The Young Wolf - A Stark AGOT AAR
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Yeah, although planning against a foe like Tywin Lannister is always going to be difficult.
Wouldn't put it past the Greyjoys to do something like that, Balon is more than willing to pay the iron price for victory.
Thanks!
Chapter 5
Chapter 5 - Green Dreams and Iron Nightmares
Bran
A flaming red comet crashing into a red brick city, a wolf with a crown of iron, a kraken pulling down a ship with the sails of House Lannister, and an army of dead men walking through the snow.
These were the things Bran had dreamt during his long sleep after his fall. Each one was engulfed in a ring of fire, all except the dead men. Thinking of them still made Bran's skin crawl, even a year after he had woken from him is sleep. The reason wasn't just because it reminded him of the day his ability to walk had been ripped away from him, it was because several of them had come true. At least according to his newest companion.
“You're a greenseer” insisted an excited Jojen Reed “before the Andals, the First Men were taught to see green dreams by the Children of the Forest. And First Men blood runs through your veins.” As he talked the wind rustled through the leaves in the Winterfell Godswood, and both Bran and Jojen turned to the weirwood tree behind them. “The Old Gods see you Bran, they know of your power.”
For a moment Bran was sucked into Jojen's stories as he stared into the eyes of the weirwood, it's intoxicating red sap seemingly entrapping his mind. It was the squawk of a passing raven that finally snapped Bran out of his trance, and he suddenly realised how silly it sounded and began to laugh.
Bran turned to Jojen and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. “Has Old Nan been telling you one of her stories?” A frowning Jojen nudged the hand of his shoulder.
“I have seen all that you have seen in my dreams, the comet, the crowned wolf, the army of the dead...” Jojen's sentence droned off as he thought on what was the most terrible of the dreams, and the most unbelievable.
“The walking dead already proves that it is not real, you cannot raise anyone from the dead.” Bran felt proud of himself as he proved Jojen wrong, but it didn't seem to have the desired effect.
“The Others can raise the dead.”
Bran frowned “The Others are not real”
“If you do not believe your visions then what of Osha's story?” To Bran her story was hardly credible, Osha was a wildling, of course, she would believe in fair-tales and make-believe. Besides now that she was south of the Wall there was no way she would want to go back to the freezing hell-hole she grew up in.
“Osha would say anything not to go back beyond the Wall.”
Jojen's face went darker and he turned and looked back at the weirwood. “No Bran, in her eyes was pure terror. She has seen what is coming and she wants to run.” His fists clenched and he turned back to Bran and looked him in the eyes. “We can't.”
As the atmosphere of the godswood fell darker, both Bran and Jojen began to hear rustling in the bushes behind them. Jojen, armed only with a large stick, stood between Bran and the bush, his stance transitioning to warriors. The noise got closer and closer until it was right upon them and then-
“Hodor!” bellowed Bran's manservant as he charged out of the bushes an excited stupor. For a moment both Bran and Jojen were stunned, and neither of them could conjure up the words needed. It was only with the arrival of Jojen's sister, Meera, that they both snapped out of their trance.
“Hodor I told you to slow down!” said Meera as she panted and wiped a bead of sweat from her brow.
“Hodor” answered Hodor, his voice semi-sorrowful and semi-playful. Hodor had been at Winterfell since Bran's father was young, and it was said that he was once a stable-boy called Walder. That all changed when he got to close to a horse and it kicked him in the head. Or was it because he was dropped on his head as a baby? Or that he had some sort of seizure that transformed him into the man he became? There were so many conflicting stories on how Walder became Hodor, and of all, they made sense in their own way.
Realising that they were no threat, Jojen sighed and lowered his stick. “Sister, Hodor, you both scared us to death.”
Meera chuckled “we scared you?” Her chuckles became a full belly laugh, and it caused a nervous Hodor to join in as well.
Ever since Meera had arrived at Winterfell Bran had been smitten. She was not incredibly beautiful purse, instead, she possessed common beauty that seemed to be all the more charming than the intense looks of someone like Cersei Lannister. Bran knew that it was highly unlikely she thought the same, besides she was seven years older than him, if she was going to marry any Stark it would be Robb.
“Why you here?” asked an increasingly annoyed Jojen.
“We are here to bring Lord Bran to the great hall for another council meeting” Meera smiled as she revealed the news, probably in an attempt to tease Bran because she knew he despised those lengthy time-wasting meetings.
