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[BONUS] Winter Comes Pt. 13 (GoT SI)
🕑 Added 2017-10-02 06:45:15 +0000 UTC A/N: Honestly, I didn't realize I was like, the worst person ever until I got to the end of this chapter. But this really just made for the best stopping point sooo...This might be a bad time to mention that there might not be a chapter tomorrow night, as I have a 10,000-20,000 word commission to write for my job tomorrow. Dunno how long it'll take me and if I have to make it a two day project, this won't get a new chapter.
Feel free to hate me :P
I will say that this story isn't as Grimdark as Canon GoT and ASOIAF. You can rest easy knowing that much at least. I grow attached to my main characters, far, far too attached.
-x-X-x-
Some men just didn’t take to travel by sea. Theon Stark wouldn’t have expected his new wizard to be one of them though. The Hungry Wolf very rarely showed any kind of worry, especially around those that followed him. A confident, wolfish smile and a hunger in his eyes, that’s what the North expected when they looked to him for guidance.
And so Theon Stark, King in the North, gave them what they wanted. And to be fair, it wasn’t all an act. He was the kind of man who loved battle, who damn near LIVED for it. He’d probably spend the rest of his life fighting against these invaders, especially if what Rickar said about the ‘Andals’ south of the Neck was true. If the other kingdoms were falling even now as the North took the fight to their enemies, well then, the North would be defending itself from more than just the East, soon enough.
Still, Theon couldn’t help but be a little worried. Coming to a stop at a particular cabin door, the King winced as he heard a loud groan from within. Lifting a fist, he knocked on the wood and called out at the same time.
“Rickar? It’s Theon, I’m coming in!”
A groan was the only answer he got, so with pleasantries observed, Theon opened the door and stepped inside. Looking at Rickar caused him to feel the same kind of familiarness in his gut that it always did. Black hair, blue eyes. The man could have been his brother. There were legends about Starks in the distant past. There was warg and greenseer blood in their line. Was Rickar a distant cousin of his? The man had only mentioned that his mother was fond of the Starks. He’d not mentioned anything else.
Of course, besides his familiar looks, Rickar also just looked like absolute shit right now. The man was laid up in his cot, black hair matted down to his forehead, blue eyes turned into slits as he groaned and tossed back and forth.
“Fuck Rickar, if I’d known it’d be this bad for you, I wouldn’t have brought you along. Never seen any man get this sea sick before.”
Rickar groaned before shaking his head back and forth. Rather than this being him tossing and turning as he was when Theon walked in, it’s instead a very clear negative gesture and the man manages to speak a few words a moment later.
“No… wanted to come… I’ll… get over it.”
“Heh, that’s the spirit. Should be about two days out at this point, so long as the winds stay in our favor and so far they have. The Old Gods themselves bless our journey Rickar. They want us to take the fight to those Andal bastards, I can tell.”
That got a derisive snort from the other man and Theon was amused as Rickar rolled his eyes. Even with his magic, the strange man didn’t seem to put much faith in the Gods. It was an odd contradiction, as Theon had been raised to put the two side by side. Greenseers and Wargs came from the Children of the Forest, Children of the Forest worshipped the Old Gods and carved the heart trees. The connection was clear, yet Rickar paid no homage to any Old Gods.
“Didn’t think… you… devout.”
Theon laughed at that, a full belly laugh. Truth be told, he wasn’t. His sister certainly was, but Theon himself had never been a very pious man. He shrugged and said as much.
“I ain’t, you’ve got me there. Still, way I see it, the Old Gods and me might not be best of friends, but we’ve got a common enemy in these Andals. I figure, they might not have liked me for the title of King in the North back when I was just a boy trampling through their godswood, but now that I’m a man, fighting those who would destroy our weirwoods and our way of life, they have no choice but to embrace me. I’m the best chance they’ve got.”
That gets a weak chuckle from Rickar and a careful nod as the sick man smiles wanly.
“Sounds… right.”
“Course it does! I’m the King in the North Rickar, everything I say sounds right!”
Another weak chuckle, but that only provokes a coughing fit that results in Rickar doubled over the side of his cot, grabbing a bucket that rests there and sticking his head in it. Theon winces again as the smell of sick fills the air.
“Right, doesn’t look like laughter is helping you much Rickar. I think I’ll leave you to it. We’ll make landfall soon and when we do, you’ll be on the first boat to shore, alright?”
