cracked her head open. Rolo and Pate, Mikken's new apprentices, died the next day, along with many more. Too many more.
But Sansa's eyes and heart had feasted themselves on sorrow and death, and only numbness remained. She could only watch and observe, so that's what she did.
Occasionally, when the Reachmen managed to secure a small foothold on the inner wall before being pushed out after an hour of bitter struggle, the death toll nearly reached a hundred. And each time, there were thrice as many wounded as there were dead. But just like the deceased Ser Rodrik Cassel, the wounded Stark men-at-arms rarely got up and were left either weakened or dying because of the damned poison, and Luwin was powerless to do anything with his limited medical supplies.
The trebuchets continued hurling rocks over the walls, killing many refugees daily–and even some men-at-arms. More than once, boulders had struck one of the barracks, killing dozens of men-at-arms and wounding more.
The shortage of soldiers had become so severe that Myrcella recruited many women as volunteers, gave them crossbows, and posted them on the curtain wall.
Hightower was relentless to the point of desperation, attacking the walls each day with dogged persistence regardless of losses.
As the days passed, the mood in Winterfell turned solemn.
Nobody was saying it, but Sansa knew they were precariously close to losing; even if she heard the moat was filled with the corpses of dead zealots, they seemed like an endless tide. For every dead Reachmen, three more took his place.
Would it be one strong push that would see Winterfell's tired and dwindling defenders falter? Or perhaps Baelor would continue whittling the remaining garrison until there was simply nobody left to defend the curtain walls?
Any lingering doubt evaporated when her mother handed her a dagger with a stony face. "Keep it on you at all times."
There was only one reason for a noble lady to keep a dagger during a siege. Death on her terms, instead of indignity and humiliation.
Only fifteen hundred defenders were in good health, dwindling slowly but surely. Even if they somehow survived this terrible meatgrinder, Sansa had checked the ledgers and knew the Winterfell's granaries wouldn't last them half a year, let alone a whole winter.
From the Princess Tower, Sansa numbly observed as the Reachmen stormed the walls again. Her fingers found the dagger's warm handle, but it brought her no comfort.
"Sansa, you shouldn't stay outside without a cloak," Wylla Manderly complained. "It's getting colder."
Sansa was far from the only one. Her good sister and her ladies-in-waiting had joined her this day, watching, for they had no heart to busy themselves with embroidery and the matters of rationing and logistics long calculated and handled by Lady Stark and the steward.
"I don't feel cold," Sansa muttered, but the misty cloud coming out of her mouth with each exhale betrayed her.
Brenda Dustin sighed. "That doesn't mean you must freeze. Be glad I brought a spare one."
A fur-rimmed cloak was placed atop her shoulders, but it scarcely chased the chill away.
"We won't make it at this rate," Sansa observed quietly. "Hightower isn't stopping despite the cold–it only makes him more doggedly desperate. Something has to change."
"These Reachmen cannot attack endlessly," Lysara Liddle said loudly as if trying to convince herself. Her scared eyes and shake of her hands gave her up, though. "Hightower cannot sustain losses for long without a hit to his morale."
"I know." She sighed. "I know. But even with the cannibal riots, he kept attacking anyway. Did he not promise his men wealth and food and warmth and women and justice once they take Winterfell? Most of his losses were zealots drunk on Wine of Courage, and he did not hide the fact that more came up the Kingsroad to replenish his number. Baelor Hightower forced himself into a corner where he has no other choice but to take Winterfell or die trying."
The other maidens shared a worried glance but did not refute her point. She wanted to weep, her promise be damned, but Sansa knew it wouldn't solve anything. What could she do but pray?
"Have some faith, Sansa. A little more patience never hurt," Myrcella said. "Look. It's beginning to snow. The gods smile upon us–the weather is on our side!"
Sure enough, the world quieted for a heartbeat as snowflakes began to descend upon everything with ruthless certainty. Sansa blinked as one dropped on her nose before melting. But as Artos Ironhand said, the fighting didn't halt, and the Reachmen's assault continued even more desperately than before.
A small shadow flew overhead, but Sansa barely paid heed as she focused on the bloody slog at the ramparts. A grey owl silently landed atop the ramparts, stopping right before her. It reached out a talon with a small roll of parchment tied to it that Sansa accepted numbly.
"A message owl?" Brenda blinked. "Never heard about an owl used as one."
"Hightower's men managed to kill all ravens flying in and out of Winterfell, but Lady Sansa gets a special owl?" Wynafryd's hummed, then her face turned impish. "A secret flame, perhaps?"
"I don't have secret flames," she muttered weakly. She had learned her lesson after Joffrey, though her mind still remembered a certain face, even if she had never spoken about it.
"There is no seal or sign of any heraldry," Lyanna Mormont noted neutrally. "I know maesters can train ravens to fly to certain locations, but…this owl appearing here is odd."
Myrcella carefully reached out her hand, and the bird tilted its head curiously before flying to her forearm, its razor-sharp talons gripping tightly but not enough to pierce her clothing. Myrcella smiled as she gently ruffled the feathery head, the owl's yellow eyes closing with pleasure. "Most owls avoid humans, but this one seems used to our presence. Not even an ounce of fear."
"Well, open the letter up," Lysara Liddle almost jumped with excitement. "Don't keep us waiting."
The owl hooted as if to urge her on, and Sansa slowly unwrapped the scroll with her stiff fingers.
"It's from my brother," she said, something warm blooming in her heart. "Jon is here."
An involuntary chuckle escaped her numb lips as she handed the letter to Myrcella.
"Sansa, I'm glad to see you are well. Give this letter to Lady Stark and tell the Castellan not to sally out. Stay behind the walls no matter what. The owl will stay with you for an hour if you have any queries or you wish to write back.
Jon Snow."
Myrcella turned to her, her eyes narrowed questioningly, but all Sansa could do was giggle. Many had thought her a fool for believing her half-brother would come or make a difference, but Jon was here. Her good sister then called for one of the guards to relay the orders while the other maidens muttered excitedly for a few minutes but soon lost their giddiness as nothing changed.
Even Sansa felt dread pooling in her belly again as they all clustered around the burning braziers for warmth. The snow in the air thickened as if it wanted to shroud the world in white.
Half an hour later, it began.
Umber, Overton, Ironsmith, Whitehill, Long, Lake, and dozens of other banners appeared to the north, and the assault on Winterfell slowed down as Hightower men scurried off to reinforce the siege lines facing northwards.
