Chapter XLVI: Clean Hands
The war was over. It was a simple enough statement. The time had come for me to go home, for Leona and I to return to our family. It was the time for the fractured West and shattered Stormlands to rebuild. It was the time to bury and mourn our dead, and celebrate our victory. It was the time for everything to return to normal.
I did not however, feel normal. I was the hero of the final battle. I had proven myself the same way my father proved himself to his people, with the blood of others staining my armor. I had been knighted, I had been praised and lauded, I was a warrior, and my hands would never be clean again. The blood had been scrubbed off my armor, but I would always remember the feel of Ice as it slid between the gaps in armor, and hacked through the bodies of men. Of course, the blade was still as pristine as the day it was forged. I had barely added a drop to the rivers of blood it had no-doubt seen over its hundreds of years of executions and warfare. I had never looked at the history of my house in such a way, the history of the world. Battles had been nothing more to me than names and numbers on pages, and scorched aftermaths for me to look upon. Even the sieges and skirmishes I had observed had never forced me to take that final step, to kill with my own hands.
The three great powers of the continent were once again in balance, but my hands would never be clean again. Should I have done it? Should I have truly stuck to my plan to maintain balance? I had stated my goal to be the prevention of war, yet well over a thousand Northmen and Riverlanders were dead, and tens of thousands of peasants and soldiers alike of the Kingdom of the Rock. Would history vindicate the decision to interfere with the rebellion? - There was no point in asking such, my decision had cut it short, and spared tens of thousands more. Of that I was sure, and attacking myself over it would bring nothing but ruin. Usurpers were often usurped in turn. Ending a rebellion may not stop the next, but that would come regardless, more likely and more bloody had I not made the choice to intervene now.
The weight of lives had once been occupied in pieces on a cyvasse board, but having held them in my own hands, and ended them personally at long last, that weight was far greater. It was that weight, that immense responsibility, that had me carrying out a final task before returning to the North. The army was moving across friendly lands, returning to the Riverlands so that levies might start melting back away, but I was not amongst them. Leaving Leona behind, I was off to the heart of the Stormlands with a small escort. The war would soon end formally, but Orys Targaryen had been given the chance to invade the Stormlands regardless, and now that he was forced to retreat back to King's Landing, or renew the war with both the Lannisters and Starks this time, he apparently wished to meet face to face.
Everything I knew of Orys Targaryen urged caution, and it was with only the most firm promise of safe conduct that I agreed to the meeting. Orys had grown up with a crown on his head, his youth spent helpless and sullen while the power of the Iron Throne eroded, and the Seven Kingdoms fragmented around him. As a boy he had rose up above his peers, and then above his councilors, fueled by anger and an immense strength. His drive was impossible to ignore, and equally impossible to withstand, a devotion to his ideas of justice, and the ambition to restore the Seven Kingdoms into one fueling him like kindling in a fire. Where his older brother had been sickly and weak in infancy, he was the opposite, and quite possibly the most dangerous ruler on the continent.
My information though, was sorely outdated, going back to before the Tarly and Arryn rebellion. He remained vigorous as ever, but few spies had gotten close enough to make new reports of his skills and personality. He was over twenty himself now, and time and conflict had allowed him to grow into his crown in a way that I never had. What little I had heard was far from good. He was a more cruel and violent man than he once was, and his skill on the battlefield had grown further, leaving him one of the most expert leaders on the continent, likely a match for Leona in command, and with enough strength to compensate for her genius and finesse in personal combat. Oathkeeper, the blade that had been spawned from Ice's steel, never left his side, not even in bed or amongst his Kingsguard, if rumor was to be believed.
The army of the Iron Throne was encamped around the town of Fairhunt, a disquieting fact. Orys had penetrated into the Stormlands quicker and further than I had thought, speeding through the Kingswood toward the Dornish Marches where Lord Connington held his seat. Had they been the ones to catch him first, or had he turned north instead of west to Summerhall, the rebellion would have ended very differently, with the Stormlands repatriated into the domain under Orys Targaryen rather than Roland Lannister. It was not long before we began happening upon the outriders and scouts of the army, preparing the way for their departure. While we were ushered onwards with little concern, there was something about them that disturbed me, a lack of humanity in their eyes and manners. They were men who had seen, and done, things that I had never seen, perhaps could not even comprehend.
The leader of my own outriders soon rejoined the escort, having returned from Fairhunt. Ser Bracken was an unshakable man at the worst of times, advancing to the heart of my guard through talent rather than just his birth, and showing a cooler head for war than most. Still, the expression on his face when he lifted his faceplate was one I would not soon forget.
“Your Grace, we should turn back.” His voice was shaking, and he looked completely aghast, pale even. “Fairhunt is... It's...”
He looked as though he'd just survived an encounter with the Others. It was a disquieting sight. “Is King Orys there? Do we still have safe conduct?” I questioned, for those were my priorities, no matter what he had seen.
