Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall

The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it.

I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.

Chapter 25 Review Responses

JosephLeeCollins: I hypothesize that they did try with the North, however the Kings of Winter held more authority over their houses than those in the south did and Theon the Hungry Wolf lining the coast with the heads of Andals on pikes probably drove home what would happen to anybody who converted to the Faith of the Seven. The immigration took place over many generations, but I can imagine that between the Starks keeping a firm grip on the North and the Andals being disinclined to keep wasting time trying to bring in the coldest, least habitable region in Westeros into the fold they eventually just gave up…until somebody decided to try a crusade of their own only to not even get through the front door (Moat Cailin). That's just my theory though.

ManWithaPlan113: Hopefully Jon won't be so sadistic.

n0mster: Gotta give Jon a consolation prize of some kind at the end of the day, if only to balance out the crap he got at the end of Season 8.

Tom2011: One might say that he couldn't slow down, he couldn't hold back though we all know he wishes he could.

thelifeandtimes: Fair assessment, and the pacing will speed up a bit.

VoteableDuke: Who needs CleganeBowl when you have DivineBowl?

TianYi: Thank you!

REQUIEMC: Maybe at some point.

n0mster: And may that pragmatism carry him like it carried the Winter Kings of yore.

Narahc avis: Time will tell.

Sauron's Wrath: I'm sorry, but at this point unless you make an account and reply through it then I don't feel obligated to really discuss this with you. I'm sorry that you aren't enjoying some aspects and I do hope that you'll like more of what is to come, but…if you won't put in a little effort so that we can have a two way discussion and hash out your concerns like adults, then why should I?

Tolkien's Ring: No spoilers, I'm afraid.

Alright, so one issue pointed out with this story is the pacing. And up until the recent chapter, that was a deliberate move on my part. The arc of Jon going beyond the Wall, saving the Free Folk, finding the Fist, sailing to Skagos and Skane and slaying Tar-Medine could be considered a 'Book 1'of sorts to help build a world where elements of both ASOIAF and Lord of the Rings can coexist plausibly. The coming plot arcs won't be as drawn out and will be spread out more to focus on multiple characters, a bit like how Shadow of War's DLCs focused on new characters.

Xxx

Chapter Twenty-Six: Invasion

24th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

The North, Widow's Watch

Robert Flint was born the very day that ravens flew across the North, announcing the discovery and safe return of Rickon Stark by his bastard half-brother. Lady Lyessa Flint, in a moment of nostalgia, had named her son for the King who her family had bled for. Before the wings had begun to turn she would not have done something so blatant for fear of Bolton retaliation, but her informants in Hornwood spoke of their forces withdrawing towards the Dreadfort.

They were scared because Stannis was already gaining ground. A trueborn son of Ned Stark was just another nail in the coffin for them. She could sense the day fast approaching when her husband and so many other good men would be avenged.

"Word from White Harbour, my lady." Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Maester Tolan, scroll in hand, seal still intact. "If I may?"

Given that she had her hands full with Robert feeding from her breast, she consented. "You may."

Breaking the seal, he unrolled the parchment and read its contents to her. "Lady Flint, my congratulations to you on the birth of your son. Known or suspected Bolton sympathizers have been named and are under watch. The time has come. Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour, Warden of the Whiteknife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Marshal of the Mander and Grandmaster of the Order of the Greenhand."

"I swear, he used half that parchment listing his own titles." Lyessa grumbled. "Write to Captain Horas, tell him to seize and secure Hornwood Castle. Poor Donella's remains are probably still rotting there, so have him see to their burial. If they find any Bolton man on those lands, take their heads and mount them on pikes at the border."

There was no further need for discretion. Soon the Flayers would know the price of betrayal and blind ambition.

"As you command, my lady." The Maester bowed and began to shuffle out of her chambers only to be almost knocked over when the master-of-arms barrelled in.

"My lady! Ships spotted to the east! Over a hundred of them!"

Lyessa calmed Robert as he fussed. "Stannis Baratheon?"

"Nay, these come from a more southern bearing and are sailing straight for the castle."

The Lady of Widow's Watch closed her gown, set Robert in his crib and left him to be tended by a maid as she followed the man out to the watchtower from which her ancestral known took its name. From there she could see the mass of sails, still many miles out but closing upon them.

Unable to discern anything from such distance, she held out a hand expectantly to the watchman on duty and was given a lens tube. She peered through it and adjusted it slightly to give her a clear look at the nearest of the vessels…and the seven pointed red star overlayed by a sword.

A chill ran up her spine. "Open the Widow's Eye." She said. "And evacuate the castle, dispatch every raven and rider we have. Baratheon was right, the men of the Axe have come."

Xxx

The North, Castle Cerwyn

Steelshanks Walton did not appreciate having to ride out in the cold to remind some lesser house of their obligations. After the losses they'd taken under the walls of Winterfell and the death of their lord Cley the remaining Cerwyns had known to fall into line, which made their insistence on having no further levies or supplies to direct to Winterfell puzzling as it was frustrating- slightly less than the lack of response from the Karstark officer assigned to oversee the area. Even with the men they'd lost in the south and at Winterfell there were still some several hundred who could be reliably called to arms, and the castle and its lands had been spared any Ironborn raids.

Yet as he rode out from another abandoned village, he could not help but wonder if there was some grain of truth in Jonelle Cerwyn's claim. When her raven reached Winterfell it had been Ramsay who volunteered to go and chastise her for her deception he'd been stopped by his father, who remembered the last time his son had paid a visit to Cerwyn lands. He needed to send someone reliable, yet not immediately viewed as a valuable hostage, someone who could bring the Cerwyns to heel without razing every inch of land between Winterfell and the White Knife.