"I don't see the Faith Militant banners anywhere," her mother noted worriedly as she peered northward through her Myrish far-eye, having made her way up the Princess Tower with haste. "The Hound was supposed to lead the Swords and the Stars up the kingsroad."
"No, the banner is there." Sansa pointed to the tattered seven-pointed star skewered on a spear upside down as if to mock Hightower. There was only one reason why someone would fly an enemy banner like this–the enemy had been defeated, and this was a trophy to intimidate any foes, a display of martial prowess and victory.
"Someone has guts." Serena guffawed.
The Reachmen rushed to bolster the defensive bulwark on that side of Winterfell's walls in anticipation of a battle.
A low, thunderous rumble split the frigid air, rolling out of the Wolfswood like the roar of a waking dragon. It echoed a second and a third time, deep and primal, shaking the trees and sending flocks of startled crows into the sky. Sansa felt the sound linger in her bones, but it seemed… welcoming. It took her a few heartbeats to realise that the sound was a warhorn. An extremely powerful warhorn.
They came out of the treeline like a wave of fur and steel. A flood of wolves crashed at fortified positions to the west, facing the Hunter's Gate, tearing through the unprepared Reachmen around the trebuchets. The men-at-arms tried to poke them with their swords and spears, but the wolves lunged for their hands and legs with surprising fearlessness. Sansa could count over three dozen beasts towering over their brethren, each such giant wolf the size of a destrier. Direwolves.
"Gods! I have seen veterans with less discipline than these wolves," Brenda Dustin seemed torn between fear and excitement. "And they move as if commanded by an invisible hand."
Surely enough, they didn't move like animals guided by instincts but like a well-disciplined army. No, not even that, but with scary coordination, as if they weren't a multitude of beasts but the many furry limbs of a single being!
"Look!" Wynafryd's eyes were as wide as saucers as she stared at the Wolfswood. "What are those?!"
A hairy, human-liked behemoth twice as tall as an Umber lugged around an enormous banner, and the running wolf of House Stark fluttered amidst the snow, quartered by a white direwolf head.
"Giants," Lyanna Mormont stated, dark eyes wide and unblinking, as if not to miss a single moment of the battle unravelling before them. "Uncle Jeor told me about them once…"
"Impossible." The Manderly maiden pinched her waist only to wince painfully. "I thought giants were a children's tale."
"Evidently not," Sansa said, gazing towards the Wolfswood with morbid fascination.
Aside from the banner bearer, seven other giants, all wielding enormous slings, began hurling head-sized stones into the Reachmen's left flank. The defenders manning the bulwark looking northwards had built their crescent-shaped fortifications facing the kingsroad, not the treeline, and their side was undefended to the giant's barrage. Bone and flesh were mangled into an unrecognisable mess, and shields exploded when struck by the rain of rocks. Even some of the wooden ramparts were toppled over by the sheer momentum of the projectiles.
But the giants were not alone. From the treeline erupted a small army of foresters, lining in orderly rows in front of the shaggy behemoths. And each one of them wielded a pale bow.
A man clad in what looked to be frost led a company of marksmen, and they started peppering the Reachmen with a persistent rain of arrows.
"Look at their range," Lysara's voice was filled with awe. "They're all using weirwood bows!"
Scores of Reachmen fell to the arrows each minute, and the giants continued their ruthless bombardment, leaving a trail of blood and corpses through the enemy that only faced northwards.
Hightower tried to bolster the siege lines north of Winterfell and attempted to charge at the bowmen's ranks and the flood of wolves, but they simply retreated to the Wolfswood. Thousands of Reachmen followed into the ancient forest, but none returned.
An hour later, the bowmen and giants once again came out of the treeline, raining death upon Hightower's men.
"They're so close! Why isn't Uncle Mors attacking?" Serena Umber wrung her hands nervously, watching the battle with trepidation.
"He doesn't need to. Not when he can remain close enough to force the Hightower men to face him, letting the marksmen sow death from behind," Artos Ironhand chuckled, the sound as pleasant as the scraping of stones.
Surely enough, Umber was content to send his slingers out and also peppered the Reachmen, but to far lesser effect. The rest of his army was in orderly rows, merely standing fifty yards away from the enemy fortifications without marching forth or retreating. Each time the Reachmen tried to sally out and clash Umber's army, the Northmen retreated in good order, and the marksmen to the left continued raining death from the side. Eventually, the Reachmen gave up and returned to the safety of their palisades.
By the evening, swords had not been crossed even once, but thousands of dead Reachmen littered the siege lines to the North, slowly being buried under a blanket of snow. The army led by Mors Umber retreated, but Sansa no longer felt afraid.
The next day, Hightower sent his force into the Wolfswood, and when he came out, his army was battered, bloodied, and short of at least a thousand men. Any men sent to retake the fortified siege lines to the north and the west were hunted down by a ruthless combination of direwolves, giants, and marksmen. This was the last day the Reachmen assaulted Winterfell's walls.
On the third day, Hightower tried to set the Wolfswood on fire but was thwarted by the snowfall. Umber and his army appeared from the east this time, leaving the Reachmen between himself and the Wolfswood.
"Hammer and anvil," Artos Ironhand called it. "Only the hammer and the anvil never meet, but the threat of their position is enough to keep the enemy from moving."
When Hightower mustered out of Wintertown to confront him, the bowmen, giants, and direwolves rushed out of the Wolfswood and flanked him from the back while Umber retreated. There was no battle that day either, but the bowmen and giants peppered Wintertown with stones and arrows for hours. Eventually, the Reachmen retreated to the fortified Wintertown, leaving hundreds of corpses behind.
The fourth day was no different; the world was now covered with a thick white veil.
On the fifth day, Hightower left Wintertown with his whole army and tried to break his way southwards towards Castle Cerwyn, but the giant slingers broke the Reachmen's shield wall with their barrage, and the marksmen of the Wolfswood once again devastated his faltering army.
Nevertheless, Baelor persisted south until Mors Umber appeared. It looked like both sides were finally going to give battle. Yet Umber stayed a mile away while the marksmen peppered the stranded Reachmen. Far in the distance, another group of Northmen appeared up the Kingsroad, barring the Reachmen.
Hightower did not last an hour before retreating to Wintertown like a dog licking his wounds. This day saw a lot of Reachmen try their luck and flee towards the Wolfswood, the White Knife, or the snowy hills, but Sansa could see from above how shaggy packs led by direwolves meticulously hunted them all down.