A simple nod was all the King got in response, but Theon already knew Rickar wasn’t much for ceremony. That was good, because neither was the Hungry Wolf. Eyeing the bed-ridden man who had seemed so impossibly strong and intelligent and wise back on land, Theon turned and slipped back out of the cabin. It was an interesting reminder of the weakness of individuals in his opinion. One could be a King or a greenseer or a wizard, but in the end, there was always something out there, ready and able to bring a man low.
As Theon walked away from the cabin and out towards the deck of the ship he’d purloined from the Andals, he couldn’t help but wonder what would bring HIM low. In a way, the Hungry Wolf was on a constant quest to find that thing. Perhaps if he could merely be defeated, one way or the other, he could finally settle down. Would the battle lust and hunger end if he was no longer victorious at every turn? Or would it merely grow tenfold in response to defeat?
Theon Stark’s wolfish smile was on his face when he stepped out into the morning sun and his men turned to gaze at him. There were nods and bows and several respectful greetings and Theon distractedly answered all of them, even as he made his way across the deck, still deep in thought.
What would be his legacy? Would they call him the Hungry Wolf who sailed across a sea to bring vengeance down upon the foreign invaders, or would he reach too far, bite the wrong beast, and end up erased from history? No. Theon intended to make his mark to be sure, but that wasn’t what this was about. His legacy was meaningless in the here and now. He could think about how he’d be remembered on his deathbed, whether that happened in a real bed or on a battlefield with a blade in his gut.
So long as he lived in good health, Theon Stark would not fight for legacy or glory. He asked the men of the North to fight for him and they did. It was only right that he fight for the North in return. Soon. Soon the Andals would know the cold bite of their blades and the words that every Stark child, nay, every Northern child learned from an early age.
Winter was coming and the Hungry Wolf with it.
-x-X-x-
“… YOU’RE the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?!”
The young man that sat at the head of the table in the Lord Commander’s position nodded slowly in response to the question thrown at him by one of the Wall’s more recent arrivals. A small influx of about ten trainees had arrived the day previous. Nine were bastards or orphans hoping for any life to live that they could get their hands on, as the cold in the North wasn’t very kind to those bereft of parents. The Night’s Watch was essentially the only place in the North a lowborn man could go if they had nowhere else and were willing to sign their lives away.
“I am.”
The tenth new arrival however, was a bit more annoying. The second son of some Northern Lord who hadn’t quite gotten the memo that one didn’t send their spares to the Wall anymore. Or perhaps he’d simply fucked the wrong wench, because the man in question was actually older than every brother that sat at the high table.
“You… you all are nothing but boys! Where is the real Lord Commander?! My father spoke highly of the man, said he’d been leading the Watch for decades!”
“He’s gone.”
The nobleman snarled at that, his hand dropping to the pommel of the finely crafted blade at his side. As he did so, every brother of the Watch in the hall grabbed the handles of their own weapons in response, but the young Lord Commander stood and raised a hand, staying them for the moment as he looked down from above at the new trainee. The nobleman looked around rather than meet his gaze, seeming to realize that he was quite outnumbered.
Still, the man would not back down so easily.
“This… this isn’t right. What happened here, to leave the Night’s Watch in the hands of a bunch of children?! Where have all the real men gone?!”
To be fair, there were men in the crowd of black cloaks that filled the hall. Men who were older than even the noble’s son and plenty who were older than the nine other new trainees, who were currently dispersed throughout the hall, each looking rather nervous about their comrade’s outburst. None stepped forward though, all were far too conditioned to obey a man of high birth like this.
“They died in a failed ranging. The Lord Commander took himself, the others, and three hundred sworn brothers beyond the Wall. Three days later, only a handful returned, the Lord Commander among them but dying. He named me as his replacement before he passed.”
“Aye! I was there for both the ranging and the Lord Commander’s words! Twas a foolish venture from start to finish, but the boy’s words are true! The Lord Commander named him in command!”
A bearded brother spoke up from a nearby table, a big bloke who, when he stood, rose above most in the room. The nobleman had to look up at him, his mouth agape and dry at the sheer size of the man.
“Fuck’s sake man, did your mother lay with a giant?”
There’s a moment of silence, before the entire hall breaks out into raucous laughter. The nobleman flushes indignantly, as rather than laugh at his target, everyone seems to be laughing at him for some reason. Everyone but his fellow trainees, who are just as confused as he is. The huge man he’d thrown the insult at just snorts and sits back down, his piece said.
Eventually, the hall quiets and the nobleman turns his gaze back to the Lord Commander, who stares back at him in silence.
“Boy as young as you in charge of the Watch… s’not right. If none of the men here will say it, I will. You shouldn’t be leading here. And if no one else will step up, then it should be me in charge. I should be Lord Commander!”