So here he was, freezing his balls off. Luckily there hadn't been any snowfall for days, none so great that it could impede travel anyways, so his party made good time as they came to Castle Cerwyn. It was not a grand fortress, moderately sized and positioned on a raised slope that would make an attack from any direction difficult. It was built into the end of a village which shared this raised ground, overlooking the southern shore of the White Knife, with one gate leading out of the castle on the northern side and another close by on the western side (both defended by steep gorges and drawbridges). Two more lesser defended gates to the south and east out of the village itself.

The banner of House Bolton fluttered over the northern gate as Steelshanks' company crossed the lowered bridge, their horses' hooves clomping loudly against the wood. Men in Karstark colours greeted him in the courtyard while servants ducked out of sight.

"Where is Lady Cerwyn?" Steelshanks demanded.

"Look no further, my lord!"

Steelshanks glanced up to see a dark haired woman, plump and homely in a gown of and cloak dark grey glare down at him from a balcony. "I'm right here," she said coolly, "honed and ready."

Before he could muster a response his horse reared back, pierced by three darts, and flung him down to the muck. The Karstark men who'd greeted him had taken up arms while more rained down arrows. A portcullis dropped down over the northern gate, impaling two men and their horses while barring over half of Steelshanks' escort from the courtyard. A second portcullis dropped down where the passage opened to the bridge, further dividing them and trapping a handful in a narrow space before rocks and arrows rained down from above.

Walton was able to climb to his feet and stuck a dagger in the first man to get near him, taking their sword in time to defend himself from two more. But around him he could hear his men being slaughtered without mercy, with those outside the wall meeting a similar fate as they were set upon by men who kept them trapped on the bridge, leaving them vulnerable and forced to decide between defending themselves or keeping their horses from bolting off the side of the drawbridge.

Something cut into his left leg from behind. Walton snarled and turned about only to find his weapon forced down and a sword pommel slammed into his temple, debilitating him. By the time he came to his senses the sounds of battle had ended and he was being dragged by his arms before Jonelle Cerwyn herself.

"Welcome to my home." She said. "I'm afraid that as a result of Ramsay Snow's conduct at the Siege of Winterfell, namely his murder of my brother, you will find our accommodations to be lacking."

Damn that mad little shit. Walton thought as a Karstark man next to Jonelle removed his helmet to reveal a dark skinned foreigner who flashed a pearly grin.

"Excellently done, my lady." Syronos Dirrin complimented.

"Done with pleasure, Captain." Jonelle waved two of her guards forward and had them tip over a trunk filled with severed heads. "Your esteemed allies, compliments of the usurper: Arnolf Karstark. I wish I could say they died well like my brother, but truth be told they died as befitting all traitors: squealing like pigs."

Walton clenched his jaw and glared defiantly at his captors. He was all too aware of how his fate rested upon the coming days, and where most men in his position would break and pray to be sentenced to the Wall, he had no such luxury. Silence was his only friend now.

"Hm." Syronos rubbed his jaw. "A shame. It seems that first man I let go was either a liar or had poor memory. Even on your feet you're shorter than he described." He snapped his fingers and Walton was dragged away. "Oh well, the others were truthful enough for a close description. All that matters is that you're here now, and during your stay I'd like to discuss something about cyphers with you."

Xxx

25th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

The Dreadfort, the North

For thousands of years the ancestral keep of the Red Kings had been viewed as nigh unassailable. In the past it had taken sieges stretching out into years for the Kings of Winter to bring their foes to heel, and at great cost in lives on both sides. In keeping with the architectural themes of the First Men it was built for function over form, but where even Winterfell was built with some creature comforts in mind this was designed foremost as a fortress for hosting an army for the long term and secondly as a home for nobility.

Though it was located on a plain which looked desolate under a layer of snow, the ground towards the outer walls sloped up enough to make moving siege towers against it an issue while machicolations would allow for oil, rock or arrow to rain upon any fool enough to get close to the base. Merlons like great black teeth jutted from its towers, large enough to conceal man or siege weapon and give them ample time to spot any approaching army. Beneath it, catacombs deep and treacherous to those unfamiliar made the perfect trap for sappers and safe storage for larders that could- and had, lasted years when pressed.

It was something that could not be taken with twenty thousand men unless nine for every ten gave their life throwing themselves upon it, and even that would not guarantee victory.

However, there was one thing which the Kings of Winter lacked which Stannis Baratheon had, through a stroke of luck, stumbled upon in the early stages of his northern campaign.

Giants.

First came the echoing, trumpeting cries from the north, concealed within the hills. Then the rumbling, as if a great storm was rolling across the land. The stag with a fiery heart fluttered upon many banners held high by the van, which held the flanks of a dozen giants astride their mammoths and backed by a mass of Free Folk. Suddenly there were thousands of men flooding across the plain towards the Dreadfort, whose sentries gaped in disbelief at what charged for them.

They fought well, to their credit. They'd rallied their bowmen, prepared barricades beyond the gates and ferried to the battlements pots of oil, large rocks and anything they could throw down onto their attackers.

It was not enough.

The giants' proficiency with their great bows served to cow many a defender into staying behind cover. Two mammoths battered down the gates within minutes and were swapped out with two that dealt with the portcullis next. Men tried to use murder holes to attack anything that passed through the gatehouse, but quickly found that these openings made for weak spots for a giant to reach up through and grab an unfortunate soul, squeezing the life from them or flinging them around until their screams stopped.