On the sixth day, while Umber and the marksmen sieged Wintertown, the warrior clad in ice rushed forward with a company of clansmen, entered through the opened Hunter's Gate and rampaged through the outer curtain wall, killing hundreds of Reachmen.
On the seventh day, the Reachmen were expelled from the other curtain walls. But Jon continued sending letters through the owl, each saying the same thing. Do not leave the inner walls.
Over the next few days, mangonels, scorpions, and trebuchets were positioned around Wintertown, peppering the fortified Reach camp along with the giants and marksmen. The trebuchets inside Wintertown were the first target destroyed, leaving the Reachmen no means to retaliate.
Three more attempts to break out and flee south were met with ambushes and slaughtered to the last. Deserters continued to flee Wintertown day and night, but Sansa doubted any escape.
Wolves prowled out at night, feasting on the fallen Reachmen without restraint.
On the thirteenth day, after a few hours of infighting, the Hightower banner in Wintertown was taken down, replaced by the white flag of surrender, and Sansa wanted to laugh at how quickly the foe that plagued her nightmares for so long was squashed.
***
11th Day of the 10th Moon, 299 AC
Paxter Redwyne
"Traitors!" Hightower roared, struggling through the ropes that bound his limbs. "Damned treacherous curs biting the hand that feeds them!"
Overpowering Baelor's retinue had been rather easy; they didn't fight too hard and were quick to surrender. And all the zealots had perished in the earlier days.
"We lost, you fool." Paxter sighed; the direness of their situation had finally bore down upon their host. "Look around you. It's all men more skin and bones than flesh, dying from the cold, too hungry to pick up a spear, let alone fight. The only reason we lasted this long was because the more soldiers we lost, the fewer mouths we had to feed. Gag him."
The last straw for him had been the death of his eldest, Horas, to the chill two nights prior.
"This has to be the most crushing defeat in history," Alan Bulwer scowled. He looked like a corpse, and his previously meaty face had turned gaunt and hollow in the last fortnight. "We lost more than twenty thousand good men without even giving a single battle and killed… how many again?"
"A dozen or two," Lord Warryn Beesbury said, his eyes weighted by grief after the loss of his brother and son. "The weirwood warbows have even better range than composite bows for the same draw or any crossbow we can field, and we have no horses to sweep aside their marksmen. We don't have the strength to catch them either!"
Winterfell's gates remained closed, and not a single soul had left House Stark's seat while the Reachmen were methodically slaughtered like cattle. There were no negotiations, parley, or terms, just pure pressure and death.
"Pray the sorcerer lord accepts our surrender," Lord Branston Cuy said, his face reddened dangerously by the chill. A few more days and he would lose an ear to the cold.
"Alas, if prayer could aid us, we would have been in Winterfell for a moon already," Martyn Mullendor sighed. "I fear that this warrior-witch has no mercy."
"We're all dead men walking anyway," Paxter said. "At least there's some hope of survival, even if the Northmen take a pound of flesh…"
For two hours, nobody moved despite the white flag raised atop Wintertown. Then, the Northmen slowly encroached on Wintertown's palisade like a ring of steel with shields raised cautiously, led by the sorcerer clad in ice and wielding a dragonsteel blade in one hand and an iron-studded kite shield in the other.
They passed through the makeshift gates, and the warrior moved first, beheading two knights who had laid down their swords. The Northmen followed, steel drawn as they slaughtered the wary Reachmen who were too thin and exhausted by hunger and cold to put up a fight. The few who had any strength left to fight were surrounded, disarmed, pushed down on the ground and slain.
"WE SURRENDER, YOU FOOL!" Bulwer thundered, but the sorcerer drew a blade of ice from his belt and hurled it like a javelin, skewering the Bulwer knight through his coat of plates.
It was over, Paxter knew. He wanted to draw his sword and pick up his shield, but the last thing he saw was a man clad in what looked to be armour belonging to a Greyjoy with its scratched-up Kraken ornaments, crushing through his guards with savage eagerness before something knocked him in the head.
***
Winterfell's Great Hall was filled with Northern knights, lords, chieftains, and noblemen, all armed and armoured to the teeth. Just before what looked to be House Stark's old throne stood three women in complete contrast, with their gowns of wool and fur. To their right was the terror that had broken their army, a scarred man resembling Eddard Stark but looking far younger than he had any right to. Was this Jon Snow who had passed the Shadow Watch?
Perhaps the rumours of the wolf lord's foray into black magic and sorcery had been true all along if his bastard wielded such powers so effortlessly.
Paxter and his remaining son, Hobber, were forced to kneel before them while clasped in irons like common brigands. Desmera was here, too, kneeling beside them without the manacles. The Redwyne lord barely recognised his daughter, for her head was shaved bald for some reason.
His only consolation was that inside the Hall was far warmer than Wintertown, but it was a poor consolation.
"Your son, Hobber and your daughter, Desmera, shall remain as hostages here in Winterfell as a guarantee for your good behaviour," Myrcella Baratheon declared without an ounce of remorse, not even bothering to be subtle and claim them as wards or guests. The princess's green eyes glinted with savage delight that made Paxter's spine tingle with fear. "Their marriages shall be decided by House Stark, but the dowry shall come from your coffers."
"Moreover, House Redwyne shall pay a compensation of seventy thousand gold coins to House Tallhart each year for fifteen years as restitution for your actions here, beginning with a sum of a hundred thousand for this year. Until the King's Peace is restored, you shall follow House Stark's orders without fail or complaint, and once the war is over, House Redwyne shall be limited to twelve warships and no more."
"Such extortion! You might as well kill me right now," Paxter scoffed with far more confidence than he felt. "You need my fleet-"
The dragonsteel blade on his neck made him swallow his retort. Paxter's skin crawled–had not even seen Jon Snow draw it.
"If you don't cooperate, we'll kill you and give the same offer to your son," the sorcerer's voice was as chilly and merciless as his demeanour. "And if he refuses, his head will roll, and Desmera shall become the Lady Redwyne and be wedded to a loyal Northman. It certainly won't be easy for her to take control of the Redwyne fleet, but if you think you have any rights to make demands, you're sorely mistaken."
Paxter's retort died on his lips. A bloodthirsty butcher like Jon Snow would certainly follow through on his threat. After all, less than a score of men from Baelor's army survived after he refused their surrender. Paxter and the last of his men. Nobody else.
