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Whelp, here it goes. A Lord of the Rings/Game of Thrones crossover which isn't just a sappy one-shot primarily concerned with pairing a girl up with Legolas. I normally would be content with just waiting for the next House of Elendil (which, I will shamelessly admit, was the inspiration of this fic, and to my understanding, is the immensely superior version of this crossover) chapter to come out, but I guess writer's block hits the best of us. Now, I'm primarily still dealing with A Spartan in Westeros, still, so I'll most likely not be as consistent here as I am there. Just a warning.

Sons of Westernesse, Sons of Westeros: Prologue

The beginnings of this tale trace back thousands of years into the past, far from the shores of Westeros and it's Kingdoms; past the Sunset Sea, to the lost land of Numenor. Thousands of years before Aegon and his sister-wives landed in Westeros, and a thousand more before the shepherd ancestors of their people forged an empire with sorcery and fire; the splendor of Westernesse was already mighty and ancient, like the great White Tree which stood as scion to the Numenorians and their descendants.

From their island homeland of Elenna, they held sway over a vast, sea-faring empire, spanning from the Sunset Sea to it's east, and the unknown waters to even further west. The first contact Westeros made with Numenor was some seven thousand years ago, when the First Men and the Children of the Forest had driven out the Others only a few centuries before. A small trading fleet stumbled upon the wreckage of a ship, far off from the shores of Westeros, where they miraculously discovered a lone survivor on board-Brandon Stark the Shipwright, King in the North. They rescued him, feverish, near-starved, and half-frozen from his marooned vessel, and brought him to their homeland, where he was graciously received by the ruling King of Numenor, Tar-Palantir, who allegedly helped to heal the Stark patriarch with his own hands. Whether that was true or not, what was known was that the two men soon became fast and great friends-it would be from this friendship that the destinies of their descendants, and that of the whole of Westeros, would be forever intertwined.

As he recovered his strength in the halls of the King's House, Brandon could only marvel as he walked through the cobbled streets of Armenelos, the capitol of Numenor, in awe of it's majesty and wonder. Winterfell, though a mighty fortress in it's own right, seemed little more than an unworthy hovel as he compared the labors of his ancestors to the feats of the High Men. And even the mightiest of his banners would have paled before the disciplined, tall, and mighty legions of Westernesse, all arrayed in silver plate and black surcoats, with wide tower shields and swan-winged helms. As much as Brandon had fancied himself a shipwright, and had built what he believed a great fleet by which he could sail across the Sunset Sea, his lifelong ambition seemed a petty thing when he beheld the white ships of Numenor, with one of their multiple fleets shaming his aspirations as folly. And as he watched the prosperity of the commonfolk, their livelihoods seeming to make his own subjects no more than uncultured barbarians, he openly envied and admired his benefactor.

Yet, as Brandon praised in open awe of his people's glory, Tar-Palatir seemed increasingly troubled; the lament and sorrow Brandon had only seen glimpses of when he first came now increasing in frequency...

Approximately 6120 Before the Conquest, or The Year 3200 of the Second Age

Twilight had come again to Armenelos, as Brandon observed the city from on high in the King's House, gazing down from the balcony of his apartments. The setting sun's light shone off the city's ivory white structures, casting them in a hazy reddish orange, which reminded him of the tales he had heard of Dorne's seas of sand far south of his home. The sky was awash in a stark purple, with subtle hints of lavender and orange as they came closer towards the horizon. High in the heavens, he could just begin to make out the tiny pinpricks of light beginning to glean through, the first of the stars to cut through the night sky.

For all the weeks he had spent basking amidst it's majesty, the King in the North could never feel he had had his fill of the marvels of the city, and of the provinces which comprised the whole of Numenor. His host had been most gracious as he toured Brandon throughout his realm, and even the most inconsequential memory of their journeys still felt like vivid dreams to him. The land was green and verdant, such that even the Kings of the Reach in their flowery southron halls would have become as red as their precious roses, shamed before the fertility of Westernesse's fields. Their shores were seeming untouched by the merciless tides which had nearly claimed Brandon to the sea, the memory of his ship being floundered haunting him still.

But his appraisal of his benefactor's kingdom came to an end when he heard the footsteps of another man approach the balcony. Brandon turned himself about, and smiled when he saw the very man approach him, inclining his head to him in the respectful manner he had come to acknowledge the King in the North, despite his own lofty station. "I trust you find the evening well, Brandon," Tar-Palantir said in his quiet yet deep voice, the tall man stepping forward until he stood beside the Stark joining his gaze of the city.

