Willam I
King’s Course was a dull place compared to the hustle and bustle of Winterfell.
Even duller still when Master Rodrik Cassel and his daughter Lady Beth were away.
Willam Snow spurned his destrier on as he made his way between the watchtowers. King’s Course was a modest keep with a single tower that overlooked the King’s Road. Its outer walls could be circled in ten minutes by horse, and forty by foot and the half-deserted town outside its gates offered little in the way of excitement. It was a far cry from the war. Tales of glorious battles were on the lips of every commoner and nobleman alike. It seemed everyone had known someone who marched off to fight under the Stark banner, and Willam had known more than most.
He felt the weight of the sword on his hip as his horse trotted beneath him. He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured himself in formation, preparing for battle against hordes of enemies dressed in crimson and green. In his mind, he was swift and accurate. He would cut down enemy after enemy until only he stood, victorious on the field of battle. He’d find a tavern after and a busty wench to lay with. A bard would sing songs of his valor and men would toast to his honor. The smallfolk would speak his name in the taverns, in the fields, and in the streets.
“Torrhen’s stuck again!”
Donnel the oaf was yelling from inside the archer's turret. The man gestured dramatically towards the next turret over as Willam squinted up at him.
“He’s stuck?” Asked Willam. A sigh escaped his lungs as he set his jaw.
“Again!” Donnel added. “Bloody fool keeps sticking his arm through that hole. And they call me the oaf.”
“You are an oaf,” Willam assured him as he turned his destrier back towards Torrhen’s station.
“Am not!” yelled Donnel as he crossed his arms.
“Who was it again that used poison ivy to wipe their arse?” Willam japed remembering Donnel, after an unusually long day of ranging, sheepishly asking the Maester for a poultice to ease his itching arse.
“Fuck off then, bastard!”
The arms of House Cassel, Ten white wolves' heads, 4-3-2-1, on grey with a black border.
It had been a long year of soldiering with the men of House Cassel. An assignment he’d earned from Master Rodrik in order to ‘build the foundation of an illustrious military career.’ Duty had always come first to his adopted father, and he saw fit to make sure Willam saw the world in the same way. But when the Stark host under Robb rode south to war, all Willam could do was watch as the army passed by. Now he was here, in command of Donnel the oaf and Torrhen while the Northmen found glory in the south.
An illustrious military career would be aided by leading men in battle, Willam had thought, but he did as Master Rodrik asked and accepted the position nonetheless.
“How have you gotten stuck again?” Willam said as he dismounted and started up the long spiral staircase that led to the top of the turret.
“I twisted me hand,” Torrhen grunted. “I done it again and I can’t get it out.”
By the time Willam had reached him, Torrhen had turned a beet red.
“Gods, have you tried to yank your arm off?” Willam inspected the outside of the turret where Torrhen’s left hand sat exposed to the world outside the castle walls.
“Have you got any pig grease?” Torrhen asked, giving the arm another tug.
“Seems I should keep some on me when I’m around you lot.” Willam knelt beside Torrhen and squinted down the narrow opening the arm was wedged in. “What were you reaching at?”
“I was waving,” Torrhen grunted.
“
Waving?” Willam said. “You’re guarding a bloody castle not lording over a banquet.”
“There was that same lass,” Torrhen said. “The bosomy one that passes by just as I come on watch. So I thought to wave. What could it hurt? Mayhaps she’d flash me her teets.”
“Did she wave back this time, or show you her teets?” Willam asked.
“No! She only laughed cus’ I got me hand stuck!”
Willam knelt and fashioned a two-hand grip around Torrhen’s arm. “Just a twist,” he said, turning the arm so the hand was now vertical and in line with the archer's slit. Torrhen lurched back with a jolt and yanked his arm from the opening.
“Twist your wrist next time you dolt.” Willam laughed.
“I did!” Torrhen insisted as he rubbed at the raw patch of skin that had formed around his wrist.
“You are lucky you’re an ace with that bow,” Willam said. “Don’t think you’re good for much else.”
“Am too,” Torrhen grinned showing a mouthful for black teeth, “I could always sell me body with the wenches down at the tavern. The lasses love a militiaman.” He stood and let out a hearty laugh.
A horn blast cut the afternoon air like a knife. It was from the watchtowers at the front gate.
“Riders,” Willam said. A jolt of adrenaline sent his heart racing.
“Who could that be?” Torrhen said.
“Nock your bow.” Willam was already halfway down the steps before Torrhen could respond. “And keep your eye on the gate.”