That starts another raucous, though this one is much angrier, until the young man up on the high table lifts a hand and silences the crowd.
“I would urge you to rethink those words. They tread dangerously close to treason.”
The nobleman has a glint in his eye now.
“Aye, perhaps so. But only if you be craven. If you aren’t a coward, you’ll settle this in a duel between you and me, right now! Victor leads this sorry rabble to a better tomorrow.”
After calling the young man craven, the noble has to raise his voice to say the rest, but by the time he’s done speaking, a hush has fallen over the hall as everyone realizes what he’s saying. It’s the most blatant grab for power any of them have ever seen. But then, the Free Folk had hunger for power bred out of them centuries ago.
The blue handprint on the new Lord Commander’s arm glows brightly and the young man who bears it smiles softly in response to the noble’s words.
“Very well. I accept your challenge. Shall we?”
And with that, they were all headed outside. It took the nobleman some time to realize that none in the crowd were rooting for him. To be fair though, most weren’t rooting for their young Lord Commander either. The majority of the Watchmen were just eager to see a fight from the sound of things. The other trainees ended up swept up in the festivities and soon enough, they and everyone else in the Nightfort was crowded around a cleared space in the middle of the courtyard, where the current Lord Commander and his challenger faced off.
The nobleman shirked off his cloak and drew his beautifully crafted bronze sword. The cold bit at him, but he pretended not to notice as he lifted his blade in the direction of his foe. Meanwhile, the boy he saw as playing at Lord Commander let his furs and cloak fall away as well, before pulling out a pair of short swords. He spun them in his hands once, twice, three times before holding them up.
It was not a style of fighting that the nobleman or any of the other trainees had ever seen. Two small swords? How were you supposed to properly guard or block a blade that had the strength of both arms behind it, with only one arm? Scoffing at the sight of the boy playing warrior, the nobleman grew more and more certain of his victory.
The two of them crept closer and closer, until eventually no one but they could hear each other over the cold winds.
“What do you think you’re playing at boy? You find those in the armory and decide you liked how they looked spinning around like that? Put the swords down, kneel to me, and I’ll let you live. Otherwise, you’ll go down in history as not only the shortest reigning Lord Commander, but also the stupidest.”
Rather than get angry or even stay calm as he had been up to this point, a wicked smile spreads across the young man’s eyes.
“My God stands with me kneeler. Your Gods are dead. Who truly fights from a position of strength here?”
Nonplussed by the other man’s words, yet unwavering in his desire to take the position of Lord Commander, the second son of some Northern Lord let out a shout and swung his blade down with all his strength, knowing without a doubt that this simple BOY would not be able to hold him back. He could even see it in his head, how the young man might lift up his blades to block, only for his eyes to widen in surprise as he was overwhelmed, his own weapons pushing back into his face, biting into his flesh, blood flowing from the cuts and-
The nobleman’s eyes bulged as the young Lord Commander merely slipped past his slash with unnatural speed and thrust his two short swords point first into his enemy’s neck. A moment later and the Lord Commander pulled his blades back, leaving the other man to fall back to the snowy ground as blood slipped from him at an incredibly fast rate. The second son of some Northern Lord died ignobly, right there on the ground, clutching at his ruined throat and dying in quite a grotesque way.
As he died, the undisputed Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had a soft smile on his face, basking in the approval of his Master. He stepped to the side of the nobleman’s spasming form and picked up the well-crafted sword from nerveless fingers.
“Trainees! Step forward!”
The nine that had arrived at the Wall at the same time as the man dying at the Lord Commander’s feet tensed up, but were all ultimately pushed out into the circle by the men around them. They stood there uncertainly as the Lord Commander, his own blades sheathed once more, walked to them with the dying man’s sword in hand.
There was a moment of silence as the leader of a new Night’s Watch stared into the eyes of each young man before him. When the moment passed, he smiled and lifted up the nobleman’s sword so that the few rays of sunlight moving through the clouds could catch on the flat of its blade.
“This is a fine weapon. It will no doubt see much use. You lot… all of you have harsh training ahead of you. But I think each of you will get through it and soon enough, you will stand before me as sworn brothers of our Watch.”
A pause as his smile grows slightly upon the quieting of the nobleman. The dying man is dying no longer. Now, he is simply dead.
“Still… there is no reason not to motivate you all a bit more. The best among you will receive this blade, as a gift and a reminder of your devotion to the Night’s Watch. There are no bastards or orphans here. Only brothers. You will learn that soon enough.”