Bran rubbed his eyes, sighed, and reached out to Hodor. “Come Hodor, it's time to go to one of the seven hells for a few hours.”
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It was mid-morning which meant one thing, the Lord's counsel in Winterfell's great hall. Of all the things Bran despised, the hearing of complaints from the lords and commoners alike was the at the top. Sitting for hours on an uncomfortable stool as farmers squabble about the boundaries of their fields, soldiers complain about rations, and penniless lordlings beg for coin to rebuild their crumbling holdfasts. Why are they bothering me about this thought Bran Robb is their liege, not me.
A Stark must always remain in Winterfell, that's what both father and Robb had said to him whenever he complained about staying at home. For his father, it was a way to stop him going hunting when he was too young, for Robb it was keeping a Stark figurehead in the North as he avenges the murder of their father. But Bran was not the real leader of the North, it was Maester Luwin and Lord Wyman Manderly, who both took on the duties of stewards and lawmakers whilst their king was away. Bran was their to legitimise everything, that was it.
“M'lord, my wife passed two moons ago and now my daughter has got the sour-rot.” The elderly mason's voice wavered as he told Bran of his misfortune. “I am all but spent, and the landlord is threatening to throw us out.” The mason began to cry and was being comforted by two friends who had come to support him. Bran felt extremely sorry for him, but sadly Winterfell had no coin to spare. It had been spent on the army and two companies of sellswords that Robb had hired to defend the North from the Ironborn.
Bran felt his heart burn as he revealed the harsh truth. “Your situation his heart wrenching, and if I could do something I would. But Winterfell's coffers are spent, we barely have enough our selves.”
One of Mason's friends was incensed when he heard Bran's reply. “You say you have no coin yet you have enough for those Lyseni bastards who fondle our daughters and drink at our taverns for free?”
It was true the sellswords had been acting less than courteous to the locals, despite warnings from Maester Luwin and Lord Manderly. However much Bran agreed with them, he had to support Robb's decision.
“The sellswords are here to protect us from the Ironborn while reinforcements arrive from the south.”
Lord Manderly sat forward, his immense gut bulging across the table. “You can either have the Lyseni play with your daughters and drink your wine, or the Ironborn raping your daughters and stealing your wine.”
The careful spoken Maester Luwin frowned at Lord Manderly and began to translate in more polite terms “what my lord is trying to say is that the sellswords are here to protect us, perhaps we should allow them a little leeway when it comes to their behaviour.”
“Leeway? They're eating me out of hearth and home.”
Bran, having long tired of the meeting, decided to end this issue here and now. “I'm sorry but there is little we can do. I suggest you go home and try and hide some of your food.” The man looked like he was about to explode into another rant, so Bran decided to lie “I will also send some men to talk to the sellswords and try and convince them to change their ways.” The Mason's friend seemed slightly placated and bowed, though Bran knew his lie would only delay his return.
Eventually, the council progressed and moved past all of the trivial matters and arrived at the most important part of the meeting, the war against the Ironborn. The giant doors of the great hall slammed shut as Bran, Lord Manderly, Maester Luwin, and Lord Rodrik Ryswell talked of the war.
“I have received word from Deepwood Motte that a large Ironborn force has landed at Pinesend and has taken it.” Old Lord Ryswell's wrinkly face frowned with disgust at the mention of the invading reavers. “We also know the leader of the host is Victarion Greyjoy, Balon's brother.”
Theon's uncle Bran thought, causing his blood to rush to his cheeks in rage at the turncloak's betrayal. Theon and Bran were never close, but he saw him as an older brother. He was just as bad as a kinslayer in Bran's eyes.
Maester Luwin leant forward, his eyes revealing his concern at the news. “What of Lord Liddle and his family?”
“Escaped my lord, Lord Liddle is leading what remains of his men down to Winterfell.”
Lord Manderly suddenly let out a confused grunt, which seemingly sent his fat gut rippling. “Strange place to land, I thought they were going to try and take Deepwood Motte.”
“The seas were stormy” answered Lord Ryswell “the Ironborn must have been knocked off course.”
The talk of invading Ironborn and captured holdfast unnerved Bran, and it made him realised the war had arrived at the North. The stories of Robb's war in the south were expectedly glamorised by Bran's guardians, it was only Osha who would tell him what war is really like.