Willam spurned his destrier into a gallop. King’s Course had not been expecting riders, and unannounced guests were especially unnerving during wartime. Surely they'd have heard if Robb had been pushed back this far north. Perhaps some southron army has breached Moat Cailin? They were in no shape for a siege. Willam took in the scene around him. Men rushed for the stables where the stable boys were moving faster than he’d ever seen them, fastening saddles and deploying lances. A group of spears and shields ran double time behind his horse bound for their spot just behind the portcullis. It was all Willam could do not to unsheathe his sword and charge through the gates at the unknown enemy, but before his fantasy could play out, he rounded the corner to see the portcullis rising and riders slipping through.
“Stand down, friendlies!” Yelled the men upon the gatehouse.
“Friendlies!” The stable boys echoed.
“They’re friendlies,” Willam turned to the spears who in turn shouted at the south gate, and the cycle continued.
Per custom, Willam pushed his destrier forward to greet the visitors, whoever they may be. As disappointed as he was that enemy invaders had not come to test their mettle, there was, at the very least a sense of excitement at the prospect of new faces. He had not expected, however, to see the banners of House Dustin pour through the gates.
“Uncle Roger!” Willam smiled as he sighted his uncle’s bristling auburn mustache amongst the Barrowton men. “I’d assumed you rode south with Lord Stark.”
“Would be that I might,” said Roger, fashioning a grin at the sight of his nephew. “The lovely Lady Ryswell only committed one-hundred men to the Stark cause. Ryswell men at that. Our own fighting men stand ready to serve.”
Roger dismounted his steed, steel plate polished so clearly that Willam could see his own reflection staring back at him. Following his uncle’s lead, Willam slid off his destrier, suddenly embarrassed by the weathered jerkin he’d been issued by the Master-at-Arms. They embraced each other. Roger letting off a hearty cackle as he gave Willam a stiff slap on the back.
“My, you’ve sprouted up like a beanstalk since I last saw you.”
Willam smiled as he thought about the stretchers he’d had to place in the knees of his armor. It was true that he had grown. Not so tall as an Umber, but a fair bit taller than most. When Willam was a boy, nary a name day would pass without a visit from Uncle Roger back when he called the carriage house at Winterfell home. Lord Stark would offer him patronage, and Uncle Roger would sit at the Lord's table and speak of the happenings at Barrowton since Lady Barbrey refused to treat with him. Then, Uncle Roger would emerge from the great hall and watch from the parapets as Willam trained with the fighting men in the lower bailey. Afterward, they would ride out into the wolfswood, and hunt boar and Uncle Roger would tell him stories of his father and Barrowton and the history of their House.
His house, Willam remembered.
My house is snow, nothing more.
“I have grown,” Willam did not hide his enthusiasm at the sudden surprise visit, “I fear I may grow so tall that I will no longer fit my armor.”
“Is that what passes for armor these days?” Said Roger. “Couldn’t old Rodrik find the coin in his coffers for some decent plate?”
Willam reddened at his uncle's words. “Father says the coffers have run dry since the war is on.”
A scowl fell across his uncles face. The last time Willam referred to Master Rodrik as father in front of his uncle, Roger had made a nasty point of it.
“Your father is buried in Dorne,” he’d said,
“tell me Willam, after Lord Stark fostered in the Vale did he refer to Jon Arryn as his father? Remember that you are to Rodrik Cassel what Lord Stark is to Jon Arryn, no different. Do not dishonor your fathers legacy by denying he ever existed, be proud of him and what he accomplished.”
Lord Willam Dustin of the Barrowlands, slain by Ser Arthur Dayne in the Red Mountains of Dorne
Combat at the Tower of Joy
Being proud of a man he did not know was difficult. Stories of his father had followed him all of his life. Lord Willam Dustin died at the Tower of Joy by Ser Arthur Dayne’s hand. Dignified, Master Rodrik had called it. Lord Stark seldom spoke of that day, but when he did, he made sure Willam knew he remembered his companion fondly. Curiosity had, of course, stirred his mind, and Willam found himself often wondering after his father, what he looked like, his prowess in battle, his preference in ale. But his father was a man who lived in stories, in a different place, in a different time, and it served him not to dwell too harshly on the thoughts and instead focus on his duty, as Master Rodrik had told him.
Uncle Roger mercifully allowed the slight to pass over him and instead clapped the boy on the shoulder in congratulations. “I’ve heard you’ve made Captain of the Guard. Quite a station for such a young man.”
Shocked that word had traveled as far as Barrowton, Willam beamed proudly. “The youngest in the history of this castle. But, however did you come to find out?”