The trainees all bow their heads and the Lord Commander just smiles wider. There’s no dismissal, the crowd simply departs all on its own. Everyone goes back to their work, the nobleman’s corpse lying where he died. And if by morning it’s gone, well, no one cares to notice, even if none of them did anything about it.
-x-X-x-
Stepping foot on Essos had not been the boon that Rickar hoped for. While it was slightly better than being out at sea, he still felt unbelievably weak on this new continent. It had taken all of his frayed focus and concentration to maintain his disguise during the horrible voyage to get here, and even now, back on land, it continued to take all of his strength to keep it up.
Rickar was beginning to think White Walkers were not meant to come to Essos. But then why had his father’s writings not warned him? Had his father not known? The idea that the Night King might not know something was simply absurd to his son. And yet… and yet Rickar felt stripped of his power and stripped of his magic. Only the disguise remained and barely at that.
Theon’s hand suddenly slapped against his back and Rickar nearly flew forward into the sands, barely catching himself as he grunted. When he looked to the Hungry Wolf, Theon looked slightly guilty.
“Ah, not quite back to full strength yet Rickar? My apologies. Do you think you should sit this first village out perhaps?”
The burning, pillaging and looting of the village only a few hundred yards from the shoreline was already beginning. The Andals of Andalos were not prepared in the slightest for Northmen from Westeros to arrive on Andal ships. The welcoming party from the village had been put to the sword and now the village itself was on fire. Swallowing thickly, Rickar nodded.
“Yeah… yeah that sounds like a good idea. Just a bit longer and I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Theon just grinned and nodded, leaving Rickar to his ‘recovery’ and heading off to lead his men in not-so-glorious raiding. The Northmen didn’t really care if there was honor in this warfare though. They were hungry, one and all, for revenge.
Only, as hours turned into days and days turned into weeks, Rickar did not recover. In fact, he steadily got worse. He managed to hide it, mostly anyways, and eventually Theon assumed he was back at full strength as Rickar joined him on a few raids. They burned villages and destroyed towers across the coast of Andalos for several weeks, never stopping for long. Slowly but surely, the fleet of ships they’d used to cross the narrow sea got heavy with loot of all sorts.
All the while, Rickar longed for home. He should never have crossed the Narrow Sea. He should never have come to Essos. Funnily enough, it would be the sept that proved his ultimate undoing.
“Come Rickar! I wish to see one of their places of worship. I wish to tear it apart like they do to our godswoods. It will be… what’s the word you use? It will be cathartic.”
Smiling weakly, Rickar simply nodded and followed the King and a small force of Northmen to the sept, which lay a bit further inland than anywhere else they’d attacked and raised to the ground. The holy place was not well-guarded and ultimately, the clergy, Septons and Septas as they called themselves, surrendered to the invaders almost immediately.
Rickar followed the King in the North into the Sept, gazing around appreciatively at the beauty and artistic value of such a place, even as he knew Theon would not let it stand. The Hungry Wolf came to a stop in front of a small religious icon, embossed in gold and made out of a very distinctive wood. Rickar grimaced as he realized exactly what it was.
The icon, meant to represent the Father of the Andals’ Seven God religion, was made mainly of weirwood. Theon’s hand curled around it and tightened angrily as he looked to the cowering men and women off to the side.
“This… this is weirwood. Oh now, I may not be a religious man, but I know blasphemy when I see it. BRING ME A TORCH!”
In no time at all, a lit torch is in Theon’s hand and he’s running it along the bottom of the religions icon. As it begins to burn, Rickar’s eyes drift over the Septons and Septas watching this defamation. He’s the only one who is, as every other Northman is grinning and staring at flames slowly consuming the icon. As such, it is only Rickar who sees one of the Septas pull a dagger from her robes. It is only Rickar who can react in time as she suddenly screams in rage and rushes Theon.
The King in the North is in no position to defend himself, even as his men try and fail to react in time. Once again, Rickar saves Theon Stark’s life, pushing him out of the way and taking the blow himself. This time however, the blade goes right into his gut as the enraged Septa, blinded by her tears, shrieks and twists harshly. Rickar’s eyes widen at the most pain he’s ever felt in his long life and then the woman is being dragged away from him.
His hand closes around the handle of the blade in his stomach as he falls back to the floor. Theon is above him, staring down at him with wide eyes and shouting something at him that Rickar can’t hear. Why can’t he hear? Huh, the blackness is creeping in fast. Rickar tries to lift an arm up towards Theon, for what purpose he does not know. That’s when he sees the blue on the back of his hand.
Oh. Well, shit.