"What shall it be, Lord Redwyne?" Catelyn Stark urged, her cold eyes as ruthless as the snow outside. Hoster's daughter had taken after her father, but it seemed like the North had awakened a callousness that the late Lord Tully lacked.
Hobber and Desmera's pleading gazes felt like daggers in his heart. Any self-respecting lord would have taken death over such a humiliating demand to surrender the autonomy of his house, but what of his children? What of his wife? Worse, he had a few ambitious cousins in the fleet who wouldn't hesitate to bend the knee to Tommen if it benefited them.
"I accept," he said, voice pained.
"Good," Myrcella Baratheon looked like a cat who had just caught a songbird. "Now, you shall ink a letter to your fleet admiral to strike at the rest of the fleets anchored in Saltspear."
"A raven can hardly travel to my ships, and the Ironborn-"
"You don't need to concern yourself with the minor details," the golden-haired princess interrupted. "The letter will arrive, and that is all you need to know. You merely need to follow your orders, Lord Redwyne."
***
Jon Snow, Winterfell, earlier
Fate loved its ironies.
Jon had run away from Winterfell atop Shadow like an outlaw after 'borrowing' from the armoury, and now he was riding atop the same garron like a hero, met with a wave of cheers. Yet only the black garron and the tent were left to him since that fateful day; everything else he had 'borrowed' had been lost or destroyed.
The last fortnight of cold and sporadic cold had seen the veil of white reach above his knees even here.
The snowy courtyard was filled to the brim with the tired faces of women, children, and men-at-arms, though their eyes shone with excitement, hope, and curiosity. It was probably the combination of the icy armour, Ghost's enormous figure, and Val, who rode by his side. However, his usually-composed wife seemed to be busy gawking at the grandeur and sheer size of Winterfell. It doubtlessly looked thrice as imposing, for she had only seen the hovels that were Deepwood Motte and the Shadow Tower.
And in front of the crowd stood Catelyn Stark. She stood cloaked in the deep grey of House Stark, the thick wool lined with sable that framed her face like a shadowed halo. Her auburn hair, as dark as rich wine, was bound tightly against the biting wind, and her eyes—clear and unyielding as frost—bore the weight of long-held sorrow. Her face was inscrutable, but Ghost could smell her tension.
Her gaze did not move from him as if trying to see through the blood-stained frost.
To his surprise, she held no grudge or traces of hatred or dismay, which Jon expected. At most, he could smell a chaotic ball of resignation, acceptance, fear, and a smidgeon of joy, as if his presence here made Catelyn Stark happy.
On her right was Sansa–gods, his sister was nearly a woman now–and on her left stood a stunning maiden with golden curls and a cat-like smile that could only be Myrcella, who was not a child as he remembered. Her calculating green eyes were inspecting him as if looking for weakness. Robb had found himself a dangerous wife, and if Mors Umber and the rest were not lying, she was the Old Lion's granddaughter through and through.
The North was now watching him with rapt attention, and it was time to play the tiring game of courtesies. A part of him longed for the time when his status allowed him to avoid all the annoying trifles, but he had been too young and foolish to appreciate it.
Swallowing his exasperation, Jon Snow dismounted and bowed deeply.
"Lady Stark, I have done as you ordered," he began, untied the bloody head with the broken crown from his saddle, and placed it before Catelyn Stark. "Baelor Hightower. Sigorn, bring me the rest."
Six heavy sacks were brought over, and Jon continued lining heads in the snow before her. Some were tarred, others had just begun to decay, while Theon's head looked as fresh as if it had just been removed from his shoulders.
"Theon Greyjoy. Victarion Greyjoy. Dagmer Cleftjaw. Beesbury, Costayne, Mullendore, Bulwer, Lord Nettleby. Lord Denys Drumm. Lord Donnel Drum. Lord Volmark, seven Harlaws, four Volmarks, Lords Weaver, Wynch, Goodbrothers, Farwynd, Ironmakers, Stonetree…"
"And lastly," Balon Greyjoy, clasped in Irons, was dragged before them, his driftwood crown still atop his head. "Lady Stark, a gift for you."
Balon Greyjoy's gaunt body was behind the eighty-three heads, and the former Lord Reaper was pushed onto his knees, but Sigorn had to hold him lest he fell in the snow face first. He had lost his will to speak long ago, but even if he wanted to, he lacked the tools for it.
To her credit, Catelyn Stark only paled slightly. Sansa swallowed heavily but still smiled at him with surprising warmth.
"Crownbreaker," some in the crowd murmured. To his chagrin, the whispers picked up, alongside with, "Reaversbane!"
Contrary to his expectations, it was not Catelyn who took charge but the golden-haired woman.
"Well done, Lord Jon," Myrcella clapped with genuine cheer in her voice. "I assume the Ironborn shall not trouble us for now. Your staunch service shall be rewarded."
Before Jon could respond, a blur rushed from behind him, and he knocked at a few of the displayed heads. He shook his head as Rickon slammed into his mother, hugging her so tightly as if she would disappear if he let go.
"Mother, I missed you!" He declared loudly, and Jon could feel the confusion his kin was feeling.
For a heartbeat, Catelyn Stark looked happy and clutched her son, but then the joy drained from her.
"You were supposed to be in Last Hearth," she whispered, face pale.
"Uh," Rickon muttered abashedly, having the decency to flush. "I-"
"He came to me in the Northern Mountains," Jon explained, watching with amusement as his younger brother started to fidget. "After trying to escape his guards a few times–the last time nearly succeeding–they decided to escort him lest he managed to succeed and go off on his own."
Catelyn's face darkened.
"I shall have a word with Wayn later," she promised but still did not let go of her son.
"He died in the battle of the Bloody Shore, seeking to regain his honour in battle."
"And all he got was death, the fool. Why keep the old Greyjoy alive?" Catelyn motioned towards the former reaver king. His skin looked sickly, his body was as thin as the Reachmen they had slain outside, and his eyes had grown dull weeks prior. "It would be kinder to kill him."
"I owe House Greyjoy no kindness," Jon exhaled. "And neither should you. Do you not know?"
"Know what?"
He sighed inwardly. Was there anything worse than being the one to tell a mother she had lost her child? But this was not something to be delayed.
