The Young Wolf - A Stark AGOT AAR
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He's certainly one of the most interesting and fun characters to write. Trying to write both an extreme sarcastic arsehole and a somewhat sympathetic character is proving tough though, luckily I have five whole books worth of material to refer to.
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.
Thanks, I hope you continue to enjoy it!
Nice story and great writing! I.passed the first chapter expecting a Frey treason, then now some kind of strstagem by Tywyin lr Bolton turning cloaks. Well done!
The character building is nice too. Any chance we get to see any chapter from an antagonist perspective? I specially wonder if Theon still has a role to play.
The character building is nice too. Any chance we get to see any chapter from an antagonist perspective? I specially wonder if Theon still has a role to play.
Chapter 8
Chapter 8 - Secrets and Lies
Robb
The stench of death seemed to permeate every single room in Harrenhal, neither incense or open air could remove its influence. The slaughter outside the walls had been great, but the sights that greeted Robb when he finally entered the castle made the battle look little more than child's play. Bodies of both captured northern soldiers and innocent commonfolk were strewn across Harrenhal's myriad courtyards, halls, and dungeons. Those who survived the Lannister's depredations relayed stories of immense suffering, torture was commonplace and women and girls were raped by the hundreds. Even the nobility was not exempt from the bloodshed, with the rotting body of Lord Medger Cerwyn being found by his own bannermen. The discovery of the Lannister's charnel house had further deepened the hatred between the riverlanders and the westermen, and many called for the execution of those captured in the battle. Robb had forbidden it, he would not stoop to Tywin Lannister's level.
Despite the grim surroundings, the mood in the castle was jovial. Northern and riverlander soldiers drank and sang as they led captured westerlanders to their dark and dank cells. Even with Grey Wind clearing him a path, Robb struggled to reach the great hall of the Kingspyre Tower, so thick with men were the courtyards and hallways of the castle. Around thirty-thousand warriors had encamped in and around Harrenhal, which had begun to cause strain on the local food supplies. Robb knew that soon he would have to split the army in two or risk starvation and desertion. However, for now, his mission was to meet with his lords to discuss the next stage of the campaign.
When he had finally reached the great hall, he found that there were only two lords in attendance. The loyal duo, Lord Helman Tallhart and the Greatjon, were deep in conversation when Robb and Grey Wind walked over to them.
“Your Grace, it's good to see that the human tide outside didn't suck you away into the bowls of Harren's monstrous child.” Lord Tallhart's tone was half jovial and half serious. “There are many places in this accursed ruin that men say are evil.”
The Greatjon guffawed “well Lord Helman I didn't take you for a believer in the tales of fisher wives!”
Lord Tallhart shrugged “all stories originate from something true. Look at this castle's lineage, no house has controlled it for longer than fifty years. Hoares, Towers, Lothstons, Whents, they all had large and healthy branches before they possessed Harrenhal, and within a few decades all of them withered away and died.”
“I'm not here to talk about curses” announced Robb, who's silence had almost led his lords to believe he had gone.
Lord Tallhart bowed. “Of course not, Your Grace. I am sorry.”
“No Your Grace,” The Greatjon said with a playful grin. “you probably want to hear about what's happened down south.”
The Greatjon's happy demeanour made Robb happy, for it meant that something good had happened. “What's happened?”
“It seems the Tyrells have not taken Lord Renly's death too personally. They have declared for Stannis!” The Greatjon let out a roaring laugh once again as Robb stood there stunned.
Mace and Stannis have put their differences aside thought Robb it seems Joffrey has made an enemy of everybody, I won't be surprised if Tywin turns on him eventually.
“Stannis will not waste time,” said Lord Tallhart “he will march on King's Landing as soon as possible.”
The Greatjon crossed his arms and grunted. “Let him! I won't be sad to hear that he and his bitch mother have been burnt to that red god Stannis has now taken up.”
“He cannot take the capital,” said Robb, who had now recovered from his shock. “If he takes King's Landing he holds all the cards. He has the Iron Throne, he has the realm's treasury, and he has my sister. He could endanger everything we have built.”
The Greatjon cocked his head in confusion. “Forgive my slowness Your Grace, but we and Stannis are on the same side. We both want to see the Lannister pay for their crimes.”
“Stannis doesn't care in the slightest about avenging Lord Ned” announced Lord Tallhart. “He wants the throne, and he wants the Seven Kingdoms. Seven, not five, not six, but seven.”
“And he now has the army to complete that aim.” Robb stared at Lord Umber until he finally processed what he and Lord Tallhart meant. His happiness gave way to rage.”