Urgent to take action against the invaders, Bran turned to Lord Manderly in desperation. “My Lord, how long will it take for our army to be ready?”
“Well...” The plump lord stroked the wispy beard
on his double chin, his eyes looking up at the rafters as he thought. “Lord Reed has nearly received all the banners remaining in the North with the exception of the Skagosi, but we are still waiting for the King's reinforcements from the south.”
Maester Luwin spoke up. “I received a raven this morning from the host, they have just passed Moat Cailin so I estimate they will be here in a week or so.” Too long.
“The Ironborn may have the Motte and be marching down to Winterfell by then!” Bran's consternation took Maester Luwin aback, but Lord Manderly simply laughed and put his chubby hand on Bran's shoulder.
“Even if Lord Reed is defeated in battle, Winterfell will hold in a siege. We have enough provisions to last two years, and the Ironborn possess no siege engines nor wish for a siege in the first place. They're vultures, picking at harmless scraps. No better than the pirates in the Stepstones.” Lord Manderly spat on the ground with the mention of pirates, unsurprising given the number of trade cogs he loses from their activities.
Maester Luwin, having calmed down from Bran's outburst, cautiously turned to his lord yet again.“The location of the reinforcements was not the only news brought by the raven my lord. It seems with it travels a high-value prisoner and the Queen.”
Everyone in the hall began to look at each other with confusion as Bran struggled to understand why Robb had sent them. “Why send them up here?”
“King Robb knows they will be safer up in the North than down in the south. If Tywin captured the Queen the war would be over.” What Maester Luwin said was true, but it was far from safe in the North. The Ironborn were on the march, and the summer snows had given way to autumn storms. Soon winter would be upon them, a winter that even the Northerners would struggle to survive in.
- 1
Thanks!
It can get a bit boring in the North I bet, but I assume an Ironborn invasion wasn't what the northerners had in mind...
Chapter 6
Chapter 6 - Blood at the God's Eye
Robb
The light of the early morning sun shone across the fields outside Riverrun. It's orange hue reflected off the armour of tens of thousands of soldiers, all of them readying themselves for the march to Harrenhal. It had taken only five days for the massive host to assemble itself, far quicker than what Robb and his advisors expected. Perhaps the news of a counter-attack against Tywin Lannister had roused something in the tired riverlanders, indeed the five thousand northerners who were left in the south were eager for battle. But Robb knew it wouldn't be easy, while a ruin Harrenhal was a dangerous prospect to take, it's ruined halls providing excellent places for the besieged defenders to hide and strike from. Also, Robb's army was mostly composed of riverlanders, men who had been fighting for over a year and were both tired and disillusioned. It was no secret that some northerner men had been as savage to the locals as the Lannisters, and many River Lords had expressed their consternation at it. Robb had punished those he could, but he knew he couldn't act against the biggest culprits, the Bolton and Karstark bannermen. They were the largest components of his army, he could ill afford to lose them. His mother had supported him in his actions, but Robb often thought of what his father would have done.
“Your Grace” Ser Olyvar pulled Robb back into the real world, and the sounds of thousands of soldiers returned to his ears. His squire looked puzzled. “Are you okay?”
Robb, still thinking on events, lazily answered as he looked out of his tent and across his vast host. “Yes Olyvar, I'm fine.” Olyvar didn't look convinced, his face revealing his concern for his King. “I'm fine Olyvar, honestly.”
“Hmm” replied his squire, obviously not convinced that his liege was okay. Loyal, that was a word Robb would use to describe Olyvar to his lords. Ever since Lord Walder had sent his son with Robb on the campaign, Olyvar had been at his side at every battle, preparing his armour, cooking for him, and when the time came, fighting for him. Robb had found the Frey's to be a mixed and opportunistic bunch, but Olyvar was true and pure, much like his sister Roslin.
Ever since he had sent his wife North, all Robb could think about was Roslin and Jeyne. Both innocent, both dragged into his war of vengeance and liberation.
Once he had finished polishing Robb's armour, Ser Olyvar picked up the breastplate and shambled over to his liege. “Your Grace, it is time to prepare.”