Roger waved off the inquiry. “Words travel fast, my dear boy. It is of no matter. What is important is that we are all well-pleased at your illustrious appointment. Hother even made it a point to have me send you his regards personally.”
The last time Uncle Hother paid a visit to Winterfell; it was just past Willam’s tenth nameday. The Greyjoy Rebellion had just been quelled, and Lord Stark had called a feast to celebrate his bannermen and their great victory on behalf of the crown. Willam remembered the cane uncle Hother clung to as they traversed their way through Winterfell's winding corridors, his legs battered with age. Uncle Hother was the brother of Willam’s grandfather, and in that respect, was much older than Roger. In truth, neither Hother nor Roger were his father's brothers, but the phrase uncle was much easier than grand uncle or great grand cousin, so both became uncles in the vernacular of the world.
Master Rodrik Cassel
On the evening that Master Rodrik had invited Uncle Hother for ale at the carriage house, Beth had met him at the door, poking fun at his grey bushy eyebrows referring to them as old caterpillars which he took with great gusto and delight. Before long, she had proclaimed him her best friend after he had sat patiently, oohing and ahhing as little Beth wheeled out her needlework to be critiqued. That night, after Willam had put Beth to bed Master Rodrik beckoned him to the serving table. It was the first time he had been permitted more than one tankard of ale, and Willam fought to keep the room from spinning as the men spoke of politics and the state of the realm. When the night had drawn to a close, Hother had made a point to compliment Willam on his swordsmanship. “A truer vision of your father I have not seen.” Though uncle Hother would not return to Winterfell again on account of his age, the words had lived within Willam since that night.
“Is uncle Hother well?” asked Willam.
“Well enough, I should say,” Roger contorted his face into a mocking smile, “he has found it prudent to take a wife. Why I do not know. In life, a woman is useful for few things, none of which are relevant once you’ve reached an age. A man who can count his sixtieth name day should look suspiciously upon any woman who seeks his favor.”
Willam grinned, sensing his uncle’s intentions. “I am flattered, but a raven or a runner would have sufficed, uncle. You need not travel all this way to ask me to attend the wedding.”
Hother Dustin newly wed to Carolei Waynwood
“Oh my dear boy, they do not spend coin on weddings for the elderly.” Roger crossed his arms and stroked his long mustache. “Besides, your uncle Hother would never have allowed a feast in his name. The two of them have taken to living like peasants in an old farmstead an hours ride from Barrowton. The man would not have had two coins to rub together if not for Lady Ryswell’s employment. If his bride seeks his estate, she will be surprised to learn there is nothing to inherit except hordes of books and fifty acres of farmland.” Roger smiled at that thought while Willam reeled at the news.
“Who has he married?” Willam managed, wondering why they had not sent word.
“Lady Carolei of House Waynwood,” Roger said. “They are near an age.”
“House Waynwood,” repeated Willam, “of the Vale?”
“Yes, yes,” Roger waved a hand lazily. “She has a long and complicated history of which I cannot remember at the moment. There was some word sent to Winterfell on your behalf, but I’ve only recently come to find you’ve been made to guard this … humble keep. It is likely that the news was lost in the chaos once Lord Stark called his banners.”
“I see,” said Willam, his mind spinning, “but if your visit does not relate to uncle Hother’s wedding, whatever are you doing here?” Willam asked. “You are a long way from home.”
“A whole moons turn,” said Roger. “Though it was an uneventful ride. The roads have turned full of brigands now that the Lords have gone south. I reckon thirty knights is enough to scare off even the most hardened of lechers. I’m afraid I have a most urgent matter of importance to discuss with you, Willam. One that could only be discussed in person.”
“A matter of importance?” Guts churned in Willam’s stomach at his uncle’s words. “I must admit you have taken me by surprise, uncle. Has something happened at Barrowton?”
“It is a delicate matter, Willam. Not one to be discussed in the open. Is there somewhere private we may speak?”
“Master Rodrik’s solar,” Willam said nervously, “though I may need the Castellan to permit me access. I can have one of the bedrooms made up, as well. I’m sure Master Rodrik won’t mind considering your station, uncle. Have the men brought pavilions or will they require quarter as well?”
“Ease yourself, Willam. We won’t be staying.”
“But, it’s taken you a whole moons turn to get here. Surely you do not intend to turn around?”
“Is old Rodrik here now?” Roger redirected the conversation, his eyes looked past Willam and towards the singular stone tower behind him. “Are you alone in the castle?”
“Master Rodrik is at Winterfell. As is Lady Beth.”
“Good,
good,” Roger said. “I wouldn’t want to disturb old Rodrik with an unannounced visit.”