“We must take King's Landing now!” his booming command rang across the great hall. “Your Grace we must march the thirty-thousand men you have assembled at this castle down to the Red Keep and storm it before Stannis gets his greasy hands on the Lady Sansa.”
Robb didn't like the sound of a storming, he knew it would lead to a horrendous death toll, and there would be nothing he could do to spare the city from the sack. “Storming the city is not the answer.”
Lord Tallhart sighed “it's sad Your Grace, but it is the only way if you want to take the city before Stannis.” The smug arrogant smile of the Kingslayer was seared into Robb's mind, the happiness that he was right was reason enough to not let the sacking happen.
For courage, Robb stroked Grey Wind's back and ran his soft fur between his fingers. “No, Lord Helman, it is not the only way. We took this castle within a single night, we can at least try and do the same at King's Landing.”
The Greatjon shook his head “Harrenhal shouldn't have fallen so quickly in the first place Your Grace, and Lord Antario's squire claimed that his master ordered his men to open the gate.”
Robb looked at the two lords with confusion “what? Why would he do that?”
“They never mentioned why, only that he ordered it and they obeyed. By the look of betrayal on their faces, it seems they thought it was some clever ploy by Tywin Lannister!” The Greatjon's mischievous cackling echoed around the ruined hall.
“Do we have Lord Antario in captivity?” asked Lord Tallhart as the Greatjon's laughter continued to echo around the room.
“No” answered Lord Umber “he escaped before we could catch him. Lord Roose sent some riders to hunt him down but they came back empty handed.”
As the Greatjon and Lord Tallhart argued about whose fault it was to allow an enemy lord to escape, Robb thought on the rumours that had been brought to his attention. The Lord Antario Robb had heard from the likes of uncle painted him as a proven warrior and battle commander, so why surrender a castle that you could easily defend? And why do it with such secrecy and not report it to your men? The whole thing stunk of foul play, and Robb wanted to know if it was a Lannister origin. He couldn't see how, but then again it was said by Riverrun's fool that Tywin Lannister had a golden aurochs that could see the future.
“Lord Umber!” shouted Robb with an almost Greatjon-like bellow “bring me Antario's squire”
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It was almost two hours later when two guards finally escorted Lord Jast's squire into the hall. They walked carefully towards their king, making sure that the tired and bloodied boy stayed slightly ahead of them. When they arrived grabbed the squire's shoulder to ensure that he stopped. He slowly looked up and towards Robb.
“Your Grace,” the boy said as he bowed his head.
“Do not speak until spoken to, boy!” bellowed the Greatjon, though for once Robb didn't appreciate his rabid loyalty.
“It's alright my lord, the boy was being courteous.” Robb closed the gap between him and the squire, with barely a foot of space between them. “What is your name?”
“Grance, Your Grace” he replied “Grance of Sarsfield.” The boy's words were stern, but his hands were shaking. To Robb's sorrow, he looked like he was barely older than Bran, more suited to child's play than war.
“I hear you were the squire to Lord Antario Jast, is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“What services did you attend to under his patronage?”
“Well Your Grace I carried out the duties expected by most squires, I cleaned and polished his armour, maintained his mounts, cooked him food whilst on campaign, and ensured his clothes were washed every day. Every so often he would also train me in swordplay and mounted combat.”
“Was there anything else Lord Jast entrusted you to do?” For a moment the squire looked at Robb with disbelief before breaking eye contact and looking at his feet. He knows something! “I can tell you are withholding something from me.” The boy's shaking hands shook more as he looked towards the floor. The state of the squire made Robb think of what he was doing at the same age. Play fighting with Jon, dancing with Sansa, experiencing his first kiss with Melara behind the stables. He wouldn't have lasted ten minutes in a battle, the squire had lasted an entire campaign. “Look, I won't hurt you Grance, you are now my prisoner and you will be treated with respect. I just need the right information.”
“Well...” Grance mumbled, “I sometimes tended to his private letters when Harrenhal was without maesters.”
“What happened to the maesters?” asked Lord Tallhart.
Grance looked up, his eyes remembering the nightmares he had witnessed while in Lord Antario's service. “They would often enrage the Mountain's Men or the sellswords and be killed in the night.”
“Did Lord Jast do anything to punish them?”
“No, because he needed them dead.”
Robb felt his heart skip and his arms uncouple from being crossed. “What do you mean?”
“The documents I was often entrusted with were of a...secretive nature.”
“What kind of secrets?” growled the Greatjon in a characteristically gruff tone. When Grance failed to answer straight away, the Greatjon snapped. “Spit it out, boy!”
The squire suddenly snapped his head upwards and towards Robb. “They spoke of a plan to surrender Harrenhal to you, Your Grace.”