To another man, Brandon would have found such familiar use of his name, with no regards to his titles or station, to be brazen and insulting. But Stark was too indebted to this man to be so distant, to say nothing of the bond of fellowship he had come to cherish from his friend. Instead, he offered his friend a hearty smile, giving a slight chuckle. "As well as usual, I must confess, Palantir. I do not mean to sound repetitive of my prior appraisal of your cuisine, but it is, in a single word, magnificent as always, as is the rest of the hospitality you have rendered unto me. I must confess, in these robe of linen and silk, I feel more content than a babe at his mother's breast."

Palantir scoffed at the remark, placing his hands upon the railing as he stood beside Brandon. "It pleases me to know my accommodations have not become stale in your eyes, my friend." He then cast his gaze out again to his city, a distant look claiming his eyes. A calm silence passed between them, as the warm, sea-borne breeze gently filled the twilight air. After a moment, Palantir chose to speak again, asking a strange question. "Brandon, could you enlighten me of the lay of your own land, again?"

"My land, friend?" Brandon looked at him oddly, then shrugged. Amidst the nights they had spent conversing, Palantir had been curious to know of his own kingdom, though aside from general knowings of the North, Brandon felt it would have been distasteful to disappoint his friend of the finer point's of the North. "I've told you much of it already-it is, by much account, greatly larger than your kingdom. But if we had three times as much land, I'd still think your land both more verdant and bountiful. It is a harsh place, the North."

"I would imagine so. From what you've told me, winters can last for many a year where you come from. And to have snowfall even in the midst of summer..." The Numenorian king shook his head. "But at the very least, your summers last longer, as well."

"And our cold soil still yields few crops, even in those times, I fear. We rely greatly on hunting game to sustain ourselves, especially farther north. It is not a land I would wish to burden you departing the lofty halls of this paradise to visit."

"Ah, but such unforgiving conditions are not entirely without benefit," Palantir smiled. "The harshness of such a land would doubtlessly help to carve a man down to his true self. You yourself are a man of great honor, Brandon."

"And what, may I ask, has made you so curious as to seek the lay of my kingdom, friend?" Brandon asked, curious. "Surely you would not think such a land a better place to live than here, do you?"

[BGM: Strange Battery; Numenor - Akallabeth]

To that, Palantir was silent for a long while, a dark look lining his face. "Tell me, Brandon, when you look out unto this land, what do you see?"

"What do I see...?" Brandon uttered, confused. He glanced back down, watching as the twilight began to give way to dusk. "I see a magnificent city, unlike any I had ever seen nor that any king of the whole of Westeros could ever claim to compare. I see a star set into the Sunset Sea, an ivory cornerstone amidst the endless emerald-sapphire. I see feats of engineering and architecture not even within the imagination of my people. Armies with such valor and strength that they could seem poised to take all the world before them, fleets which could sail from one end of the world to the other, and beyond. Harvests so bountiful and full of plenty, I could give the whole of it to my people, and we'd all become great and fat. I see enough wealth to make even the most low of your subjects seem with goodness and never wanting for anything." He turned again to his friend, trying to understand the great sadness in his eyes. "I see the exemplar by which all the world should envy and admire, fear and love all at once. Why then, my friend, do you seem so dispirited?"

"You would see it's wonder, my friend. The splendor and glory of Numenor. I would not blame you in that regard-the land is beautiful. But permit me to tell you what my mother once told me: all that glitters is not gold. Where good things are abundant, therein lies the seeds of decadence and corruption."

To that, Brandon could only try to look out again into the city, and yet he could not see any cause for Palantir to lament as he did.

"Thousands of years ago, this land was given to my forefathers as recompense for our valor in a great and terrible war, in which we were victorious only at great cost. Our original homeland was smote so terribly that what remained of our people could no more dwell there. The Powers of our world therefore gave this land to us, so that we might abide and prosper herein. For centuries, we honored their gift and obeyed their edicts, and my ancestors founded the empire you now see. We reaped great harvests, erected mighty cities and fortresses, found wealth beyond measure, and knew a golden age of learning and progress... but we have squandered our heritage, neglected what we should have never forgotten. We soon ungratefully turned to mistrust the very forces which granted us our home, and bade us to flourish as we have. The very sweetness of our prosperity turned our hearts sour, and our relations to those who gifted this land to us, bitter.