"Arya went around the Northern mountains with her guardsmen, ambushing reaver parties and even killing the old Lord Drumm. Theon captured her as a hostage, but later, Arya was murdered by Denys Drumm for killing his father, who was in turn slain by Theon for insubordination."
Catelyn Stark froze. Sansa struggled not to cry and clung to Lady for consolation, sobbing with her face buried in the grey fur.
Myrcella closed her eyes and slowly exhaled, "And so you bring Balon Greyjoy here–"
"For Lady Stark to vent her anger. I have already taken my pound of flesh from the Ironborn." Jon nodded at the scores of decapitated heads arrayed before them.
"Arya was supposed to be at Breakstone Hill," the princess noted, her face hard. "Under the protection of Chieftain Flint-"
"Torghen Flint has much to answer for," Catelyn Stark hissed. "Where is he?"
"Dead. Attacked Theon Greyjoy in a suicidal raid in hopes of retrieving my sister."
Lady Stark turned her stony gaze to Balon Greyjoy's dwindling form.
"Killing this shell will not give me my daughter back," she stated hoarsely, yet Ghost could smell the hatred bubbling underneath, held at bay by a mere string. "But he's another useless mouth we do not need to feed. Off with his head."
Jon drew Dark Sister and swung, Balon's head rolling down, leaving a trail of crimson in the snow and the nearby crowd clamouring with subdued excitement.
"Artos," Myrcella called for one of the veteran men-at-arms. "Lord Jon has gone through the effort to bring such a generous collection for us. I want these heads displayed on the front gate."
The guardsmen hastily began collecting the heads, throwing glances full of reverence at him as they passed by.
The crowd watched with rapt attention, and his family were amiable and emotional at the reunion and Arya's loss; now was the time to strike before further complications arose.
"The Iron Islands are defenceless, Lady Stark." Jon bowed again while unceremoniously cleaning the blood off his sword with Balon's tattered cloak. "Give me leave, and I shall crush the reavers for good, so they can never despoil, kill, and reave ever again."
"You have it, Jon Snow," was the cold response. "Deal with the Ironborn and their dreary rocks as you see fit."
***
15th Day of the 10th Moon, 299 AC
Myrcella, Winterfell
The foes were gone, but her woes were not.
The fortress quickly began to empty. Most of the refugees had slowly started to stream into Wintertown as the Northern army hastily repaired the damage from the previous battles and siege. Lumber, food, and clothes came in with the Umber forces that had cleared the surroundings to deny supplies to Hightower, and the steel looted from the Reachmen was still being distributed as spoils of war.
Even after the army took their cut, the sizeable war chest in Hightower's quarters had seen Winterfell's treasury refilled from last year's significant expenses. The armoury was jammed with so many armaments and arms that a second building had to be appointed to store all the plundered equipment.
Jon Snow had broken the siege on Castle Cerwyn before attacking Hightower, so there were no foes nearby remaining.
Yet while the soldiers toiled over the aftermath, the Northern nobility and chieftains were preoccupied with burials.
Arya's funeral was a solemn affair. Most funerals were, but this was the first time Myrcella saw magic play a role. Arya's body was well-preserved, covered by a thin layer of frost, courtesy of bracelets hewn from that queer ice slipped on her arms and legs and the blade of frost that was clasped in her hand. The expression of fear on her severed head only made Catelyn Stark weep louder, and even Sansa broke her stoic facade and wailed, clutching the block of ice that held her sister's corpse, undaunted by the burning frost.
It was an odd thing to see; the substance looked like normal ice but far smoother, as if shaped with precision. Magic was clearly at play, for it didn't break or melt, no matter what. And it was so cold it burned to the touch… unless you were a Stark. Myrcella had tried out of curiosity; her fingertips were still sore from the burn.
Her gaze moved to her weeping good-mother. Despite being thrifty, Catelyn Stark was how she had imagined the ideal lady: always composed, womanly, and dutiful. Motherly but stern where required and confident in her place in the world. But there was a vicious streak hiding underneath. Or perhaps it was the grief that made her lose her composure and mercy?
Desmera Redwyne's septas that had embalmed Arya's body were a target of her good mother's cold fury. Septas were expected to take care of hostage noblewomen and even protect them unless explicitly stated so–something they had failed in. She had given the seven women a choice–join the Silent Sister chapter at White Harbour or leave the North the way they came, but only clothed with their piousness and prayers. They had all chosen the former, and Catelyn Stark sent them off to White Harbour with their cloaks and winter clothes but left them barefooted for the journey.
Unlike the dead men-at-arms, who were laid to rest in the lichyard where the remains of the Stark retainers rested, the daughter of Winterfell got a whole procession going through the crypts, though only those of importance were allowed. Thankfully, the First Men's funeral traditions were straightforward. Someone died, and they were buried, mourned without any pomp (for why was pomp needed when you joined your ancestors?) and remembered fondly. Warriors and lords received an Iron Sword in their graves to prevent them from returning as vengeful spirits, but Arya had a blade of frost instead.
Only the Lords and Kings of Winterfell received a statue in the crypts, and their family members were buried near the tomb of the current lord. For good or bad, Catelyn had refused to commission a stone statue for her husband when he was thought to be dead until his corpse was found, so Arya Stark's remains were placed next to her brother, Brandon–the boy who had fallen to his death while climbing up one of the towers.
Yet Myrcella's attention was set on Melisandre of Asshai, the self-proclaimed First Priestess of the Old Gods. What priestess wore so scandalously revealing garments that would make even whores blush while swearing service in the divine and leaning on a twisted staff of weirwood crowned by a ruby? The queer woman's story beggared belief, but not as much as her and the Earth Singer's deeds in Wintertown. Because if there were giants and direwolves and Others, why not Children of the Forest too? Within a day, an enormous weirwood had sprung up from Hightower's weirwood throne in the central square where Robb had held a few executions over a year ago, the tree grown from the blood and flesh of the fallen Reachmen via singing.
The inhuman voices still echoed in her ears, sounding like the sigh of the wind, the caress of rustling leaves, or the dripping of rain. It wasn't nearly as eerie as the pale bone-like wood drinking in all the flesh and blood as the headless corpses turned into shrivelled husks of dried-up leather and brittle bones.
Then there was Jon Snow's mountain of skulls, looming outside Wintertown, meticulously collected after all the fallen Reachmen had been beheaded and the flesh boiled off, left as a blood-curdling warning for those who dared cross Winterfell.