The more Grance
spoke, the deeper and more confusing were Lord Antario's intentions seemed to be. Suddenly surrendering Harrenhal after witnessing a huge army approach is one thing, but planning it weeks in advance was quite another.
Robb moved even closer to the squire until there was barely a hair's breadth between them. “What was the plan?”
“To leave the castle open to attack, and allow your men to get into the castle without having to besiege it. He purposely made the quartermaster supply extra rations of ale and rum to the men in charge of defending the main gate. By the time your army arrived, half of the castle was drunk.”
The Greatjon scratched his head with confusion. “Why did Lord Jast do all this, why didn't he just surrender the castle peacefully?”
“Because of Tywin Lannister.” answered Lord Tallhart.
Grance nodded. “Yes, my lord. Lord Antario always said the cornered lion was the most dangerous lion. If Tywin learnt of his plans, House Jast would be treated like House Reyne and Tarbeck. Even so, he saw which way the stream was flowing, he knew Joffrey could not win. With the Tyrells siding with Stannis, there is little the Lannisters can do to defend the capital.”
Robb put his hand on the squire's shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Who sent the letters?”
Grance gave Robb one final terrified look before he answered. “I'm not sure Your Grace, there was never any names on the letters, only the letter R.”
- 1
The letter R is none too specific.
Quite the mystery in the charnel house of Harrenhal.
Quite the mystery in the charnel house of Harrenhal.
Chapter 9
Chapter 9 - Cold Greetings
Bran
“It's cold” complained Rickon as he huddled up to Shaggydog for warmth.
Maester Luwin rolled his eyes “I know my lord, but we must be courteous.”
“They're taking too long.” Rickon's whiny voice was like needles to Bran's ears.
“Rickon stop complaining, they will be here soon.” Bran had been more brusque than he intended, but it seemed to quite his little brother down. Finally accepting he would have to wait, he snuggled his head into the black fur of his direwolf.
Winterfell was once again receiving a royal visitor and the castle's residents had assembled in the courtyard to meet them. Bran, Rickon, and Maester Luwin were situated in the centre of the courtyard, with the trusty manservant and mount Hodor close by as well as the direwolves Shaggydog and Summer. Flanking them were the lords of the north, including Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord Howland Reed, Lord Rodrik Ryswell, and Lady Barbery Dustin. The reason they had all braved the cold was for the arrival of the North's new queen, Roslin Frey. Bran had heard the Frey's were ugly and inbred, but people who had seen Robb's bride insisted she was a true beauty.
The thoughts of women made Bran's mind drift to the thoughts of his love, Meera. He carefully looked towards where she and her brother Jojen were standing, hoping she would notice his lovestruck eyes. For months Bran had tried to pluck up the courage to tell her how he felt, but each time he remembered the facts that he had to accept. She was ten years older than him, he was a cripple whilst she was an athletic hunter, and she had shown no interest in him. The sight of her made his heart ache and his body weak, and he was constantly caught between happiness and deep melancholy. The fall from the tower had robbed him of his love of climbing and running, and it now took love from him as well.
Feeling the heartache creeping back, Bran turned his mind to the dreams he was having. Every night since he had awoken from his coma, Bran's dreams were becoming more and more lucid and violent. The previous night he had dreamt of an iron chair made of swords splintering into seven pieces, a half rotted giant marching across a snow-covered field, and a wolf and a dragon locked in a carnal embrace. Bran had once reported these dreams to Maester Luwin, but after months of dodged answers and disbelief, he had chosen to keep them to his self. The sound of a horn blowing brought Bran back to the present, and it was just in time. The horn signalled the arrival of the Queen's party.
“Open the gate!” shouted Cullen, the commander of the castle guards. Slowly the old oak and iron gate opened, it's frozen hinges creaking and cracking as they shifted lose snow to the sides of the gatehouse. First through the gate were at least twenty men-at-arms dressed in Stark colours, clad in boiled leather and steel chainmail. Then came ten riders dressed in steel plate covered with surcoats adorned with the Twins of House Frey, honour guards who presumably joined the army as they crossed the Twins. Behind the Frey knights were two boys dressed in drab riding leathers, one was thin with a plain face, while the other was a tall fat boy with an almost perfectly round head. The Queen finally entered with Ser Rodrik to her side and her handmaidens behind her. When they stopped their horses, Ser Rodrik jumped off his horse and helped the Queen down. As soon as her feet touched the packed dirt of the courtyard, everyone except for Bran bent on one knee, he simply bowed his head.
“You may rise,” the Queen said softly. When Bran looked up he was struck by his sister-in-law's beauty. The stories were true Bran realized.