"We began to question the laws that the Valar placed upon us, chiefly their Ban, which forbade us from sailing to the Uttermost West, to the Undying Lands, evergreen and untouched by winter, woe, or plague. Those we should have considered our friends and benefactors, we alienated and mistrusted, instead growing proud over our own merits and accomplishments. And thus, a shadow fell over our lands, and my people lost their way. For centuries, the Lords of the West cautioned us of our folly, warning us with eagle-fashioned storm clouds that our disobedience would ultimately cost us everything. But still my fathers did not listen-only a small portion of my people remain faithful to the Valar's edicts. 'Tis only through my mother's influence that I myself repented, I confess. I have tried to turn us back to the old ways, tried to restore our ancient faith in the Powers of the West... but I fear I may be too late."

"Too late?" Brandon asked, Palantir's words seeming to fill the Stark with some dark dread. His tenure in Numenor had made him familiar with their culture, but he had a more difficult time trying to understand the highly confusing faith they practiced. From what Brandon could understand of what his friend had told him, the Numenorians, or at least the Faithful, believed in a supreme, all-mighty deity they called Eru Iluvatar, who created the world with his song, but left the fashioning of the world itself to his firstborn creations, celestial beings known as the Ainur, whom he may have otherwise mistaken for his own Old Gods. They seemed strangely absent from the world, from the way Brandon understood, and there also seemed seldom few practices of their faith towards Eru. But it seemed for the best, as from the Westernesse scholars' lore, the last time the Valar, chief and mightiest of the Ainur, intervened directly, they shattered an entire landscape so utterly, even the Children's obliteration of the Arm of Dorne and the swamping of the Neck seemed trivial in comparison...

And it suddenly dawned on Brandon as to the sheer folly of choosing to offend such beings of might. For though he was not sure himself of what to believe, if a man as wise and far-sighted as Palantir seemed so troubled, he himself could not dismiss it so easily.

"When I attempted to restore our ancient traditions, and of our worship of Eru and the Valar, my own brother rebelled against me, along with an army of dissidents." The sadness in Palantir's eyes seemed all the more apparent now, as though that memory wounded him more than any other. "I had no choice but to end it swiftly, and without mercy, or the realm would have been sundered in further war. I watched as my own flesh and blood, lying on the ground, mortally wounded from wounds he'd sustained in the final hour of that uprising, curse at me even with his dying breath. The realm was brought back into peace, though still many of my people refuse to repent for abandoning the Valar. Ever since my brother's death, I have been desperately searching for some sigh-any sign-that the Powers may spare us. But... I fear they tell me it is too late to save this realm; for dark have been my dreams of late. I see in them that, after my passing, an usurper shall claim my crown, and though he will be more mighty and great than I, he will also be terribly proud. And that pride will lead a darkness into this land, which will spell the final doom of our people, all swallowed beneath the sea. And, yet... there are other signs I see. The shadow which shall smother Westernesse shall blacken the sky like the ash of the fiery mountains, but in the east, a pale light will linger, like a beacon to guide my people out of the night. Nine white ships, sailing through a storm of terrible fierceness, heading eastward, onto a cold, rocky shore. And there to greet them on the beaches... wolves. Great, giant, mighty wolves."

"Direwolves?" Brandon asked, eyes wide. "The fabled beasts of the north that are the sigil of my house?"

"Then it seems that my assumption was correct," The Numenorian king said gravely. "The Lords of the West are warning me this land is indeed doomed. And yet hope still remains... on your shores, Brandon. The fact that my men found you adrift at sea not a fortnight after my most recent dream is no coincidence."

"In my land, Palantir...?" Brandon suddenly paled. "Surely you do not mean..."

"Do not misunderstand, my friend. I would never think to invade your land, not the least on account of our friendship. No, if my people must go east, we shall do so with respect for your dominion over the land. What I ask is this-is there a place in your realm, where my people may take refuge in, that they may rely on your people's allegiance and support?" The look in Palantir's eyes were almost pleading now as he looked to his friend.

Brandon furrowed his brow in concentration, wondering between Palantir's words and the implications therein. "In your dream, you say the white ships came upon a cold, rocky beach, yes? That sounds a great deal like the Stoney Shore, upon the western coast of the North. It is sparely populated, to be sure, but that can be said of all the North. Perhaps..."

For once, Palantir's eyes brightened, and for a moment the despair which had gripped him seemed to ebb from his face. "Brandon, you would undertake this endeavor? For a man you have only known for a month?"

Brandon looked to his friend again, his eyes grim. "Your people saved my life, and you yourself have taken me in as an honored guest, clothing me in fine raiment, allowing me to partake of your meals, and have graced me with the honor of seeing your kingdom. In the North, we value honor above all else, and for all you've done, I would be nothing short of obliged and happy to at least allow your people to settle in our less populated areas. And surely the influence of your culture would be a great boon to my own-if you helped us to build roads and structures like yours, sow crops in our cold soil, and teach us the craft of metallurgy as your people have..." The King of Winter then grimaced, however. "I would be a madman to refuse such a prospect, but there are several factors which would deter such hopes. Chief among them would be my own people, and the lords which have sworn fealty to me."