Myrcella shook her head and focused on the dimly lit crypts. The procession of lanterns illuminated the vaulted hall, revealing a stream of solemn faces and Lady, Nymeria, Shaggydog, and Ghost, who barely managed to squeeze inside the narrow staircase. Each man and woman lingered before the tomb and silently prayed to send off the departed. The coffin would be sealed when everyone passed, and the ceremony would end.
Everyone left but the closest of kin who stayed back to observe.
It was a perfect opportunity for Myrcella to put her network skills to use as she subtly edged to Jon's wife, Val, who was standing by the statue of Lyanna Stark. How Rhaegar's bastard found himself a wildling spearwife with dragonblood as a bride was still a mystery, but the woman was a beauty with her tall, willowy figure and long locks of silver-gold that framed her sharp face. Not nearly as beautiful as herself, of course.
"Why does Nymeria cling to Lady Stark?" she whispered.
"A daughter is loathe to leave her mother," was the quiet reply.
"What do you mean?"
Val looked at her with pity.
"When a skinchanger perishes, their mind slips into the body of their bonded beast. It is a second life, but a hollow one. With time, the human mind fades, for it is not its body, and only the beast remains."
Myrcella cursed quietly.
"This is tragic," she lamented. "Cruel, even. You ought to tell Lady Stark."
"So she can grieve her daughter twice?" Val raised an eyebrow. "I think not. You tell her if you wish, princess kneeler."
She was right, the princess knew. It would be too cruel to make Catelyn mourn her daughter twice.
"You wildlings have such odd phrasing," Myrcella noted neutrally. "Are you not married to a Lord now, making you a kneeler?"
Val's lips twitched. "Aye, but it doesn't mean I have to like it."
"Well, regardless, you say it's cruel not to tell her, but wouldn't it be cruel to withhold the truth instead? If Arya is alive, wouldn't she want to receive her mother's affection?"
"I might not have known her in person, but I am not blinded by the love of a sister like my husband is to know Arya Stark died a fool's death," Val noted coldly. "Even the spearwives Beyond the Wall know not to seek battle or danger unless no other choice presents itself before they're grown. I have seen of her ilk before–the few reckless or overcurious ones live long enough to reach adulthood. Arya Stark sought glory and found death and grief."
The harsh words reminded Myrcella that despite her beauty, the woman beside her was born and raised as a savage. Val the Spearwife lacked the softness noble ladies of the realm possessed; she was harsh, sharp like a spear where they were soft, a warrior, a huntsman and a wildling who had killed many men. The same woman who had not hesitated to shear Desmera Redwyne bald for trying to slip into her husband's bed. It was not a one-time thing either; the petty spearwife continued shaving Desmera's head each fortnight.
Nothing of note happened for the rest of the funeral, though Melisandre of Asshai waylaid Myrcella in one of the now-empty courtyards. The contrast between the eerie green and the chilly, gem-like red eye unnerved her.
"Princess, a word?" the woman requested with a polite bow and a soft smile.
"I suppose I can spare you a few moments," Myrcella allowed, though the quiver in her voice betrayed her.
"You seem unnerved, Myrcella Baratheon. Perhaps by the use of the lifeblood of your fallen foes?"
The question took her aback. Lady lazily padded over to her side, followed by Shaggydog. Both of them sat beside her like obedient dogs but were taller than Myrcella when sitting. Then, another, and another, and the direwolves turned into a whole dozen, and Myrcella found herself surrounded by a carpet of fangs and fur, all of which gazed at the priestess without making a sound.
"Magic unnerves me," she admitted, drawing courage from the presence of the direwolves. Somehow, Myrcella knew they were here to protect her. "It is unnatural. The Freehold's Forty delved into fire and blood, wielded sorcery like a warrior would wield a sword and perished for it."
Melisandre laughed, the sound soft like the rustling of leaves.
"Yet you have no qualms about enjoying the magic of the Old Gods," she motioned to the direwolves surrounding her. "They don't move like this unless Ghost or Jon Snow commands them, you see."
"This is different," Myrcella shook her head. "The direwolves are intertwined with House Stark-"
"How so?" Melisandre tilted her head, amusement dancing on her face as the princess struggled to provide her an answer. "Perhaps it is because this magic, and direwolves in particular, is something you have grown familiar with and benefits you with little to no cost? It would be highly convenient to forget that the Seven-Pointed Star teaches all magic is the sacred domain of the gods, and all those who practise it are blasphemers?"
"It does, but if I wanted to debate theology, I would have brought a septon," she retorted, gritting her teeth. "I tire of this game. What do you want, Melisandre of Asshai?"
"To be of service to you, Princess," she said. "To strengthen the belief of the Old Gods, let it grow roots and spine so it can resist the creeping influence of the Faith that never tires. Is this not a crisis by the making of the High Septon?"
Gods, why was it so hard to turn away a smiling face and a soothing, soft voice? Why did she make so much sense?
"A pretender propped up by Highgarden, more like. Besides, why would I want that?"
"Your son shall be the Stark of Winterfell in the future; any mother wants what is best for her child." Myrcella groaned inwardly. The priestess had somehow seen through her. "I know you and your kin hold little stock in the Seven despite keeping up appearances. Embrace the Old Gods with your heart, Princess, and you shall know many boons you never thought possible. I shall aid you, help Edwyn's path smoother-"
"Enough," Jon Snow's cold voice sliced through her words like a sword. He stood at the courtyard's entrance, his scarred face scrunched with distaste. "Save your preaching of matters like religious reform that would grant you a rise to a high-priestess for Lord Stark. Any such changes in the North ought to be approved by him and the king anyway."
"Many of the pious Northern lords and ladies are quite interested in my services and my vision of a clergy," Melisandre bowed. "It would be a shame if Winterfell was not the centre of the revived worship."
"Belief in the Old Gods is a private matter between the man–or a woman–and the gods themselves. There are no ceremonies, no forms, no prayers, and most importantly, no priests."
"But the priests have returned whether you like it or not," she bowed her head. "And there are no laws forbidding my existence. Think on my words, Princess."
With a curtsy that gave an ample view of her almost exposed chest to Jon Snow, the priestess excused herself and left.
It was now only her, the direwolves, and Jon Snow. Only eight and ten, he looked every inch the Warrior in the flesh with his scarred face that somehow made him even more charming. Each mark was thin; one ran through his left eye, and there was a cross-shaped one on his right cheek, one horizontal on his brow and a few disappearing into his stubble. Half a head taller than Myrcella, with broad shoulders and built like a shadow cat, he felt like a drawn sword. He might as well have been one, judging by his exploits.