Maester Luwin walked forward and bowed his head to the Queen. “Your Grace, welcome to Winterfell.”
“Thank you, it is an honour to call this historic castle my home.” Her words were formal and complementary and her face full of smiles, but Bran could sense a sadness in her. It was the same feeling he got from his mother whenever she talked of Riverrun.
Maester Luwin shifted hand towards Bran. “Your Grace, may I introduce you to Lord Brandon Stark, second son of the late Lord Eddard.” Bran noticed that Luwin had decided not to mention Jon, Bran was third not second and would never forget it even if Luwin and his mother did.
“Your Grace,” Bran said as the Queen approached him. He could sense she was trying to distract herself from the fact he was a cripple, months ago that would have angered him but he had grown used to the looks of pity and despair.
“It is good to meet you, my lord,” said the Queen “your brother has told me a lot about you.” She looked to Bran's side and noticed his younger brother. “And you must be little Rickon.”
“Yes, Your Grace” muttered Rickon in an uncharacteristically meek voice.
The Queen smiled “You are as delightful as your mother said you where” she looked back at Bran. “She sends her love my lord, she misses you both deeply.”
“And we her” answered Bran, though he struggled to hide his hidden contempt at being left alone for almost two years. After a brief silence, the Queen turned to the two boys who had just dismounted from their horses, beckoning them to her. When they were next to her they bowed their heads at Bran.
“My lord may I present my nephews.” She pointed towards the thinnest of the two “this is Walder, son of Jammos.” She then pointed to the fat brute next to her “and this is Walder, son of Merrett. They are to be fostered at Winterfell until they reach adulthood, by orders of his Grace the King.”
It felt like half of House Frey had made it's way to Winterfell, there seemed that there were as many of their banners in the courtyard as the Stark direwolf. Bran didn't know how he was going to tell the two Walders apart do I call one Thin Walder and Fat Walder?
The smallest boy seemed to pick up on Bran's confusion and spoke up. “My aunt introduced us formally to you My Lord, but at the Twins, I am known as Big Walder. My 'taller' cousin is known as Little Walder.” Big Walder was around the same age as Bran, yet his manner of speaking was far more eloquent and clear than most northerners. Bran thought Little Walder wouldn't be the same, however.
Ser Rodrik, who had remained quiet since he had arrived, finally approached Bran. “My lord it is good to see you,” said Ser Rodrik with a proud smile. The sight of his white beard and homely grim made Bran feel like a small child again.
“It's good to see you Ser Rodrik” Bran tried to sound formal, but he knew that a tear was developing in his eye. Rickon, overcome with excitement, ran towards Ser Rodrik and hugged him.
“Your back! I've missed you.” Rickon had begun to sob.
“It's good to see you too little lord,” said Ser Rodrik as he embraced Rickon. Shaggydog, who had remained still for most of the meeting, finally moved to meet his master. When Ser Rodrik saw the size of the direwolf, his eyes widened with surprise. “Look how big they've gotten, I thought Grey Wind would be the only one...”
The talk of Grey Wind reminded Bran that Robb was at war with his trusty direwolf at his side. “How is Robb- I mean His Grace?”
Ser Rodrik smiled once again when he heard Bran say his brother's name “Robb is fine my lord, the last I heard he was marching on Harrenhal with an army of thirty thousand men.”
Maester Luwin spoke up “Harrenhal has been taken, direwolf banners flutter on the Kingspyre Tower.” The Lords in the courtyard shared excited whispers, and when Bran looked around he saw the Queen breathing a sigh of relief. “It is said that the King killed and captured nearly three thousand Lannister men, with only thirty-two of our own perishing in the battle.”
Bran guessed that Robb had inflated the numbers a little bit to make his victory even bigger, but even so, if it approached even half of what it's said then the North had won a great victory. “We should celebrate,” Bran said to Maester Luwin “a Queen has arrived and my brother had won a glorious battle.”
The old Maester frowned, his grey brow nearly covering his eyes. “My lord it would be nice, it's just that we are at war and the Ironborn's incursions grow deeper by the day.”
“We can talk of the Ironborn later,” said the Queen as she pulled the riding gloves from her hands “If it would not trouble you, I would like a rest and a hot bath. The road has been long.”
Maester Luwin smiled and bowed “of course, Your Grace.”
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It was the evening when Bran was awoken by Hodor. Apparently, a meeting had been called in the great hall by Lord Manderly and Maester Luwin, and was to be attended by all the lords in Winterfell. When Bran, Hodor, and Summer had reached the great hall, Lord's Manderly, Reed, Ryswell, Liddle, and Flint were in attendance. They were joined by Maester Luwin, the Queen, Ser Rodrik, and a boy dressed in a doublet with the House sigil of Cerwyn on his chest. They were all sat around a long oak table covered with maps, messages, and goblets. Candles flickered as the Lord's talked.