Palantir nodded in understanding, though his eyes were still saddened. "I would understand their mistrust. We would be strangers coming to live off their own land, and from your appraisal of my kingdom, I would imagine they would be fearful of us encroaching on their soil."

"And envious of you," Brandon quipped. "But that is just one problem. Another is the fact that we already have a sea-faring neighbor. One that we share a distinctly less friendly relationship than I do with you. The Ironborn, as they call themselves, are pirates that have preyed our shores for centuries, pillaging and burning for no prospect save to relish their own blood-lust and greed. My people may be less inclined to accept you with those damned sea dogs constantly raiding our coasts, to say nothing of the endangerment of your people should they come to our shores. They were the ones who attacked my ship and killed my men, leaving me to die before your people found me-they would assuredly harm you and yours."

Palantir seemed to be thinking of something odd at that moment, for an inquisitive look came upon his face. "Come to think of it, we did encounter some hostility around the time that you were found. They had attempted to attack another of our trade fleets, doubtlessly to plunder our goods, but they were swiftly deterred. Their warriors were fierce, to be sure, but they were ultimately no match for our marines on-board. As I recall, one of the captains told me it had an unknown heraldry upon it's sail: a pale man's head, with gulfweed for beard and hair, and a black crown resting upon it's brow." Brandon's eyes darkened at that, which didn't go unnoticed by the Numenorian king. "Do you recognize that sigil?"

"House Greyiron," Brandon spat disdainfully. "The kings of the Iron Islands. Oh, yes, I know them. Those are likely the very bastards who attacked my ship. To think they'd have the brazen impudence to sail so far out...! Did your men kill the lot of them?"

"No, I'm afraid," Palantir admitted, clasping his chin between his thumb and fist. "Unfortunately, they appeared to have dawned on the notion they weren't robbing simple cheese-mongers, and they collected enough sense when they realized we were about to board them that they sailed away."

"Hah! Running back with their tails between their legs the moment they realize they have real warriors battling them! They'll be licking their wounds back at their rocky island."

Palantir shook his head. "And that, I fear, may be a problem. With the knowledge that there are other ships out this far at sea, they will likely come to the conclusion that there are other shores for them to plunder."

Brandon's thoughts went between horror, to guilt, to outrage. "...Then, my foolhardy venture out to sea may have endangered your people, my friend. Others take those damn ironborn!"

"Do not be so quick to regret what has already happened, Brandon," Palantir assured him. "That incident, and what may come to pass in due time as a result, is not your doing. And, that aside, fate has a way of rending opportunities when masked as crisis. Their encroachment this far out alone may not give my people enough cause to go to war, but in light of what you have told me of their ways..."

"You would come to our aid in driving out the Ironborn from our shores?" Brandon looked at his friend quizzically, before it dawned on him. "Hold, Palantir, do you mean to say...?"

"You are very quick on the uptake, Brandon," The King of Westernesse said with a small smile. "If I render aid to the North to subdue the Ironborn and drive them from your lands, and likely also encourage them to not return to such barbarous ways, surely then your lords would not be so hesitant to allow my people to settle therein?"

"Well..." Brandon wondered, frankly shocked at the proposal. The Ironborn had always been a blight to the North, and to drive them from his lands had been one of the reasons he was so inspired to mass his own fleet. But the possibility, the mere notion that they could take the fight to the heart of the ironborn's strength, and tear down the walls of their strongholds? It never occurred to him that such a campaign were possible. Not with just the North's strength. But... if he were to combine his fleet with even one of the Numenorians', proper supplies, siege equipment, weapon stocks, and of course soldiers... "It could work. It will assuredly take some convincing among the other lords, but the prospect of invading the Iron Islands, and putting an end to those dastardly cutthroats once and for all will bring many of them to agreement. We will need to make the proper arrangements, but before we can even discuss logistics, I must return home, to Winterfell, and assemble my lords to first convey that I have returned, alive, and to inform them of our endeavor."

"Then I will assemble whatever you need to see you safely home, my friend," Palantir said with a solemn vow, extending an open hand to Brandon. "Take what time you must to recover in these halls, and in the meantime, I shall find a suitable escort to carry you to your fatherland."

With a grim determination on his face, Brandon returned his friend's gesture, doing his best impression of the Numenorian clasping of forearms. "Then may I recover with all haste-and when I do, may whatever power that resides in this world grant us fortune in the coming days."