When the inner gate went down and most within laid down their arms there was one holdout who put a crossbow bolt into Wun-Wun's chest, amounting to little more than a sting and a discomforted grunt from the giant before he set his eyes on the culprit. The man scarcely realized what was about to happen before his head was enclosed and crushed with the ease of cracking an egg shell. Wun-Wun grunted and flung the body against the gatehouse, leaving a great red stain against the stone.

What few who hadn't dropped their weapons were quick to change that.

A group of Stormlanders led by Richard Horpe were the first ones in, jeering as they surrounded the clusters of kneeling Northmen with swords and spears levelled at them. They were followed by the Big Bucket and a herd of Clansmen and Free Folk, then Bear Islanders and men of the Wolfswood led by Alysane Mormont. Other scattered groups of Bolton men either fought and were put down or surrendered, some too slowly for the liking of the victors.

When Stannis Baratheon rode into the Dreadfort, some hundred men and women witnessed it from where they sat on their knees, quivering as the black armoured figure dismounted. He was joined by a golden haired woman in white and an aged knight marked with a colourful spiral on his armour. Banners of a stag with a fiery heart were ferried in and spread out, quickly creating a colourful palisade to either side of the Baratheon.

"Your Grace." Ser Richard planted the edge of his sword, grasped it with both hands and knelt. "The Dreadfort is yours."

Stannis removed his helmet and handed it to Ser Ormund Wylde. "As it should be." He said, surveying the collection of prisoners. "So few. Where are the rest?"

"My men will root them out where ever they hide." Ser Richard turned upon the prisoners with an ugly scowl as if he considered them at fault for some slight. "Grant me a room and time alone with one and I shall get to work."

"If the Dreadfort was occupied by an army, there wouldn't be enough space to hide them all." Stannis stepped past Ser Richard. "Nor would they have surrendered so quickly or been taken by surprise. This castle was not prepared for an assault…because most of its garrison has long departed."

He stopped before one of the kneeling Bolton fighters. "Five thousand men should be here. Five thousand traitors in service of Roose Bolton, Barbrey Dustin, Rodrik Ryswell, Arnold Karstark and their faithless bannermen. Yet scarcely fifty kneel before me with almost as many who are but servants. Tell me where they have gone."

The greying man spat on his boot and was struck for it by Richard Horpe before Stannis raised a hand and stopped him.

"Nay." Stannis beckoned with one hand and a block was carried forth by two men. "This one is old and has little left to live for. The Leech chose well who was to be left at our mercy. Bring him."

The man was dragged to the block where his head was taken without any ceremony, the blade swung by Stannis himself. "Next."

One by one the prisoners were dragged to him and given a single chance to answer. Their heads were mounted on pikes and erected atop the battlements where the Bolton banners were torn down.

It was after his twenty ninth swing that Stannis halted for the wailing of an old man, grandsire to a greenboy whose turn had come. "Wait! Please! Mercy, I beg you, your Grace! Spare the boy!"

"If you have answers to offer, then step forth and give them." Stannis commanded. "If I am satisfied, he may keep his head."

The old man, a long time servant of the Boltons, was allowed to approach where he fell to his knees. "Winterfell, your Grace. Steelshanks Walton took his men to Winterfell. He told us your host was sighted near there, that the battle would be far from here."

"Lies," Ser Richard snorted. "We never set foot near there and no other host but ours crosses these lands."

"Lies to us…and to him." Stannis lowered his sword to his side. "Leave the boy be. Disarm the rest."

"Why show them mercy?" Val asked bluntly as the prisoners were rounded up. "For seven nights you spoke of little but slaughtering every soul to be found here."

"These ones were abandoned by their Lord, left to die as a distraction." Stannis replied. "If not for your giants we may have held them at siege for days or weeks without breaching the walls. To move an army of near five thousand, less a hundred, would need the lion's share of the larders emptied out."

"They would have been starved out or just starved rather than seek our mercy." Ser Ormund said glumly, sunken eyes observing the smallfolk with pity. "The Leech Lord cares so little for his own."

"But haven't they still committed treason?" Val asked. "I know how much you kneelers like punishing that."

"Were it treason to serve the interests of one's Lord, the Seven Kingdoms would be a very empty place." Ormund explained to her. "True, smallfolk can and have been punished for taking up arms in their Lord's name, but their fates are typically to the victor's discretion. Many a time they are allowed to return home in peace so that they might beat their swords into ploughshares and toil in peace."

"What if they then beat them back into blades?" Val countered.

"Then mercy may be harder to come by the next time they lay defeated." Stannis finished wiping down his blade and sheathed it.

Val made a considerate noise and looked at Stannis for the first time since they met like she didn't consider stabbing him. "You've more depth to you than I'd thought."

Stannis didn't acknowledge these words. "We shall encamp here long enough to rest, then put this wretched fort to the torch and move on. I want to know if the Bolton's have gathered their full force already, where their host is and if it is on the march."

When he'd marched out with eleven thousand at his back Stannis had left only a few hundred to hold Deepwood Motte. But the terrain around the castle was riddled with trenches, earthen ramparts, spiked pits, a freshly dug and admittedly humble moat and other obstacles to stall any army from advancing on it. Even if the Boltons marched with their full might it would hold for a time, far longer without Giants to worry about. As an added precaution foragers had been tasked with painstakingly combing the land for anything that could nourish an attacking army. Similar instructions were sent to every keep flying his banner.

But this game of cat and mouse would grow tiresome quickly. He needed a genuine victory, not the claiming of a nearly empty fort manned by those deemed expendable. The conflicts brewing within his ranks would have time to fester unless he claimed the North and had legitimate reason to put distance between men like Richard Horpe and women like Val. One brawl instigated by a Northman kicking dirt into a fire being used as a site of worship by followers of R'hllor, another by a some fool who thought to taunt a Free Folk woman and a half dozen more between Northman and Free Folk from age old grudges.