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When the host reached Lychester Robb received news that the Mountain's men had fallen back to Harrenhal after discovering the approaching Stark army. The move was not unsurprising, but it also meant that news of Robb's advance had probably arrived at Harrenhal, giving the Lannister's ample time to garrison that castle. It did not matter much though, Robb knew he had more than enough soldiers to storm the ruin and drive out every last Lannister soldier left in there. However to take precautions he decided to split his army into two, one would be an advanced party mainly composed of cavalry, with a contingent of archers led by the Blackfish. The force would be led by Robb, Greatjon Umber, and Helman Tallhart, with the purpose of cutting down any Lannister troops remaining outside the castle. The main bulk of infantry and supplies would be led by Lord Bolton and Edmure which would then lay siege to Harrenhal.
It was the Hour of the Wolf when Robb's vanguard had arrived outside the castle. The moon was at it's fullest, it's light illuminating both Harrenhal and the God's Eye. It made Harren Hoare's monstrosity look even more intimidating, it's ruined towers taking the shape of silent titans looking down with contempt. However, to Robb's surprise, nearly all of the Lannister army still remained camped outside the castle walls. The Blackfish, returning from a reconnaissance trip, relayed his findings to Robb, who remained mounted with his men just behind the shade of a tree line.
“Your Grace, the Lannisters do not seem to know we are coming, most of them are drunk or sleeping. Even the gate is wide open.” The excitement and disbelief in the Blackfish's voice took Robb aback, he had never seen his great-uncle act with such exuberance. “I suggest we strike immediately.”
The Greatjon, who was sat in on his giant warhorse next to Robb's spry and nimble courser, nodded and whispered. “What Ser Brynden says is true Your Grace, the Lannisters have been caught with their thumbs firmly in their arses, I suggest we attack now.”
They were right of course, they were always right, but Robb's eagerness for war had died on the trip from Riverrun. “Don't be so eager for battle my lords, many of those men down there are just boys who came here for fame and fortunes.”
The Greatjon shook his head, his mouth contorting with disgust. “They may be boys but they are not conscripts, they joined Tywin Lannister's army willingly.” He leant towards Robb, his face fierce with conviction “if they fight for the Lannisters, they die for the Lannisters, no matter their age.”
“Besides Your Grace,” said Lord Tallhart, who was sat on the other side of Robb “many of those men down there are loyal to the Mountain.”
The hunt for Gregor Clegane had been ongoing since Robb's arrival in the Riverlands, and it had claimed the lives of many, both commoners and Lords. However to Robb's disappointment, the sigil flying next to the Lannister and Baratheon sigils on Harrenhal's battlements was not of House Clegane, it was of House Jast.
“The Mountain is not here, it seems Lord Jast is in charge of Harrenhal” said Robb defiantly, though it sickened him to be defending Lannisters.
The Blackfish nodded as he remembered the lord. “Lord Antario is a good man-”
“A Lannister” spat Greatjon as he scowled down at the enemy camped below them.
Enough Robb thought I just want this over with.
He began to formulate a plan. “Ser Brynden, I want you and your archers to sneak into the camp. Quietly I want you to set fires throughout it and generally cause confusion. Kill as many as you can without alerting them, but once the alarm is called kill as many as you can.”
“How to do we escape?” asked the Blackfish.
“Hold your ground. As soon as we see the fires I will sound the advance and we will charge into the camp, cutting down any Lannister soldier we see.” Robb adjusted himself on the saddle and looked at the giant Kingspyre Tower. “Surprise is the key, my lords, if we are lucky we may have Harrenhal before dawn rises.”
With plan relayed, Blackfish and his archers slunk into the tall grass and made their way to the Lannister camp. As Robb watched the Blackfish disappear into the darkness of the night, Ser Olyvar slowly positioned his horse next to his king.
“Are we to go into battle tonight Your Grace?” his voice slightly shook as he talked, much like every boy before a battle.
Robb sighed “Yes Olyvar, we are. We will be riding straight into the lion's jaws, though let's hope trout has made them a bit sluggish.” Robb's jape caused his squire to nervously chuckle as his eyes surveyed the Lannister forces.
Robb found himself oddly transfixed on Ser Olyvar, he was barely a year younger than Robb yet he felt so much younger, or perhaps Robb was so much older than he should have been. Ever since his father was imprisoned Robb had to abandon his childhood and don the mantle of Lord and then King. The North demanded it, his family required it. In his younger years, Robb idolized Daeron the Young Dragon, the warrior king who conquered Dorne at just fourteen years of age. Only now did he realise just how miserable the boy king must have been, the expectation of a million subjects riding on you, and the vultures-called-lords circling you, waiting for a single mistake. Daeron did make a mistake, falling to a Dornish assassin whilst under a peace banner. Robb didn't intend to make the same mistake, the Lannisters would know no peace.