“They eat and drink in my hall,” said Lord Liddle, his glum tone matching his glum face “I have no doubt that they mistreat my smallfolk, I won't be surprised if in a year a fair few Ironborn bastards will sprout from the victims.”
Lord Manderly sighed, causing his belly to ripple. “The concern for your smallfolk is touching my lord, but we have to deal with army first before we try and clear your lands of Ironborn.”
“That's easy for you to say whilst your subjects enjoy the safety of White Harbour's walls.” Lord Liddle stood up and pounded his hand on the table furiously “we must take action now!”
“We will,” said Bran as Hodor carried him to his seat.
“My lord,” said Lord Liddle meekly “I did not see you there.” The lord slowly lowered back onto his seat when he saw that Bran was doing the same. “When do you intend to take this actions?”
Bran made himself comfortable on his seat before he answered. “Whenever we are fully prepared the battle.” He looked over towards Lord Howland Reed and tried to look as imposing and authoritative as possible. “How long do you think it will take to ready the re-enforcements for battle.”
The small and elusive Lord Howland didn't have to think for long “a week.”
The boy with the Cerwyn doublet spoke up “the Ironborn could be outside Deepwood Motte in a week, maybe even Winterfell.”
“Perhaps,” said Lord Howland with unnerving calmness “but Lord Cerwyn, the Ironborn will not be able to take them in a week.”
“Winterfell could last five years in a siege” claimed a confident Ser Rodrik “by then King Robb would be victorious and led his army North to relieve it.”
“I fear you've been in the south too long my lord,” said Maester Luwin solemnly “with winter approaching Winterfell could last only two. With all the men away fighting, the harvest has been slow this year.”
Ser Rodrik waved away Maester Luwin's warning. “It won't come to a siege anyway. we outnumber them by nearly double the men and we are on home ground. We will crush the Ironborn with ease.”
Lord Ryswell, who had remained quiet for most of the meeting, spoke up “my lords, Ryswell scouts returned to Winterfell less than an hour ago with news of the Ironborn movements. Lord Victarion has led the army into the Wolfswood and towards Winterfell.”
The young Lord Cerwyn looked puzzled “why is he charging for Winterfell, surely he knows we have a large army here.”
Lord Manderly sighed again “the Ironborn do not care about odds, they care about the paying the Iron Price by whatever means possible.”
Ser Rodrik laughed “good for us then!”
“Harwyn Hoare conquered the Riverlands with less than half of the force the Durrandon Storm Kings commanded,” said Maester Luwin “numbers are not everything. Surely our King has shown us that.”
“Victarion Greyjoy is not Harwyn Hoare” answered Ser Rodrik. “He's not even half the man he was.”
“Maybe not, but only the fool would doubt the tenacity of an Ironborn warrior.”
“My lords,” said Bran as he tried to get them back on track “when the army is ready it will march on the Ironborn.” He pointed at Lord Howland “I trust in you to lead the army Lord Reed, I hope the gods are with you.”
- 1
He has a lot to learn to be sure, lets just hope he learns quickly...
Last chapters were so good and interesting I have a AAR about a High Valyrian custom house also in A Clash of Kings bookmark, I manage to survive for 80 years
I have a AAR about a High Valyrian custom house also in A Clash of Kings bookmark, I manage to survive for 80 years
Chapter 10
Chapter 10 - The Road to Vengeance
Robb
After nearly two weeks, Robb and his army were departing from Harrenhal. After countless meetings and planning sessions, it was decided that they would begin the march on King's Landing. The decision had not come lightly to Robb, he knew that marching on the capital would be dangerous, and he knew that taking it would be costly and bloody. But all arguments against it fell on death ears when news of Tywin Lannister's defeat at Tumbleton reached Harrenhal. The Reachmen, now loyal to Stannis, and fell upon the Lannister host as it marched towards King's Landing. It was said that the army's commander, Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill, had scored an impressive if bloody victory, with seven thousand dead and wounded laying on the field by the time the butchery ended. The Lannisters had retreated to the Westerlands, leaving the Crownlands open to attack. Soon three armies were about to descend on the capital, and it would be the first one there who would take home the spoils.