“Yes... But the town is... There are no words for it. It's best that you proceed no further your Grace. Fairhunt is no fit place for any negotiation. Not anymore.”
“We're going. One war has ended, we need to work now to prevent the next. Regardless of the state of the town.” He was being unnecessarily cryptic, and my voice took a hard edge for it. Too many around me felt I had to be coddled. That because my preference was not in war, that I was ill-suited to so much as look at it.
Tapestries and stories of war, no matter what horrors were portrayed, could never simulate the smell of death and decay that I smelled as we neared Fairhunt. Smoke darkened the horizon, rising in small plumes from the fires of the encamped army, and billowing up from the town itself as halls and homes were consumed. The town itself was a ruin, pillaged and set ablaze by its conquerors. Such was normal enough in war, and I was certain that even against my orders, Northmen had done the same in the rebellion as we marched through the Westerlands and into the Stormlands. It was the peasantry that caught my eye, and stilled my heart.
“Gods be good...” One of my escorts nearly fell from his horse, and I may have joined him had the shock settled deeper.
Orys Targaryen had erected a forest around Fairhunt. Hundreds of stakes had been driven into the earth of the town, and that was where we found the people. Nearly a thousand, the remaining inhabitants that had surrendered to the Targaryen king and his host, had been tortured, defiled, and ultimately impaled in and around the ruins of their homes. Moans and death rattles filled the air, and the stench was unfathomable. I had thought myself tempered by war until that moment, but the ferocity of the battlefield was rendered a tame daydream compared to the horrors the Targaryen host had visited upon these people. There was a dream-like quality to the world as we rode amongst the condemned, royal escorts drawing us inward into the horror, to the King's pavilion.
Black and red were everywhere. Fire and blood. Dragon banners were bracketed by the dead, and the glow of the flames reflected off every surface. We were almost there when my thoughts turned to self-preservation, fight-or-flight instincts burning within me as the rational part of my mind refused to comprehend what I was seeing. We had a guarantee of safe passage, but what was something like that worth? What was anything of civilization worth to a man who could inflict this upon others? I had to know however. I had to know this man, and I had to know his intentions. Little Eddard was older than I had been when I was made Lord of Winterfell, and he was a good boy besides. I knew that with Leona's help he could govern the North and Riverlands, he would have to if Orys turned on me here, for there was no retreat in the heart of his army.
The King on the Iron Throne was cleaning his sword when my presence was announced and I entered the pavilion. I had never seen him in person, but his presence matched every description I had ever heard of him. Standing well over my height, he was a large man, a full chest and thick arms hidden underneath black plate, an ornate dragon patterned in rubies on his chest. His face was chubby, and his head was bald as an egg, yet the man radiated power. Oathkeeper was in his hands as he ran a silk cloth over it. The blade was stained with blood, the dark Valyrian steel seeming to drink it in with the smokey black and red hues. It had found a new owner who enjoyed the sight of blood. Orys had draped himself in history, as though taunting it. Prince Rhaegar and his armor, Eddard Stark and the sword he died in-hand with. He was not a man to trust in omens it seemed, but then one only needed to look outside to know he answered to neither gods nor men.
“
Ser Brandon Stark...” He was looking me over as well. While he could never have the lean look of a hungry predator with his features, there was something equally menacing in the way he spoke and leaned. “I fear we never had the chance to meet in person before you turned your coat and stole one of my Kingdoms.”
My greatest strength was in people. I could watch them, listen to them, learn about them and determine what they would say and think before they did. But not this man. Not here, not yet. It was all I could do to maintain my own composure. “King Orys, the Kingdoms of the North and Riverlands answer to themselves now, not the Iron Throne, and that is how it shall remain.”
“I remember. You jackals fought a war over it. Well, Gawen Lannister and Quentin Greyjoy did anyway. One is dead, the other rotting in the bowels of Highgarden. Clever, cautious thieves, you and your mother. But you've erred...” He stood then, sheathing Oathkeeper and setting down the cloth used to clean it, though bloodstains remained on his gauntlets. “Even the most clever thieves discard their stolen wares. Yet you remain with two crowns. Two crowns that are mine by right of birth and blood.”
“Is this how you would treat your prospective subjects?” I waved a hand back to the tent-flap, a pale armored Kingsguard reaching for his blade and drawing back when he saw I held no weapon. “The Stormlands and Rock won't have a butcher king, the North and Riverlands even more-so.”
“It is the prerogative of the King to punish treason as he sees fit. Mercy is not a requirement of justice.” Orys' gaze was narrowed upon me.
“The smallfolk here betrayed no one. They did their duties and followed their lord's wishes.”