He needed an army to destroy, a sign that his campaign would not return to sputtering its last breaths. Small skirmishes and hollow victories like this were not enough. He needed…anything.

The rattling of chains preceded the arrival of a maester who kept his head bowed. "Your Grace. I am Maester Tybald."

"Found him and a few servants barricaded in his tower, your Grace." Ser Godfrey the Giantslayer informed Stannis. "This one says he has a message for you."

"What could the Boltons' maester have to tell me?" Stannis asked.

"I serve whoever holds this castle, your Grace." Tybald insisted. "The message comes from Widow's Watch."

Xxx

25th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC

Karhold, the North

Thunk!

Alys Thenn walked through halls of her home with a new sense of freedom. This was not her father's castle anymore, nor her brothers'- save Harrion if he still lived as a hostage in the south, and it sure as hell would never be the seat of her great uncle Arnolf's or any of his wretched seed.

It was her's.

Thunk!

Sigorn didn't bother with ruling it, content to let her issue edicts to the smallfolk who had trickled in again after several weeks of Thenn occupation. Seeing her seated in her father's chair had been a welcome surprise to many and had made the process of settling the Thenn tribe easier. Despite their ferocity in battle they had long ago distanced themselves by choice from other tribes and had instilled a sense of order within their own settlements before being displaced. While still considered savage by southern standards, they were the most advanced and organized of the Free Folk tribes for a reason.

Their warriors had taken to Karhold with a sense of curiosity, examining its architecture and defences and asking for details about them. They regularly spoke with the castle's smith to learn the art of forging steel and examined samples from the armoury, and consulted with stone masons and carpenters alike. In return they offered practical knowledge on preparing for the true winter that was approaching.

Raiding squirrel nests for seeds and nuts, digging into the snow to find certain plants which produced the former or marking trees to be checked regularly for the latter, identifying berries and edible plants which were either obscured by snow or ignored. It was astounding how the Thenns' reliance on scavenging the wilds instead of planting fields of crops had made them better prepared for the food shortage faced in the North. With their help and the portion of Stannis Baratheon's supply shipments set aside for Karhold she was seeing her lands put to rights after years of watching it slowly rot away.

Thunk!

The only concern that still ailed her, besides the war which once again raged with the snows lifted, was the question on whether the Skagos expedition would ever return. News from the Wall was that Jon Snow had sent a raven requesting one of the Wights to convince the stoneborn of the threat. The Watch complied and dispatched a single ship which returned a week later, lighter one Wight, but refused to answer her questions beyond an assurance that Snow and his companions lived and had succeeded.

If that was the case, what was taking them so long to get back!?

THUNK!

When the frustration accompanying this question surfaced she had found practicing archery to be most…relaxing. Training with the Free Folk for several weeks had brought out a habit in her which saw her on the archery range with more than a few women who sought to learn. As Thenns found husbands or wives among the people of Karhold their looser concept of a woman's place had begun to rub off on their spouses and neighbours. A few women had even pondered learning to fight with blade or spear, either out of a long suppressed interest or from having been persuaded by the idea that if all Northern women had been taught to at least defend themselves and their homes like on Bear Island, the Ironborn invasion might not have been so catastrophic.

There were some who opposed this, as was expected, but after Alys had made it clear how little their objections meant to her they had quieted down.

It helped that she had the only intact army.

Thunk!

"My lady?"

Alys missed and hit the board behind the target. Behind her she heard a sharp, alarmed inhale of breath and let out a sigh of her own.

"Report." She groaned, observing the target which could begin to pass as a porcupine from all the arrows she'd put into it.

"Ships have been sighted sailing up the river, Lady Alys."

Before he'd finished speaking she raced past him. A trickle of spear wives, children and elders joined her as she raced onto the battlements. Below, a moderate sized village serving as Karhold's harbour was being approached by vessels rowing up the river…dozens of them, filled with men chanting and flying the Direwolf banner.

"They're back!" Alys cried.

She raced back down to the courtyard where Sigorn and his bodyguards had already assembled. The Magnar of Thenn's mouth twitched upwards on one side as he saw her hurriedly saddle and mount her horse. They rode out together and down to the village in time to catch the first of the boats landing.

Up this close, Alys saw something was off. The boats held a wide variety of rowers, many of them clearly Skagosi by their appearance and the colours and crests on their armour…but many of them weren't Northmen.

As they got closer, she saw they weren't men at all, not any she'd ever seen. They seemed more like someone had taken a man made of wax and found any number of twisted, inventive ways to deform him. They came in sizes great and small and wore armour of a mismatched variety, some wearing gilded and shining and others rusted iron, boiled leather, chainmail or what seemed to be metal implements embedded into flesh.

Some of her husband's men and the guards assigned to the small port reached for their weapons at this stunning revelation. A mother gathered her children and hurried them up the slope towards the castle, followed by a considerable number of likeminded folk.

It was only the sight of Jon Snow, Davos Seaworth and Tormund Giantsbane that made her bark out (roughly, as her husband would regularly tease her) in the Old Tongue. "Sigorn! Snow here!"

He appeared confused before his vision followed where she pointed to. Realizing her meaning, he quickly had his men stand down while she assured those limited to the Common Tongue that they were in fact not being invaded.

"Magnar Sigorn, Migna Alys." Jon bowed his head in greeting as he reached them. "It gladdens me to see familiar faces."

Sigorn rumbled out a response in the Old Tongue, some parts of which Alys caught. He was welcoming Snow back and asking of the warriors he sent with him.