Due to the vast majority of the army being composed of bannermen from the Riverlands, Robb was forced to split his force of thirty-thousand in order to placate the River Lords. Many feared a counter-attack from the Westerlands, and were hesitant to send their banners to King's Landing whilst their lands were unprotected, understandable yet regrettable. It wasn't the Lannisters Robb feared, after their defeat at the hands of Lord Tarly they were living on borrowed time, no it was Stannis. If he turned on them, the force of seventeen thousand would be crushed between the armies of the Tyrells and the Baratheons. All he could hope for was that old rivalries between Lords Mace and Stannis would sow division. It was a small hope to bargain a military campaign on Robb knew but he had no choice, the North was baying for blood and the Riverlands was praying for peace.
The main yard of Harrenhal was alive with movement as soldiers raced towards their positions. Knights bellowed commands at their squires, and captains drilled the men-at-arms in preparation for the long march to King's Landing. The banners of the Houses sworn to Robb fluttered in the wind, causing a thousand different colours to emerge. Alongside the royal banner of Stark there were the Northern Houses who had remained in the south. The flayed man of House Bolton, the enraged giant of House Umber, the three sentinels of House Tallhart, and the white sun of House Karstark. Next to them was the trout of House Tully, the raven surrounded weirwood of House Blackwood, the proud silver eagle of House Mallister, the solemn ploughman of House Darry, and the twin blue towers of House Frey.
Flanked by Grey Wind, Robb slowly strolled through the yard and towards his horse, which was being saddled by Olyvar. Robb and his squire had grown close since they had met at the Twins over a year ago, and now Robb considered him one of his closest friends. They had been in battle together, drank and ate together, and through Roslin's marriage, they share a family together as well. He was as honourable a man as you could meet, and he seemed a world away from his father's greedy and ambitious ways.
After struggling with a strap, Olyvar turned to see Robb. “Your Grace.” Even though they were friends, he still at to stay formal in public places. “I have saddled your mount, polished your armour and sword. There was only one thing missing.”
“What?” asked Robb as he walked to beside his horse and began to pat it on the neck.
“Your helm, Your Grace. I saw it just last night by your boiled leather and chainmail, I remember the candlelight flickering off the steel.” The exasperation was clear in his voice “I may have lost it. I'm sorry.”
“I can't go into battle without a helm,” said Robb “I will just have to take one from the regular armoury.”
“No need,” said a familiar voice behind them. When they turned they saw Robb's mother, Lady Catelyn, and a Stark soldier standing there. She was dressed in a cotton blue and scarlet dress with a grey over cloak covering her shoulders and back. The Stark soldier next to her was holding a large object covered by a woollen cloth. “I have a gift for you.” She motioned to the soldier, who moved towards Robb, held out the object, and bowed. When Robb removed the cloth he was greeted with the sight of a gleaming steel helm. Its visor was lined with bronze, and on the top of the helm was attached a circlet lined with nine longswords, just like the crown Robb wore during ceremonies. Apart from those furnishings, the helm was clear of any ornaments, just as the northerners liked. “Tourneys and fancy plumed helms are for the knights of summer” Robb's father had told him when he was young “we are the warriors of winter. Steel, iron, and leather are all we need, for silver engraved breastplates and cloth-of-gold doublets won't help you when you are crossing the Wolfswood during winter.”
Robb noticed a familiar mark on the inside of the helm “this is Mikken's work.”
“Yes,” his mother replied “I had it made at Winterfell and then brought down to us. I thought it only fitting that the King in the North was armoured by a helm made in the North.”
After having inspected his gift, Robb looked up at his mother “It's amazing. I can't thank you enough.”
She let out a sullen smile. “Thank me by coming home with your life, and with Sansa.”
Robb looked at his squire, hoping that it would be enough to show that he wanted some privacy. It took a moment, but when Olyvar finally realised what Robb was implying, he quickly sprang into action. “Let's go,” he said to the Stark soldier “we have to make sure the supply train is ready.”
When they were gone, Robb walked up to his mother and put his hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright mother.”
“I am” she answered unconvincingly “just tired.” Despite her smiles and curtseys, it was clear she had never recovered from her husband's death, and neither had Robb. All he could think about was what he didn't say to him, what lessons he had failed to learn, and if he would be proud of him.
“You should return to Riverrun” Robb pleaded “Harrenhal is no place for you.” The stink of death and decay still clung to the air like a hot breeze. Even with the bodies burnt and buried, the rats swarmed over the castle like it was a merchant's buffet.
“I will, I just wanted to see you before you leave for King's Landing.” Tears began to develop in her eyes, and she quickly embraced Robb. “I don't want you to go to that accursed city,” she said as she began to quietly sob “your father, your grandfather, your uncle...they all met their end in the Red Keep.”