Half an hour after the Blackfish and his men had left, fires began to appear all throughout the camp. Within minutes it was in disarray as screams, shouts, and the sounds of steel began to fill the air. The time had come.
Robb took his helm from Ser Olyvar, put it on, and then drew his sword. The rest of his men followed suit, and soon they were ready. For a moment Robb thought of some sort of speech to rally the men, the kind the knightly stories talked of before a momentous charge into the evil foes. But what they were about to do wasn't glorious battle, it was butchery. When he was ready for the charge he solemnly raised his sword in the air.
The Greatjon screamed at the top of his lungs “the King in the North!”
In unison, the cavalry replied “the King in the North!”
In the blink of an eye Robb and his cavalry were charging towards the Lannister camp, the sounds of hooves, panting, and screaming becoming almost overwhelming. The wind smashing against Robb's face, it's crispness as refreshing as a cold bath on a summers day. For a slight moment Robb forgot where he was, and instead of seeing the Greatjon or Olyvar next to him,
he saw Theon and Jon. Instead of warhorses, it was northern ponies, and instead of steel it was wooden practice swords. The camp gave way to the godswood, and Harrenhal transformed to Winterfell. Home, with friends. We must hurry, father will be mad if we're late.
“What the fuck!” the scream of a Lannister soldier pulled Robb back into the real world, with all its chaos and despair. He only had moments to see his surprised enemy before his courser slammed straight into him and trampled the man to death.
The camp was in complete chaos, and the arrival of the Northern cavalry had only served to confuse things even more. As Robb rode between the burning tents and scattering soldiers, he noticed Blackfish's men cutting down Lannister men who were barely dressed the battle. Robb himself cut down more than his fair share of fleeing warriors, with many of them dressed in their bedclothes. In a moment of calm in the slaughter, Robb noticed a group of unaware Lannister knights desperately trying to put on their armour. He knew that if they succeeded, they would become a threat to the Blackfish's lightly armoured archers. Confidently Robb charged at full speed at the knights, the hooves of his horse only alerting the knights at the last minute. The horse slammed into them at full speed, knocking them all to the ground. As Robb turned his courser round for another charge, a Lannister footman charged straight at him with a spear, lunging it at his face. Caught unawares, Robb was flung to the ground, desperately protecting himself with his shield.
“Die you cunt” the footman screamed as she continuously stabbed the shield with his iron spear. “Die! Die! Die! Di-”
A shard of steel through his chest ended the footman's chant, his body flopping to the ground. Robb scrambled to his feet, making sure to grab his sword and point it towards his saviour. To his surprise it was his squire.
“Olyvar!” screamed Robb with pleased amazement.
The tired and bloody squire quickly nodded “I saw you were in trouble Your Grace, so I thought I would give you a hand.”
Robb laughed with relief and patted his squire on the shoulder “you saved me yet again.”
Olyvar let out an embarrassed smile and looked down at his sword “well I thought my sister would kill me if I let you die Your Grace.” Before Robb could respond to Olyvar's jape, he turned and saw five Lannister soldiers nervously walking towards them. “Your Grace we are outnumbered.”
One of the Lannisters' ears pricked up “Your Grace? Looks like we 'ave the King in the North boys!” They laughed and howled like wolves, each of them with the eyes of hungry jackals. Their tabards had the three hounds of the Clegane on them.
Robb held his hand out and beckoned “Come on then! Let's see which one of you bastards can take on the wolf!”
Enraged and bloodthirsty, the five men charged, pushing Robb and Olyvar on the defensive. Together they struggled, holding on only due to the poor quality of their enemies. It was Robb who took the first kill, parrying one of them and then striking his sword across their neck. Another one fell to Robb, with Olyvar dispatching one my tripping him into a burning tent. Seeing their fellow compatriots be slaughtered, the remaining two ran off, only to be cut down by the Greatjon and his men. Noticing his king, the Greatjon rode his horse over to them.
“Your Grace are you all right?” Lord Umber's face was caked in blood, and his eyes wide with the mania of battle.