And to her surprise and frustration, Jon answered as if he understood fluently. "Of the three score who accompanied me, only fifteen remain. We recovered their remains if we could, but some were beyond our ability to collect."

Sigorn appeared saddened by this news, though in keeping with how he'd been raised he did not express it as others would. Bowing his head, he murmured a prayer to the Old Gods and thanked Jon for his efforts.

"Who have you brought with you?" Alys asked. "I see some Skagosi, but what…who are the rest?"

"They are called Orcs, and they were once men." Jon answered plainly. "It is a long story and my men will require space to establish an encampment. I bring five thousand with me along with what ships Skagos could spare."

Alys had anticipated an army half as large, but had found land enough for an army of that size a short distance to the west where latrine pits and trenches had been prepared as part of her efforts to teach her husband's- no, her Thenns in the 'southern' ways of warfare. The Orcs, as vile as they appeared, offered no trouble to her people as they set about erecting their own tents and fire pits alongside the Stoneborn. But the green cloaked men and women had instead disappeared into the surrounding woods.

"The Rangers will know to stay close." Jon answered when she asked of them. "Their Captain, Rhae, will see to placing a watch on your borders until we depart."

When Alys finally met Rhae, the Ranger refused to remove her helmet, hood or face coverings under any circumstances. Alys decided against asking and Sigorn had little interest in knowing. In the privacy of what was once her father's solar she gave her guests bread and salt and permitted them to remain armed- such was needed in most places after the Freys had trod upon the gods' guarantee of protection like it was not but wet parchment.

There, she finally knelt before Rickon Stark, who gravitated around a wildling woman whose presence had been deemed mandatory. "Lord Rickon. Karhold is yours."

Sigorn grunted, but bowed his head to Rickon in recognition if not respect. He would not kneel, nor would she demand he do so, but he'd come some ways in understanding propriety and when it should be heeded.

"You're really a Thenn?" Rickon asked, looking at Sigorn with a mixture of trepidation and awe.

"Rickon." Osha whispered sharply.

With a start, Rickon finally noticed Alys. "Lady Alys." He said the words like he'd had to recite them painstakingly. "Thank you for housing our friends."

"Anything to reaffirm Karhold's loyalty to House Stark, my Lord." Alys smiled, recognizing that the boy had been removed from his home at such an age that he would be more Free Folk than Northman. "What exactly happened out there, Lord Snow?"

Tormund Giantsbane was all too eager to retell it all, but fortunately Ser Davos had been able to interject and provide a more abridged narration in areas where it was needed. At first they only had Aly's attention, but after hearing of Kingston and the true state of affairs on Skagos they had her interest. It was when they reached Skane that interest became incredulity before Jon solemnly confirmed their words with a nod and a short word.

What started as a simple search for a boy and his wolf turned into an epic tale the likes of which would have been common in the Age of Heroes. A sorcerer-lord in a dark castle, an ancient dragon defending a sanctuary built around a Heartree, not one but two Valyrian steel swords of the Targaryens, a spider-whispering wizard and a climactic battle which set earth and sky aflame.

She would find out later that some details were omitted to avoid complications.

By the end of it she had gone through two goblets of wine and her husband had inhaled the contents of five as if competing with the Giantsbane to see who could handle their drink better.

After some time to mull over what she'd been told, Alys looked at Jon. "Nothing is ever simple with you, is it Lord Snow?"

"As much as I'm sure everyone here would love to belabour that claim, our work is far from done." Jon motioned to the map spread across the table between them. "We have the advantage now. Between Stannis' army, the Free Folk and those of Skagos and Skane we outnumber the Boltons two to one. But we can't become complacent, we need to regroup with Stannis and move forward with reclaiming the North before our enemy learns of our true numbers."

Alys looked pained when she said. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Lord Snow…but it's a little late for that."

She told him everything she knew from the latest messengers out of Queenscrown.

Stannis marched from Deepwood Motte, but under a ruse to make the Bolton's think he would strike for Winterfell. The Free Blades of Braavos, said to be some of his more tolerable sellswords, were sent to sneak around to Castle Cerwyn. Thinking this a flanking attempt, the Boltons would be blind to his true goal: the Dreadfort. To ensure victory with minimal losses he'd written to Queenscrown and asked for several Giants and Mammoths.

Knowing how close a single giant had come to breaching the Wall, Jon felt optimistic for the king's success.

Hearing what followed, he felt dread swell within him.

"The Widow's Eye shone west last night for nigh an hour before it was extinguished. Riders and ravens confirmed what was feared: an armada has landed upon Northern soil." Alys told him. "Bearing the sigil of the Faith Militant."

"That lot'a repressed men-children?" Baldric snorted. "Thought the dragons scattered them to the four winds."

"They did." Davos agreed. "But long ago I'd heard tell of an army led by knights in service of Norvos, zealots of the Faith from the days before the Conciliator. Made many a corsair who'd sailed through Braavosi waters shy away from the Axe with tales of the punishments they laid upon any found sinful in their eyes. Sure made me stay away."

"Seems best you did, Onion Knight." The Lord of Kingston chuckled. "Else you'd have even less extremities than what your King left you."

"Fewer." Davos mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing." Davos waved Baldric off. "If an army bearing the sign of the Sword and Stars has come to this land, it cannot be for anything good."

"What are these southrons supposed to mean to me?" Tormund asked. "And the fuck is a faith milk-tan?"

"Southrons who try to kill you for not heeding their gods or force you to forsake your own." Sigorn grunted.

"Then fuck the lot of 'em." Tormund decided. "And their false gods too."