A year prior, Myrcella would have dismissed most of them. Two years prior, she would have thought it a bard's tale. But the respect and awe in the voice of the Northmen, clansmen, and wildlings who fought by his side was unmistakable. Dismissing one man, a dozen, or even a hundred men would be easy. But thousands? Myrcella logically knew the lords, chieftains, and clansmen couldn't be trying to deceive her with the same lie, which meant it had to be true.
She had seen him lead each skirmish, rush first into every battle with no hesitation. A brave and dangerous thing, for the Northmen loved him for it, which made him all the more dangerous in an entirely new way.
His skills couldn't be denied either, having Dark Sister, Nightfall, and Red Rain, the latter two pried off the corpses of their slain owners.
"Be wary of Melisandre," he warned. "She's far more insidious and dangerous than she looks. Keep her close, if you must, but be aware that she is as zealous as the many fools that perished under Winterfell's walls."
"Let's say I trust your word. Should I keep Melisandre close the way you're keeping her close?" Myrcella looked at Rhaegar's son, who did not so much as blink, causing her to narrow her eyes. "Skulltaker, sorcerer, lord of wargs, crownbreaker."
"I love my brother, and I thought it prudent to warn his wife," he shrugged. "And I prefer Jon Snow or the White Huntsman if you'll use meaningless monikers."
"Melisandre of Asshai might be ambitious and dangerous, but you're no less troublesome," she challenged him. "You used Catelyn's grief to earn yourself a punitive expedition to the Iron Islands in the spur of the moment."
Myrcella would have been far more scared of his sway with the Northmen than his lineage as Rhaegar's son. He had the popularity of a war hero, the leadership and charisma of a king, and the skills of the Warrior himself. His frankly ridiculous, unbreakable ice armour and control over canines were just as alarming. If he wanted a throne, he could claim it despite the dead weight that would be his wildling wife. But Jon Snow seemed painfully uninterested in anything beyond slaughtering Ironborn and Reachmen.
And he loved his family. Rickon adored him–and Catelyn Stark had agreed to keep her youngest son as his squire, for Jon Snow seemed to be the only one who could rein in the little hellion. Sansa was already gifted a bracelet of ice that seemed all the rage around the envious northern ladies. It was even rarer than dragonsteel ornaments, for only Sansa could wear it.
Surely enough, her query was answered solemnly, "The Ironborn are a menace that needs to be squashed for good. Might as well do it now after the Iron Fleet is captured and most of the reaver lords and their fighting men have perished."
"The siege of Moat Cailin has to be broken, and Barrowton has to be retaken first," Myrcella reminded.
"Blackwood and a host of Rivermen have shattered the zealots and Reachmen at the Moat," he offered. "He has just finished sweeping out their remnants and is heading to Barrowton, protected by a token garrison."
"And how would you know?"
"I do have eyes in the sky, remember?" He lazily leaned on the nearby archway. "It's how the Redwyne's letter is already flying to his mariners. If we move fast, we might see them take Barrowton before Blackwood. Either way, the campaign details can be ironed out once the army rests and the surroundings are swept clean."
Myrcella took a deep breath. Arguments over martial matters with an experienced commander were bound to be a lost cause, but that didn't mean she would give up or swallow her qualms. "There's still the revolt in the Night's Watch–many of the Reachmen are rebelling against Lord Commander Benjen Stark last we heard from Castle Black."
"Aye, but it is a minor matter." Jon waved dismissively. "They are divided and lack the numbers, and Uncle Benjen is not without skills–the mutiny has been mostly quelled, and the last of it is contained at Icemark. I've talked with Mors Umber, and he'll lead a thousand men–the Umber men and the warriors of the mountain clans up the kingsroad. If the revolving black brothers are dealt with, the men can just go home, and if not, they will help crush the remnants."
And yet Myrcella heard of this for the first time–doubtlessly, his skinchangers flying around. Jon Snow was tightlipped in the matters of warfare, and it felt that trying to get a glimpse of his thoughts or plans on the subject was like pulling teeth from a direwolf's maw.
Was it a warrior's pride or a king's pride?
"Very well," she graciously allowed. No matter how much Myrcella wanted to complain, she would wield the sword given to her, even if it put her on edge.
Uncharacteristic hesitation flashed across Jon's face. "I have a favour to ask."
"Speak your request, then."
"Allow Leaf and the remaining Singers in the Godswood," Jon said, voice softening.
"I thought they were sworn to you?"
"They are, but I have no more need for them. The Singers are merely the shadow of what was long lost," Jon Snow's gaze turned distant. "These are the last half a hundred remaining. While they might call themselves Those Who Sing the Song of the Earth, they thrive in the forest along the streams. Leaf and her kin served me with far more loyalty than I expected, but they have no place in the bloody disputes of men."
Ah, so there was a tinge of mercy and kindness behind that icy shell.
"Shouldn't you ask such permission from Lady Stark instead?"
"I could, but you're the one who runs Winterfell." Jon Snow chuckled. "There's no love lost between me and Lady Stark, and it might be for the best. Besides, I know better than to disturb a grieving mother."
He was sharp of wit and observant, too. It was a refreshing change from how the Northmen stubbornly did things. The cunning of a wolf, backed by a straightforward manner and martial skill.
She couldn't help but grin inwardly. If she had met Jon Snow much earlier and under different circumstances… perhaps in another life, this man could have made her a queen. Alas, it was not meant to be, for her vows were already sealed, and she preferred Winterfell to King's Landing, and her heart belonged to Robb and little Edwyn.
"Very well, I shall agree then." Myrcella reached out to scratch Lady's neck, earning herself a pleased rumble from her throat. Then Shaggydog nudged her, suddenly eager for her attention as well. "What will you do with your eight giants, then? Will you leave them behind, too?"
"Unlike the Singers, there are still more giants lingering beyond the wall in tribes and clans, big and small. Three have expressed a desire to return Beyond the Wall to their kin. Three more wanted to settle in the Northern Mountains, and two wanted to follow me anyway." His face turned serene, and after a moment of silence, he switched the topic, "By the way, you shouldn't have killed the Hightower envoy."
Myrcella cursed.
"I thought I stopped the word from spreading out," she huffed.