“Yes, all thanks to my squire” Robb patted Olyvar on the back, who looked up at the Greatjon and grimaced.
“You're proving your self to be useful, Frey. I could almost call you a northerner now!” The Greatjon's bellowing voice was so loud it drowned out the surrounding battle. “Your Grace I forgot to tell you, Lord Bolton has arrived with his forces.”
The news caught Robb unaware “Lord Bolton wasn't supposed to arrive until tomorrow.”
The Greatjon laughed yet again “It seems he doesn't want to miss the action! Though I'm sure there will be plenty to flay once the battle is done.”
Soon the battle was done as Lord Bolton had arrived before the Lannisters could close Harrenhal's gates. Northern and Riverlander soldiers poured into the castle and overran the dumbstruck defenders. By the dawn, the direwolf of House Stark flew over the Kingspyre Tower. The advance towards King's Landing had begun.
- 1
This may be touched on later HINT HINT....
CK2 AI for Tywin Lannister doesn't seem to put much stock in Robb Stark, a mistake he may come to regret.
Chapter 7
Chapter 7 - The Journey
Roslin
It had been three weeks since the army had departed from Riverrun, and from the Neck onwards the trip towards Winterfell had been unbearable. Besides being constantly saddle-sore, stinking of horse manure, and being driven to boredom by the lack of anything to do, Roslin was having to get used to the North's 'charms'. The biting cold was the first thing she noticed, it's crispness stinging her nose and ears. It felt like winter had arrived, yet in the Riverlands summer had only just begun to end. The second thing she noticed was the constant bleakness of Westeros' most northern kingdom. Whether it was the stinking swamps of the Neck or the barren heathland beyond Moat Cailin, it was a wonder people lived in the area at all. Any trees she saw were either without leaves, or tall lonely pines standing lonely vigils in the grey overcast sea.
The biggest thing Roslin noticed though was just how old the North was. “These lands are of the First Men,” said Ser Rodrik as they marched through Moat Cailin “and up here there are different laws and different gods.” Instead of revering the metaphysical Seven, the northerners worshipped the Old Gods, the weirwood trees that were carved by the Children of the Forest thousands of years ago. When the Andals swarmed across Westeros, it was only the North, and their Stark Kings of Winter, who repelled the invaders. It still felt like some northerners were fighting the same battle, though southron ways had begun to creep into the North. The Manderlys, the richest and third most powerful house pledged to House Stark, were exiles from the Reach who worshipped the false gods of the south. In fact, Roslin's mother-in-law worshipped the Faith, and it was said that Ned Stark personally built her a sept himself. None this stopped her feeling out of place though, none of these truths could have eased her mind as she edged ever closer to her new home.
After six days from leaving Moat Cailin, the army arrived at Castle Cerwyn during the beginning of dusk. The small holdfast consisted of a stone keep surrounded by a timber palisade and a wooden gatehouse. This would be the last stop, for it was less than a days ride to Winterfell, even with an army ten thousand strong. As Roslin reared her horse to a halt, Lady Cerwyn and her children filed of the castle's keep and bowed before her. Roslin turned behind her in surprise to see who they were bowing at before realising it was for her. She blushed as she remembered she was the Queen, despite her lack of authority and confidence.
“You may rise,” said Roslin meekly “it is an honour to meet you.”
Lady Cerwyn rose, with her children dutifully following suit. “The honour is all mine, Your Grace. Castle Cerwyn is yours, and we will serve to your every need.”
“There's no need my lady, a warm bed and a bite to eat is all I need to be satisfied.” Roslin looked towards the Cerwyn children, one was a young yet strong looking boy with a feisty smile, and the other a maid a few years Roslin's senior. “And what are your names?”
“Cley” answered the boy “I wanted to go with my father to fight, but he forbade me.”
Lady Cerwyn rolled her eyes “your father knew that sending a boy into a war will only get him killed.”
Cley was taken aback by the perceived insult. “I'm only a year younger than the King!”
“I will not have this argument again!” shouted Lady Cerwyn, whose face hand turned a bright shade of red.
Growing increasingly embarrassed with the argument she had caused, Roslin began to feel her cheeks blush. Lady Cerwyn's daughter, who had sensed Roslin's predicament, spoke up “Your Grace has been assigned the royal chamber, though a King or Queen hasn't slept in it since before Aegon's Conquest.”