It was a fact Robb was all too aware of “I know mother, but I need to go. Not just to win this war, but to get Sansa back, and Arya if she is still there.” There had been no word of Arya since their father's last correspondence with Winterfell, in every letter or scrap of news since Arya had not been mentioned once. Robb tried to believe she was still alive and still held by the Lannisters, but somehow he knew that he would never see her again.
Horns blew in the distance, a signal that the army was departing. Just as Robb was about to let go, his mother tightened her grip around his back and whispered in his ear. “Make them pay, Robb. Make them rue the day they took Ned from me. Let them regret every single slight against our family.” Before Robb could answer, she let go and stepped back from him. “I wish you good luck, Your Grace,” she said almost coldly.
The heavens opened almost immediately after the army had departed from Harrenhal, making an already unpleasant trip even worse. Robb didn't notice the rain though, all he could think about was R, the letter that had been the source of such confusion at Harrenhal. Many theories had appeared in his head, maybe it was an initial for a name or place, perhaps even the House this R belonged to. Or maybe it was a random letter picked out because it would mean nothing but to those who knew of the plot. The Greatjon even insisted that it did not matter and that this R had in fact helped the Northern cause. Whilst it was true that Harrenhal had fallen due to R's manipulation, the fact that there was an elusive person in Robb's Kingdom with the power to manipulate the situation so easily meant that Robb could very well be in danger.
It was dusk by the time the Army had arrived at their chosen rendezvous, the small Crownlander keep known as the Antlers. The castle's owners, the Buckwells, had lived in the Antlers for hundreds of years, and there were those who believed they were related to the Durrandon Storm Kings. It was hoped that the sight of the army would scare Lord Buckwell into surrendering the castle, they were mistaken.
“He has refused all our offers” explained Lord Roose to the war council. “He says he is prepared to fight and die for his king.”
The Greatjon snorted “let him die for the bastard. I doubt he has even a thousand men in that castle of his, we need only storm it.” Many in the pavilion sounded their support to the Greatjon's plan, with only Lord Roose and Robb staying silent. Noticing the support, the Greatjon turned to Robb “Your Grace you only need to give the word and it will be yours by the morning.”
Robb didn't like the sound of Greatjon's plan, he knew the denizens of the Antlers would face the full wroth of the Rivermen and Northerners and there would be little Robb could do about it. However, he also knew that he could not reject a plan that was almost certainly going to succeed. “Take it” Robb answered coldly. With excitement, the Greatjon and the lords exited the pavilion, each of them ready to put the Antlers to the sword.
The following morning revealed the full scale of the butcher's bill. The corpses of the Buckwell levy were stacked high outside the castle, with the body of a Buckwell captain impaled at the top of it. Those enemies who were wounded were being finished off, whilst the prisoners were dragged to the keep's cells. In comparison the dead and wounded Stark soldiers were being ferried off on stretchers towards the camp's healers, though many would not fight again. The courtyard of the Antlers was slick with mud and blood and other bodily fluids, all of it making it hard for anyone not to slip.
When Robb entered the castle's hall he found Lords Bolton and Blackwood talking with Black Walder Frey. The three of them were sipping wine from silver goblets, most likely part of the plunder. It was Lord Tytos Blackwood who noticed Robb first “Your Grace,” he said as he bowed. Both Lord Roose and Black Walder followed suit.
Robb motioned his hand upwards “You may rise, my lords”.
“I'm no lord, Your Grace” replied Black Walder “though perhaps maybe soon if the gods are good.” He let out a wry smile, his devious eyes turning to Lord Roose as they both arose from their bows.
Lord Tytos rolled his eyes when he heard Black Walder's words. “Your brother should succeed your father after he dies, not you.”
“True” conceded Black Walder “though Edwyn does have a weak disposition.” The brothers Edwyn and Black Walder were often at odds with each other, with almost every argument boiling down to who would become Lord of the Crossing. Their father, the hapless and drunk Ser Ryman Frey, had done nothing to help mend the feud and often cheered them both on as they fought. Robb could scarcely believe that weasels such as Ryman and Edwyn could come from the same blood as Olyvar or Roslin. Black Walder was different to his weasel brother and father, he was cunning and clever, with a disposition closer to Roose Bolton than Ryman Frey. He was useful, and he was dangerous.
“I'm sure Lord Walder is happy to know his kin harbour such love for each other” Robb's sarcasm made Black Walder chuckle.
“My Grandfather loves all his children, and we all love him. It's just when there are as many Freys as there are blades of grass in a meadow, it becomes hard to be sentimental.” Black Walder's words were said with a cold seriousness, and Robb doubted if Edwyn would ever survive long enough to become a lord.