Willam smiled. “Master Rodrik is a good man, I’m sure he’d be delighted by your presence.”
“A man of principle, to be certain.” Roger walked towards the keep, and Willam moved to match his gait. “I will speak with the Castellan, my boy. Come, let us speak while I rest these old bones by the hearth.”
----
Cobwebs stuck to the corners of the windows and the distinct odor of old parchment made the solar at King’s Course seem an ancient tomb. Serving girls worked feverishly to remove the sheets that had protected Master Rodrik’s furniture sending explosions of dust into the air that tickled the nose and itched the eye. A boy rushed into the room, his breath heavy as he stacked logs in the hearth and worked a bellows until a fire raged and warmth began to fill the cracks and crevices of the cobbled walls.
The young serving girl called Ruby had brought the black bread and coarse salt so that guest right could be served. Uncle Roger had expertly navigated the Castellan’s dutiful hospitality, sending the man away with pleasantries on his lips, so only the two of them remained. Willam cracked the stale loaf in two and handed Uncle Roger his due. They both gnashed at the sourdough, the salt doing a well enough job of masking the plainness of it.
Ruby asked, “will my Lord require anything else?”
Roger set his bread down, his face a picture of disgust. “Not a Lord but a Ser, my dear.”
“This is Ser Roger Dustin,” added Willam. Knights were a rarity in the north, but Barrowton was full of them.
Ruby tensed with embarrassment. “My apologies, Ser.”
“Have you got some wine to wash this niggardly bread down with, my dear?” Roger asked.
“No, no,” Willam almost shouted with caution. His uncle gave him a cursory look. “Master Rodrik would
not abide opening the cellar absent his presence.”
“I am his guest, am I not?” Roger posed the question to the girl who flashed a polite smile. “My nephew and I have much to celebrate, I’m sure Master Rodrik will not mind if we took a taste.”
“I shall bring some right away,” she said, scurrying back to the kitchens.
Willam waited for the door to shut before he spoke. “You’ve just committed me to punishment, uncle. Perhaps Ruby as well. Surely Master Rodrik will hear of this … “
“Might I ask you something, Willam?” Roger interrupted. He leaned back and casually placed his feet upon the table. “Do you ever tire of this life that Master Rodrik has conscripted you into? Marooned. Protecting some barren keep whilst your northern brothers' fight in the south.”
His words made Willam wince. “There is wisdom in my posting here, uncle." He recited Rodrik's words, though they felt hollow. "The King’s Road need be protected in these dangerous times. Should an army breach Moat Cailin … “
“Moat Cailin has not been breached for thousands of years,” Roger cut in once more, exasperation in his voice. “Men will have won glory in battle while you’ve sat wasting away, watching the wind blow in the grass. Can you not see that you’ve been set aside, my dear boy?”
“
Set aside?” Willam reddened. “It might be that Master Rodrik saw fit to protect me from the field. Mayhaps he feels I am not ready.”
“I’ve seen you best men twice your age, Willam. You are a far better with a sword than most of the lords that enjoy the command of the King's army. When I told you the Captain of the Guard is a prestigious station, it was not a lie. But it is a station that has always been suited to lowborn, third sons, or distant cousins. You are the
son of Lord Willam Dustin of Barrowton, do not forget that this station is beneath you.”
Willam did not know how to respond to his uncle’s castigation. He had not argued with Master Rodrik when the posting was offered. Instead, he recalled another Captain of the Guard in Master Rodrik’s nephew Jory Cassel, who’d served Winterfell diligently for years. Well respected by nobles and lowborn alike, Jory seemed an ideal man to model his own career after. So when he’d proudly been offered the role, Willam had not thought twice about the posting. When the banners had been called, Willam wrote to Master Rodrik for permission to lead the King’s Course garrison south with Robb Stark to avenge Jory and all of the Winterfell men who were murdered in cold blood. What returned was placation. “Should we falter and an army breaches the neck, it will be up to you to hold to the most direct path to Winterfell.”
“It is time.” Roger’s tone grew darker. He stroked his mustache, twisting the hairs on end into tidy conical structures. “It is time to ascend and take what is rightfully yours. There are events in motion now set to deliver you your birthright, Willam. Fifteen-hundred Dustin men stand ready to oust the pretender. Barrowton can be yours, you must merely reach out and take it.”
Willam stopped to catch his breath. “Y-You speak
madness, uncle.”
Roger laughed as Ruby entered the room and delivered a flagon of arbor gold. Willam bore his eyes into the table before him, his mind a whir with questions. Roger poured himself a generous helping of Master Rodrik’s wine and lifted the chalice, a satisfactory look upon his face. Ruby took her post along the wall, awaiting instructions.