Roslin nodded meekly “thank you, my lady...”
“It's Jonelle, and I'm no Lady, Your Grace, at least not yet.” With a smile and a bow, Jonelle led Roslin to her chambers, where she slept soundly for what felt like only a few minutes. Before she knew it dawn had broken and the army was on the move yet again, though for the final time as by dusk they would be at Winterfell.
Travelling the Kingsroad was still as boring as ever, even as Roslin thought on her future in the North. Her sore thighs were becoming a major problem, and many of her handmaids had begged her to stay at Castle Cerwyn for a few nights so she could recover. But she was adamant she would not rest until she was at Winterfell, for if the army could not slow down then neither could she.
It had been a couple of hours since the army had left Castle Cerwyn, and Roslin was desperate for conversation. She had tried to talk to some of the handmaids she had been given when the army passed through the Twins, .but she found them to be nothing more than lickspittles. She was also too afraid to go near here northern guards, whose scarred faces revealed a lifetime of war and butchery. A lifeline would arrive from a surprising source.
Roslin turned to see a large wagon being pulled by two horses, in the middle sat a cage. In it was the prisoner Robb had sent North.
“Oh Your Grace, I did not see you there.” said the Kingslayer, his sarcastic tone and smug face almost distracting Roslin from the fact he was caked in his own filth and as scrawny as a starved nag. “ I was too busy enjoying the charms of the North, despite it being a bleak little shithole.” He laughed as Roslin frowned, and at that moment she knew the stories about his dishonour were true. She turned away, hoping he would leave her alone. It didn't work. “You know we have met before.”
Roslin turned her head, sure that she had not seen his face before. “I don't remember meeting you.”
“Well you probably wouldn't, you were barely three years old.” The Kingslayer chuckled and began to relay the story as he tried to clean the dirt from under his nails. “Your father had travelled down to King's Landing to celebrate the birth of Prince Joffrey, and like so many of the Lords who came to prostrate themselves to their new King, Walder Frey had brought his children. The reason was obvious to all, it was an attempt to sell you to the King and Queen, to form a bond of marriage between a toddler and a newborn.” The thought of marrying Joffrey made Roslin feel ill, though that seemed to be the Kingslayer's intention. “You look sickened, you shouldn't be. Your father is an ambitious man with ambitious goals, and he has plenty of Freys to spare.”
Disgust turned to anger, and Roslin snapped back at the prisoner. “My father is generous to us all, he cares for me.”
Once again the Kingslayer laughed. “Does he? You may be older but he sold you off to a boy you don't know, just as he had planned all those years ago.”
“Robb is nothing like Joffrey”
The Kingslayer shrugged. “No, perhaps not, but he has brought the sword to Westeros just as Joffrey, Stannis, and Balon Greyjoy have.” His face grew darker, his mouth no longer producing the wry and smug smile Roslin had grown used to. “No matter how you paint it, there's just as much blood on his hands than theirs.”
The sanctimonious attitude of a kingslayer made Roslin feel only contempt for the rotting prisoner in front of her, and she decided it was her turn to go on the attack. “Since when have you cared about such matters. That didn't matter to you when you stuck your sword into the Mad King's back.”
“Oh it doesn't bother me, millions of men, women, and children have died for petty squabbles since the dawn of time.” The Kingslayer turned his head to Roslin, hate stirring in his eyes. “No, what bothers me is hypocrisy.”
“What do you mean?” asked Roslin, feeling slowly lost in the conversation as her knowledge of the subject began to run out.
“When I killed the Mad King I saved hundreds of thousands of lives, yet I am ostracised, called Kingslayer and Oathbreaker. Yet when Ned Stark follows his friend into a war of vengeance that ends in thousands dead and a sacked city, he is considered a symbol of honour.”
“It was your father that sacked King's Landing.”
“It was Ned and Robert's uprising that allowed my father to do it in the first place.” The Kingslayer slumped back against the bars and looked away from Roslin, staring across the barren heathland. “The Stark's hands are not clean. Ned, Rickard, Brandon, and even the poor maid Lyanna all played their part in the carnage that rages across the Seven Kingdoms today.”
Roslin raised her voice in the hopes the soldiers around her would hear. “Robb goes to avenge his father, the war is of the Lannisters making, no one else.”