"They have come at Bolton's invitation." Alys pressed on. "We know that they wrote of attacking White Harbour, but attacking Widow's Watch is just…puzzling."

Puzzling did no justice to it: it was plain daft. As the name suggested, the castle was intended as a watch tower first and foremost, equipped with a beacon that could be seen for many leagues. It ordinarily served as a lighthouse to warn away lost sailors, but when turned west and held there the Widow's Eye warned of an invasion. From there, a dozen other towns and holdfasts could dispatch riders and ravens and warn half of the North within a day while giving everyone from Widow's Watch to Hornwood time to evacuate to safety.

So why, in an effort to make up for the loss of the element of surprise, were they announcing their new destination to half the continent?

"To leave us guessing." The Bright Stranger answered when Jon voiced this thought aloud. "A swift victory is out of their reach, so they will force us to guess at their intent. We may know where they have landed, but they could march in any direction for many leagues before they meet an army or fortification capable of opposing them. Consider that the Bolton's will and knowledge guide their actions, and that this is a deliberate move meant to obscure. What could they accomplish?"

Jon pondered this after repeating it to the others, and ideas ranging from simple to cunning were offered.

In the end it was the simplest one, offered by Magnar Sigorn, which caught Jon's attention.

"Did they know about the Widow Eye?" He grunted out in common tongue.

"Anyone who has ever sailed the Narrow Sea knows of it and its purpose." Davos answered, the clear authority on the matter. "Pirates know to avoid it when planning their plundering, sailors know to use it for guidance at night. Even if the sellswords themselves would not know, the sellsails carrying them must have."

"Then they know what happens." Sigorn slowly brushed a heavy, scarred hand across the peninsula, sweeping away the tiles representing House Flint and other bannermen. "They all run. Where do they run?"

"Most would flee to Hornwood, Karstark, Bolton or…Manderly lands." Jon set his eyes on White Harbour once more.

"They know that. They want it." Sigorn flicked another tile away. "Once the Thenns warred with some of the Cave People. Hunted on our lands, killed our people, stole our women. We chased them to their caves, but they slipped away down dark and old tunnels. They hid with other tribes, so we found those tribes, waited for the Cave People to come back. We attacked again, but this time we had fighters waiting with those who sheltered them. Killed them all so the rest knew not to protect our enemies."

Savage, brutal…yet cunning. The Thenns knew what their foes would do in the face of an overwhelming attack, so they thought a step ahead.

And if this Company of the Axe knew what would happen when the Widow's Eye announced them to the North…

"They cannot take the city quickly and could not hope to besiege it by land and sea before help comes…but what if the city is overflowing with refugees?" Jon saw faces turn pale around the table. "Many of the smallfolk will go to the most secure and supplied stronghold they can reach in the face of an invading army. Others will take shelter in Hornwood or go further on to Bolton or Karstark lands out of fear, but White Harbour will take the majority…as it is meant to, only there will not be a united Northern army to lift the siege quickly."

"As there is meant to be in ideal circumstance." Davos concluded. "Shit."

"But why go through these additional steps to achieve the same goal?" Alys asked. "Could they not intend to meet with the Bolton army at the Dreadfort or Winterfell and take the fight to Stannis?"

"Too far for any army not of the North to march through enemy lands." Baldric shook his head. "They won't last long in the cold. They need sturdy roofs overhead, they need a place where their men can stay warm, fed and safe from the elements. And they need a way to get to Winterfell without losing half their number along the way or being snowed in."

He pointed to the White Knife. "Take that by river ferry to Castle Cerwyn, then it's not even thirty leagues to Winterfell by foot. They'd still lose some men, but they could pillage all the supplies they need from the city to trim their losses."

"You've thought about it yourself?" Jon asked.

"Only when imagining myself the hypothetical pirate-king who overthrew the Starks and conquered the North." Baldric replied with a wry grin. "Of course, in that dream my armies were substantially larger and most of the North's might was conveniently dead or absent."

"Not far off from what it is now." Davos commented. "Seems these sellswords might be living your dream."

"I'll let no Septon with a sword have that pleasure." Baldric glowered.

"It isn't just the city's location and supplies they want." Jon, speaking for the Stranger, said. "Is everyone here familiar with White Harbour's history, or its symbolic value?"

"House Manderly was cast out by the Gardener Kings, your ancestor and namesake gave them the Wolf's Den and they built a city around it." Alys responded. "What else is to know?"

"The High Septon and Most Devout in Oldtown excommunicated the Manderlies because they saw White Harbour as anathema to what they desired. They saw the Seven living in peace with 'pagan' gods. What would be a more tempting target to those who adhere to Faith of the Seven back when it had an army to enforce its will?" Jon asked. "It makes the most sense."

There were no dissenting opinions against that.

"So what do we do?" Alys asked.

"You all will call the banners, send word to the King's host and make for White Harbour with best speed." Jon stood up. "I'm going to go ahead of you to see for myself if we are correct in our suspicions. If not, I can warn you quickly enough. But if so…then I will buy as much time as I can to keep the city from falling. Migna Alys, I need to see your Godswood."

Xxx

The North, Winterfell

One improvement to her situation was that with the arrival of the Boltons' second host, there were now more witnesses present who Roose Bolton was obligated to keep satisfied. This precluded some of Ramsay's pastimes, as mere rumour of his predilections had given many a knight, master or lord cause to keep him at a careful distance. Any highborn women housed in the castle or the surrounding winter town were always accompanied by armed men, lowborn kept to their own corners unless they had to stray for strict necessities. But the most exciting thing was the whispers.