"Such secrets seen by so many have an easy way of spreading out. Besides, Paxter Redwyne still lives."
"Even so, surely it wouldn't be such a problem?"
"Besides diminishing House Stark's reputation of honour?" He asked rhetorically. "Well, you will face a harder time earning trust in future negotiations if you are ever allowed to visit any. The enemies of House Stark might be reluctant to parley or even sit to discuss a surrender in the future. It would take a generation or two to wash away this stain."
She had expected this deep inside. Nobody offered her any rebuke in Winterfell, and Catelyn had not spoken a word of it, but Myrcella had suspected there would eventually be consequences. But why would she be blamed for breaking the unspoken rules of war when that brute Hightower and his ilk were acting like savages from the very start of the war?!
This was not a rebuke but a test, she realised. There was no accusation in his voice, merely curiosity. Myrcella quickly realised why. After all, a princess was no warrior to need honour; her main work was to manage the household, give birth, and raise strong heirs.
"Reputation can always be rebuilt. And it's good that the enemies of House Stark are rebellious pretenders fighting a war that is only win or die," Myrcella retorted coldly. "Even better if there's no peace made with them until they're pulled out root and stem–something you planned to do with the Ironmen on your own, is it not?"
"Quite so," Jon Snow responded, mirth creeping into his voice. He bowed, "If there's nothing else, Princess."
Just as Jon Snow turned to leave, she cried out, "Wait!"
"Yes, Princess?"
"You are a lord of the realm by my royal father's decree, yet you lack lands. Have you decided on which fiefdom you will choose?"
Robert Baratheon's more than generous decree afforded Jon Snow a free choice of any free lands and castles. But decrees of dead kings paled before the sheer contribution that Jon Snow had made so far. His choice here would reveal his character, for he had done more than enough with two kings crushed under his belt to request major castles like Highgarden or Harrenhal.
"It is burdensome to deal with such distant trifles when we're still at war," he replied indifferently. "When peace comes, I shall take whichever fief my Lord Father and Robb decide is prudent."
When Jon Snow left the courtyard, Myrcella burst out in hysterical laughter. Not due to the seemingly unambitious response but because of it. It sounded innocuous enough, but she had heard the unsaid. If there was anyone who would value the merits Jon Snow had made and continued to make, it would be the father who raised him and the brother he grew alongside. The more he proved himself loyal, capable, and dependable, the further he would rise, or the Stark Bannermen themselves would question why such grand contributions were not rewarded. They would lose heart if they were not.
A shiver ran down Myrcella's spine. Jon Snow was as cunning as he was dangerous on the battlefield, and her only consolation was that he was on the side of House Stark. Gods, she had been so wrong. In the end, this had never been Rhaegar's son. The Silver Prince might have sired Jon Snow, but Eddard Stark was his father.
***
It took scholars some time, but the Black Death was studied extensively. By the latest observations, it spread the most amongst the cities, where men and women were clustered closest together in significant numbers. The villages and smaller towns were far less affected. The cold seemed to halt the disease, which was most welcome news with the coming winter. The Black Death was noticed to spread with vermin and uncleanliness, prompting many to employ all sorts of methods to improve drainage and exterminate all pests.
However, some cities like Yunkai and Mereen chose to evict the denizens of their slums who lived in filth.
Regardless, the disease seemed to finally slow down in its spread across the Sunset Lands, and aside from the Stormlands, only small parts of the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Northmarch were affected.
Once again, there was no victor in sight in the bitter struggle between Qohor and Norvos.
Just as Ibb was sieging Lorath, the Black Plague spread through the fleet, killing many and the blockade was lifted. Lorath was visited by the Many-Faced God next, and the half-dead fleet seemed to have brought the affliction to Ibb. The conflict died within three moons, as it was said that all the warriors fit to fight perished.
Khal Drogo's Khalasar split in two after his death, led by two of his former ko's, Jhoqo and Pono, who crushed the Patrimony of Hyrkoon in a series of battles, and took thousands of their warrior-maids as slaves.
With Myr and Tyrosh broken by the Westerosi, Lys quickly finished devouring most of the Disputed Lands. Meanwhile, it continued its campaign in the Stepstones to devour the Islands agreed upon by the Partition with Dorne but met stiffer resistance. Both the pirate princes and the Lyseni paid a hefty tribute to Regent Eddard Stark in hopes of securing his assistance–or at least his neutrality. Another reason was the newly enforced quarantine, which held each newcomer to the city in a special dock to prevent the spread of the Black Death.
The situation in the Sunset Lands seemed to simmer down slowly.
The revolt in the Night's Watch was squashed within the second moon.
With the Skulltaker crushing the Hightower and Greyjoy kings grasping for the North under his boots and Robb Stark butchering any resurgence of the Faith Militant and slowly but surely killing his way through the lands surrounding the Honeywine, Lord Leyton Hightower, also known as Leyton the Old, attempted to sue for peace on the grounds that his unfilial sons had taken power and put him in house arrest in his own home. Robb Stark refused anything but an unconditional surrender and continued his ruthless campaign. Many of the previously unswayed Reachlords flocked to Highgarden to join the Young Wolf and swear fealty to Tommen.
Dorne's shores burned under the command of Ser Jason Melcolm, Ser Wylis Manderly, and Ser Davos Seaworth. The fleet transporting the Golden Company was torched at anchor, and the Dornish could do nought but watch.
Aegon's luck seemed to have turned for the worse, with his close kin denouncing his existence with such staunch vehemence. Garlan the Grim's daring escapade had not only slain Wyl in the middle of his own camp but left hundreds dead and twice as many wounded. After licking his wounds, Aegon continued marching on Storm's End without much haste.
Just when it would seem Aegon would have to contend against the remainder of Westeros on his own, Anya Waynwood raised her banners in his name. Two-thirds of the Vale Lords followed after her, for the Dark Death had struck Vale's coast the worst, and the Trial of the Seven had taken Joffrey and Tommen's staunchest supporters.
Within a sennight, the Castellan of the Gates of the Moons surrendered, and the Eyrie was besieged by Anya Waynwood, who claimed Ser Vardis Egen, an ambitious scoundrel with no right to hold Robert Arryn hostage from the rightful regents and his kin.
The gods seemed to smile upon House Rowan, for Edmure Tully was forced to wheel around his army and defend the Riverlands. Lord Bracken's army slowly retreated to protect the now-empty King's Landing-
Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'.