The Kingslayer whipped his head back towards Roslin, his matted and dirty blonde hair still shining in the autumn sun. “Oh yes, and what difference do you think it will make to the citizens of King's Landing when the vengeful Northern and Riverlander soldiers put the city to the sword? Do you think your husband will spare Joffrey? He may be the one responsible for Ned Stark's death, but he is only a boy.”
Gripping the reins of her horse harder, Roslin was reaching a stage of anger she had never felt before. “How dare you moralise when you and your sister plunged this country into the war. Personally, I blame you as much as Joffrey.”
Once again the Kingslayer shrugged off the accusations and mockery. “Yes my bastard turned out to be a vicious boy, but it wasn't I that taught him right from wrong, it was Robert.” Roslin grew quiet as she realised she could not deny that, it was Robert who raised him to who he was. “What Ned about the brother-in-law, the bastard?” There was mischief in The Kingslayer's eyes, seemingly knowing that Roslin had not heard of this bastard.
“Who?” asked a confused Roslin.
“Ned Stark's bastard, a sullen and dull boy called Jon Snow. If Joffrey's existence is a testament to my dishonour, then surely it's the same for Ned and his bastard.” He grinned and sat up in his cell, his thin
bony fingers clutching the cold iron bars. “He was married to Catelyn Tully, put a child in her, and then left to war and fucked some Flea Bottom whore. Very honourable you would agree?”
“Passion isn't the same as-”
“Crimes of the sword are heinous, yet crimes of passion are not?” It took a moment for Roslin to realise the Kingslayer had revealed her hypocrisy, and once she did she broke eye contact from him and her cheeks blushed with embarrassment. “Would you say the same if Robb came back with a bastard child in his arms?”
No, she wanted to scream no I wouldn't! “I-I would-”
“Your Grace are you all right?” said Ser Rodrik as he and three guards rode towards Roslin's position. When he noticed the prisoner, he frowned with disgust. “What have you been saying Kingslayer?”
“Nothing Ser Rodrik, we were just passing the time.” The Kingslayer's smug grin returned as he stared at Roslin. It made her skin crawl and enraged Ser Rodrik.
“I will pass my sword through your belly if you continue to smirk like that.”
“There's no need for that” answered the Kingslayer as he slowly backed away from the bars “I have no desire to die in this frozen hell hole.”
Ser Rodrik turned his horse and put himself between the prisoner and Roslin, much to her relief. “Your Grace we are nearly at Winterfell, I suggest we ride to the front of the column.”
Roslin did not feel like protesting and instead welcomed Ser Rodrik's suggestion “yes I thank would be for the best.”
As Roslin and Rodrik rode away from the prison cart, the Kingslayer's arrogant voice bellowed through the wind “it was good to talk you , Your Grace! You are welcome back at any time.”
When Roslin reached the front of the column she spotted towers in the distance, and even as they were obscured by haze she could tell they were giant. She pointed at their direction “Ser Rodrik, what is that over there?”
Ser Rodrik smiled as he looked at the horizon. “Winterfell Your Grace, we will soon be there.”
Winterfell, the seat of the Starks, was considered by many to be the oldest castle in Westeros, and the Starks were believed to be the oldest House as well. Roslin had heard all about the crypts, the godswood, the warm veins of the castle walls, and they all terrified her. Even from a distance, she could tell that it was nothing like a southern holdfast, it featured no pleasure gardens or tourney grounds. It was built for winter, and if the cold winds told her anything it was that winter is coming...
- 1
Today's chapter is without images I'm afraid, instead of a pushing the narrative forward I wanted to a bit of character building with Roslin.
Was pretty surprised with the result as well, all though it was being led by Robb, the Blackfish, and the Greatjon. Antario Jast was their only general in the field.
I'm kinda glad that it isn't to be honest, I would have been screwed!
Loved this bit
Also, the North only lost 32 men in that battle? Outstanding!
Was pretty surprised with the result as well, all though it was being led by Robb, the Blackfish, and the Greatjon. Antario Jast was their only general in the field.
I'm kinda glad that it isn't to be honest, I would have been screwed!
Seconded. I'm enjoying his sardonic banter immensely; he's a man who knows he has nothing left to lose, and he's playing it to the hilt.
I just started following this AAR and it is rather enjoyable. So consider me subbed.
I am hoping that Queen Roslin is safe going to Winterfell.
I am hoping that Queen Roslin is safe going to Winterfell.