The Boltons forsook their ancestral home, left it at Stannis' mercy with a skeleton garrison. The Stag King gathered more to his side every day and for all this the Leech Lord refused more than a few skirmishing parties that kept Baratheon scouts at a distance.

The Flayers are scared to face him in the field. They said. They murdered their own king at a wedding and shy from true battle.

Cowards.

Unworthy.

Accursed.

Weak.

The whispers were quick to be silenced when Bolton men or those too loyal to be trusted were near, but nobody ever suspected a little bird would care for their treason, much less understand it. Such a little bird left a meeting between Ser Marcus Bell and Torrhen Whitehill, both disgruntled and losing patience in spite of whatever assurances they'd been given, and flew back over the outer walls. No one gave it a second glance as it cluttered down to the edge of the Godswood and vanished into the thicket, by now well accustomed to the fringe effects of having a self contained forest within the castle.

Sansa inhaled sharply and opened her eyes, feeling like she had just been raised out of the depths of the surrounding black pools. The bird, a snow bunting common to the northern heartlands, perched on her shoulder with an expectant look until she fed it…him…some seeds. She pushed herself up from where she lay against the Heartree and knelt before the carved facial effigy.

"I give thanks to the gods." She bowed her head. "For your gift."

Three nights past when Myranda had plunged into the depths not a stone's throw away, Sansa had dreamt of flying away from Winterfell. The dream ended with her flying back down to the window of her husband's bedchamber to behold herself and Ramsay intertwined beneath the fur blankets. When she awoke she saw the bunting at her window, staring at her and following her around the room. She'd fed it seeds or berries and it eagerly accepted, but strangely remained until Ramsay woke next.

The night after she had that same dream again, but this time found that she could direct the bunting to fly where she wished. It was not as though she had full physical control over its motion, but simply could encourage it to fly where she wanted it to, land or take off when she wished it so. For two more evenings she kept this up before, during one of her visits to the Godswood with Theon, she found herself slip into it while praying before the Heartree.

She saw herself kneeling in the snow from an overhanging branch, Theon rocking back and forth on his knees as he shot glances to the root Myranda had tripped on, the reflection of the bunting on the surface of the water. From that point on she knew that something had changed within her, something related to the day Myranda had drowned.

Blood and water for the gods.

She had gifted the gods with both, and they must have repaid her. She had slain one of the traitors to her family and now could move about as she wished! For a time she had tried to repeat this with other animals, including Ramsay's Girls to see if she might arrange an accident in the kennels or on his next hunting trip. Alas, they were closed off to her, but the bunting she had come to name Brynden (named for her great uncle, said to be a true knight) had proven invaluable.

No longer was she entirely confined. She could listen in to meetings she was barred from, discover secrets and explore Winterfell as she had never done before. That she could inhabit Brynden in her sleep or while sitting perfectly still gave her the privilege of doing any of those at her leisure. But she could not take any great risks, lest someone harm Brynden while shooing him away or shoot him down for a quick meal. So she stuck to eavesdropping outside, where Brynden could at least perch himself somewhere safe.

By now she could enter his body at will, but had found that doing so caused her own body to collapse in a heap. Fortunately she'd had the foresight to experiment in the privacy of the Godswood where only Theon was present to fret over her.

Still, questions plagued her, such as why she'd been afforded a bond with Brynden yet could not repeat this in other animals. Even with her painfully limited education for all things Northern she knew that her ancestors had defeated the Warg Kings and wed the survivors into the Stark bloodline, and that other Starks after that were supposed to be able to command animals. Would she have had that bond with Lady, had she not been killed long before her time? Or were the gods waiting for another sacrifice, to show that she would be committed to the faith of her father over that of her mother?

Were it possible she would like to see if Ramsay was any better a swimmer…

"Come along, Theon." Sansa drew her hood up over her head and beckoned to him. "I'm done here."

Theon was improving…in his own way and at his own pace. It used to be he would struggle to respond to his true name, always insisting that he was Reek or acting as if he hadn't heard her. That she would need to name him Reek before her husband or others who might speak openly to him did nothing to improve. But recently he had come to understand that this was part of her act around Ramsay, to not openly resist or defy him and thereby incur his wrath.

He shuffled to her side and escorted her from the Godswood to find wagons filing in from the eastern gate. Two score of them at the very least, all carrying large crates which required two or more men to handle. But what was odd was that they were being unloaded one at a time, always from the one stopped closest to the entrance of the crypts.

"What is going on?" She asked of a Barrowton man holding a cordon around the convoy.

"Supply delivery, Lady Bolton." He answered. "By order of Lord Roose, they are being stored in the crypts to conserve space."

Preposterous.

Winterfell, while by no means as large as Harrenhal, was large enough to accommodate the Bolton forces and the supplies needed to sustain them without sacrificing more than a few additional store rooms.

What are they doing?

"Carry on." Sansa nodded and made for the Broken Tower, passing through the lichyard where most of her old life lay buried before she swiftly scaled the rickety wooden stairs with Theon scrambling to keep up.

Coming to a room with a suitable window overlooking the courtyard, Sansa knelt down and closed her eyes. "I'm going for another flight, Theon. Watch over me."

"Yes, my lady." He mumbled, standing vigil by the door and fumbling with his remaining good fingers.

Brynden was not far, and he was more than willing to fly over to the crypt entrance. Sansa watched as the carts were unloaded, one after the other, with immense care taken to keep any one of the crates from dropping. The officer supervising was quick to assign more hands to a single crate if it looked like any of the man were getting tired, a remarkable departure from their normal temperament.