“They fed traitors, built mills and forged weapons and armor for traitors. They served in the castles of traitors, and when called upon, they sent their sons and husbands and fathers off to fight and die at the whims of traitors.” There was a hatred etched upon his face as he spoke, a contempt that I knew no words for. This man had a desire to inflict suffering on others, and he channeled that desire through whatever outlet he could find.
“They had their choices. They could have left this town when their lords turned on their rightful King. It is the duty of all men to serve their true liege, even if their own lords are false. To say they were not traitors? What were they then? Mere animals with no thoughts or choices? Cattle and pigs for their lords to milk and slaughter? No. That does them too much credit. They may have died like pigs, squealing and screaming, but they were little more than maggots on this rotted limb of
my Westeros.”
“So its war then.” My voice was hoarse as I spoke. I knew at that moment that the only way I would be leaving the presence of Orys alive and free would be if I forfeited my kingdoms to him. And that was something I could never do, not since I was entrusted with their keeping.
He laughed at that, likely at my expression as well. He was certainly far more comfortable in the face of slaughter than I. “Not tonight, no.” There was a bit of a smirk as he looked me over. “Unless of course, you are offering.”
“Then... why?” I knew though as I said it. I could see his thought process. It would be a trap sprung well into the future, but it was one that exploited my greatest weaknesses. I was crowned a child-king, and I felt that way once again, helpless to change a terrible fate. I would be leaving safely after all, for this was not just a single-minded act of cruelty on a large scale. No. It was a message for me, and anyone else who opposed Orys Targaryen.
“This horror is what war with me means, and I intend that all the high lords of these so-called independent kingdoms see it. Rally your legions of traitors, your alliance with the Lannisters, I care not. Before the war ends, I will visit this terror on whatever traitors fall within my grasp. Those who have the greatest crimes, will of course, suffer the greatest punishments. Should you not come to me, well... My grip grows tighter by the day over the lesser rebels, and my forces stronger. Those amongst my lords that serve well and loyally are rewarded, but all are cloaked under my protection. I will watch, and wait, and one day one of you usurpers will make a mistake and I will come for you. One by one if need be.”
There were no words from me. Nothing could be said to answer this. He had me, and now all that remained was to set the final facet of the trap.
“I am not without mercy however.” The perpetrator of the merciless horror around us spoke. “You, and your fellow so-called king have the power to spare the lives of countless subjects of mine, and wash the stain of treason from them and yourselves. Anyone who does so, be it you, or any other independent lord, will have their traditional titles restored, and their lands and vassals reaffirmed. Those that do not. Well, they had best pray that death takes them before I do.”
That was enough for me. I left the nightmare at Fairhunt in my wake, but it lingered with me for weeks after as we returned to the North. Not just Orys' words and the dilemma he presented me with, but also terror of what I had seen and heard and smelled there. When I did return home, the accolades of victory, the pride of the people, it all washed over me. Once, I had been proud to be their king. I had been proud to bear the responsibility to ensure that anyone who named me king would live a happier and more prosperous by my doing. I had known that sacrifices would be necessary, but I could always balance them out against the prevention of greater evils, and while they would weigh on me heavily regardless, I could still honor them.
That had changed. There was a man who would senselessly slaughter my people, he would burn and destroy and devour all. He was a dragon, and he would not be stopped until either my crown rested at his feet, or I slew him. Regardless, it was not even my life at stake. No. To prevent this conflict, all I needed to do was surrender my pride. All I needed to do was give up the right to say that I was the ultimate authority in my kingdoms, amongst my people. It would be easy, every single man, woman, and child who lived under me had already done so in taking me as their king, I merely had to join them in submission. I had bloodied my hands already, now I needed to decide if I wished to bloody them more.
Strong men created dynasties, weak men lost them. I could rail against Orys, I could use this tale to light a fire under the lords of my kingdoms, raise a mighty host, and give him a war he would not likely win. Many would do so, I imagined. It was one thing to say 'all I need to do is surrender my power', but most would say 'who is he to demand such to satisfy his own ego?' I did care though. I cared more than I ever thought I could.
My kingdoms and people were at peace again, but it was a hollow peace. I had taken a crown to free us from the wars and affairs of others, yet I had just pulled us into another kingdom's war, and now I was fated to constantly work to improve our own power to forestall the day where the Iron Throne sought to take back its wayward kingdoms. Was I truly so shallow a power-seeker? Did I just want the ability to forge my own destiny? There was but one question I needed an answer for in truth: Do I need a crown?
Winterfell still stands. House Stark has grown and flourished, as have those that entrusted themselves to us. Whether as kings or lords, we have stood for thousands of years, and if I've a say we'll stand for thousands more. Life is cruel, men are cruel, and those who are not must harden themselves against those who are. There are two certainties in this world, death and winter. It is telling then, that the words of House Stark are not about the inevitable end of life, but a warning to be prepared for its harshest, darkest, coldest hours.
Winter is coming, and we will survive it.