“Leave us, girl,” Roger said, gulping at the sweet wine. She nodded, and his eyes followed her until she shut the heavy wooden door and they were alone once more.
Roger continued. “You have not been privy to the plans your uncle and I have laid, and that has been by design.”
“What plans?” Willam insisted. His hand shook as he reached for the arbor gold. The wine was what he needed, to stave off the nerves, to clear his head.
“We will ride for Barrowton with haste,” a grin caught Roger’s mouth as he swirled the wine once more. “Once we are within a days ride, I will dispatch an outrider to signal to the garrison that we are coming. Our men stand ready to take Lady Barbrey’s guard into custody by force or otherwise. Once her protectors have been neutralized, she will quickly be chained, and all we need do is ride through the gates and proclaim yourself the new Lord of Barrowton.”
The wine threatened to force its way up Willam’s throat, and a cold sweat began to form on his brow as he internalized what was happening. His words spurned visions of Master Rodrik glowering from his steed. He would not condone this dishonorable coup, that much was certain. And what of Robb Stark, the King in the North? Would he readily abide such recklessness from his bannerman? There were too many questions without answers, and they littered his mind like obstacles.
“What of the King’s peace?” Willam said, his voice soft as a whisper. “We would be breaking the law.”
“You have much to learn, my boy.” Roger tore off another piece of bread and forced it into his mouth. “There is no peace, the King is at war, preoccupied in the south. He may send a sortie trotting from Winterfell to deal with us, but he has not the manpower nor the gumption for a prolonged siege of Barrowton. Besides, you have Master Rodrik’s favor, and the Stark Boy’s for that matter. It is far more likely, given our potential to contribute all of Barrowtons levies to the war effort, that
His Grace may just welcome a changing of the guard. Lady Ryswell held no love for Eddard Stark and the same bears true for his son.”
“They will be displeased,” said Willam. Uncle Roger did not know Master Rodrik as he did. The man would not abide dishonor.
“Perhaps in the beginning,” Roger said. “And we may be looked upon unkindly for some time. But remember this. A pretender sits your father’s seat. If we do not act now, Barrowton may forever be lost to our House. Do you understand the weight of this, Willam? The future of our house rides on your shoulders.”
“I don’t understand, uncle. Do you not just take Barrowton for yourself? You are of this house, is your claim not also valid?”
Roger smiled. “I am but a distant cousin to your late father, it is not my seat to sit.” Roger took another swig of wine before continuing. “You are the only son of the last Dustin to rule over the Barrowlands. The entirety of the north knows your claim is pure. Make no mistake, it is yours and yours alone.”
Willam felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth and fought to quell it.
Lord Willam Dustin of Barrowton. His entire life seems to have been built to resist this temptation. Master Rodrik had always told him ‘
remember your station in life and always endeavor to do your best work, whatever it may be.’ Willam did try to follow Master Rodrik’s instructions, but he’d often find his mind drifting to thoughts of his father and Barrowton. At night, he’d lay in bed and fantasize about lording over the keep, sitting the table for council meetings, watching a family grow and raising
legitimate children. Would father have looked favorably upon this plan or would he be ashamed? It was his widow that sat Barrowton, and she bore no love for her late husband's bastard.
Willam poured himself some more wine for courage. In a moons turns he could find himself the new Lord of Barrowton.
But at what risk? Treason was a death sentence, should it come to that. And how would Master Rodrik react? Would he concede his disappointment in the wake of Willam’s ascension or would he lobby for justice? It would come down to that, Willam realized. That, and Uncle Roger’s suggestion that their commitment to the war may win them their seat in the mind of Robb Stark.
“I-I’m not sure,” Willam’s voice cracked. He took a deep drink of wine to calm his nerves. “I don’t know what to do, uncle. Must I decide now?”
“There is no time to debate. The wheels are in motion, and the men stand ready.” Roger pushed himself away from the table, downing the last of the wine in his cup before rising. “If you should choose to stay, you will doom us all, my boy. You are the backbone of this coup, without you, it is all for naught. Stand now and fulfill the destiny your father would have wanted for you, Willam. Help me return House Dustin to its rightful place.”
Father. Willam drank again. His head spun in circles with visions of faces and words. Master Rodrik’s shame, Robb’s wrath, father’s pride. After some time he pushed himself away from the table and stood. On weak legs, his hands shook as he straightened his uniform. Roger gave him a stern nod and extended an arm which Willam received.
“Let us ride for Barrowton,” Roger said. “Let us show our house’s power.”