She saw her chance when one of the men stumbled and ended up being pinned beneath the heavy load. Others hurried to lift it off of him, including two men posted by the crypt doors. Sansa had kept Brynden perched on a statue near the door, hoping for an opportunity like this and seized it, flying him through the open passage and down the dimly lit stairway. There were some Bolton men about, but none of them were on guard or expecting any intruders down among the deceased.

As she explored the family crypts Sansa found that some statues had been defaced, missing head or limb or having their accompanying names chiseled out. She had to keep herself from trying anything when Brynden came upon a man actually pissing on one of the tombs, instead moving on to follow where the crates were being carried to. They had already passed multiple side passages that could have served the advertised purpose, yet deeper still they went, quickly leaving the small area nearest to the surface that Sansa had ever visited with her family.

There were signs of work being done on the passages. Strong ironwood beams had been installed to support the ceiling where rubble had been cleared, digging tools lay discarded off to the side while the sounds of men working away at excavating other areas echoed.

Then she heard the voice of her godfather. "…true value of this castle has been long forgotten by the Starks, but our forebears kept careful records." He emerged at an intersection ahead, followed by Ramsay with a torch in hand.

"I fail to see how a few old tombs are of interest." Ramsay said as they came to a wall which had, at some point, been built over the threshold to another hall, entirely hidden from sight except for subtle differences between it and the surrounding stoneworks to indicate it had been added in after the initial construction.

A hidden section of the crypts?

Sansa had known that the crypts were said to be among the oldest man-made tunnels in Westeros, dating back to the days of Brandon the Builder if the legends held a grain of truth. But she had never seen any sign of the Builder's tomb, or that of many of the legendary kings of old. Could this be an older portion of the crypts, lost between one of the periods where Winterfell was destroyed and rebuilt?

"Because you were born a bastard and raised a bastard, bereft of the teachings I would have granted to Domeric." Roose looked pointedly at his son. "Do you really think that we coveted this castle simply because the Starks built it? That we would not have been content to name our own home the new capital of the North and rule from there had fate been kinder to us?"

"Then what is it that we want from it?" Ramsay asked. "And why would our ancestors have burnt it down?"

"They didn't. The maesters like to believe their own interpretation of events and pass it off as fact." Roose answered as the carved stones gave way to natural tunnel walls with thick white roots bulging out through the earth. "The Starks burnt it down twice to deny us what we sought. It was a stalling tactic so they could rally their allies and reclaim their seat. They collapsed the passage, built over it and erased all mention of it, hoping it would never be found."

Sansa was not as familiar with the conflicts between House Stark and the Red Kings as her brothers or Arya might have been. If ever her family held control of its own castle again she would see to it that was corrected. Her own ignorance had given her nothing but grief and loss and it would end one way or another.

"Then why would those grey rats think we did it…?" Ramsay trailed off and looked around a cavernous chamber lined with weirwood roots that dipped down into dark water, and at its core was a hexagonal island of stone with a sword impaled into each corner and a seventh in the centre, each of them laden with dust and cobwebs.

"Because like you, they cannot conceive of what they cannot perceive." Roose took the torch from Ramsay and stepped down into the water, which came up just shy of his knees.

This must be beneath the Godswood. Sansa realized, seeing how water flowed through the cavern.

Roose wiped away a thick layer of filth from the flat surface. His hand closed around the hilt of the central sword which he gave an experimental tug. The blade, intact but corroded, remained rooted in place. Roose leaned down towards the hilt and examined the sigil of a wolf's head etched into it.

"This is it." He chuckled. "This is it!"

He looked back at Ramsay. "This room shall be emptied. See that it is done."

"What is this place?" Ramsay whispered as Brynden navigated a root running close to the ceiling, letting Sansa see for herself what Roose had.

A spiral. It was formed by many indentations made into the smooth stone surface, with each arm converging where the central sword stood and ending at each of the remaining six.

"A cage." Roose whispered. "And it is the destiny of our house to open it. Be proud, my son, for you and I shall witness the culmination of a task eight thousand years in the making and the end of the Builder's brood."

Xxx

Hoo boy, a few interesting twists. I hope that the analysis of the CoA's strategy didn't seem convoluted. I justified Jon's conclusion based on ff the following.

1) White Harbour was confirmed to be their original target.

2) Marching a southern army through an enemy occupied North without solid supply lines, as Show!Stannis found out, is suicidal.

3) Widow's Watch being a watch tower to warn against invasions seems like a reasonable assumption, given the name and location.

4)The White Knife does put an army just a few days along the kingdom's central road from Winterfell, hence why the Wolf's Den and later White Harbour were built to hold it against pirates.

5) Given how much power the Faith had before the Conciliator disbanded the Faith Militant, the idea that it could wage war against those it found to be heretical doesn't seem outside of plausibility. And if House Manderly built a city in the North and allowed people to live and work there regardless of faith, you can bet that an institution like that would see it as an opportunity to justify a crusade and take what could become a foothold for eventually invading the rest of the North. In my head-canon they did launch a crusade against the city, but failed because like Napoleon with Russia…they invaded the North in the middle of winter. After that the southern kingdoms settled for harassing shipping lanes and commissioning attacks against northern trade ships until the Targaryen Conquest brought that to an end as a condition of the North entering the fold (because realistically there had to be a carrot to go with Aegon's stick, like with the Tyrells and Tullies being made Lord Paramount or the King Arryn at the time getting a dragon ride)

6) By stuffing as many people into the city as possible the CoA minimizes how long it can last under siege before someone opens the gates and maximizes the amount of 'heathens' they get to kill or convert afterwards.

Does it still seem contrived from a literary standpoint? Guess I'll leave that up to you all.

Also, a quick thank you to Alvor the Warhawk for pointing out that bronze does not rust, but corrodes.

End of Chapter