Lord Roose finally spoke up, his voice as quiet and deliberate as always “His Grace should know that Lord Buckwell and his family now sit in the keep's dungeons.”
“They are unharmed, I trust?” asked Robb
“Lord Buckwell may have suffered a few scratches, but apart from that he is fine and whole.”
“That's not the only news,” said Lord Tytos “Lord Roose's spies have news from the Tyrell army.”
Lord Roose grimaced “Thank you, Lord Tytos, for reminding me.” He produced a scroll from under his sleeve and handed it to Robb. As he read it contents Robb couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Robb looked up from the scroll with excitement “are you sure this is genuine?”
Lord Roose nodded “this spy has never lied, and has been useful to me on many occasions.”
“It's no surprise either, Your Grace” added Tytos “Mace Tyrell and Stannis Baratheon have never got along.”
Black Walder tilted his head “even so, splitting your army in two is a stupid move. No doubt it was the oaf Tyrell who decided splitting up would be best. With Mace besieging Rayonet and Stannis at Bywater, the road to King's Landing is yours.”
“King's Landing...” said Robb as he thought of his mother's words “yes, tomorrow we march on the capital. For freedom, for victory, for vengeance.”
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I wonder ... is Robb here being led down a garden path so to speak. There can be wheels within wheels.
Last chapters were so good and interesting
When I did a test run before starting the AAR, Robb was killed within two years of starting and then his infant son was killed by the wight walkers. It was game over within three years
All I know is that if you see a Bolton and a Frey being friendly, be suspicious.
Chapter 11
Chapter 11 - A Cold Night
Roslin
The once dull green hue of the heathland around Winterfell felt like a distant memory for the winter snows had finally arrived, and much like the stories she had heard, it was deep and cold and harsh. Snow drifts five feet deep had already begun to form against the walls of the castle, and the smell of the salt used to melt the ice and snow in the courtyard filled the air. The Northerners didn't seem too bothered with the cold and snow, they just seemed to wade through it without a second thought. However, Roslin and her household guard struggled to cope with the harsh conditions. Her half-brother, Jammos, who was also captain of her guard, had suggested they return south to the twins. “King Robb never meant for you to stay in such conditions” he had said with feigned sympathy “perhaps we should return to our Father's house, he will welcome us willingly.” Roslin rejected him outright for what sort of wife would she be to the King in the North if she did not stay in the North?
It wasn't the cold or the snow that bothered Roslin, the hot veins of water running through Winterfell's walls made sure she was always warm in her bedchamber. No, what really bothered her was the isolation. It was a silly thing to feel she knew, every moment of the day from waking up to going to sleep she was surrounded with handmaidens, guards, and Lords coming to pay their respects to the new queen. Though grand and numerous, all of it felt as cold as the snows falling outside the castle. Her handmaidens were lickspittles who most probably despised Roslin's meek and distant nature, the guards probably cursed her for bringing them to the frozen lands of the North, and the Lords would have happily cut her belly open if it suited their ends. Even Robb's brothers couldn't offer any support, little Rickon was kind and playful but also too young to understand her feelings, and outside of official engagements, Bran seemed to avoid her completely.
After another restless night, Roslin slunk out her bed to stretch her legs. When she placed her bare feet on the bearskin rug below her it felt warm, like it was almost alive. The warmth of Winterfell was most welcome in the conditions the North was in, and slowly she began to kneed her toes between the soft fur. When another attempt to sleep failed, she stood up and looked out one of the windows in her bedchamber. Through the fluttering torches on Winterfell's battlements, she saw how thick the falling snow was, however unlike previous nights the wind was absent so it fell gently. These are the beautiful snows Robb and Rodrik talked of. As she looked out of the window she observed a distant light in the woods outside Winterfell's walls, a small flickering thing it was, almost too small to see. It would not be guards Roslin knew, none of them would dare go out so far during the night.
The sound of the door of her bedchamber opening distracted her from the flickering light. When her eyes adjusted to the light pouring through the door she saw one of the Winterfell's servants standing there. Sarra was her name, a girl at around Roslin's age, she was incredibly beautiful, almost impossibly so. Her eyes shone with a deep blue hue, her teeth were as white as marble, and her skin was as pale and soft as a pearl. If it wasn't for her brown hair and common accent, Roslin would have mistaken her for a Lyseni.
“What are you doing up, Your Grace.” Sarra's broad Northern accent seemed to lengthen her disapproving words “you need to get back into bed. If Ser Rodrik finds that I've let you be up all night he will spank me until my arse is red.” She quickly blushed as she realised she had talked about her behind to a queen “beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
Roslin chuckled “it's alright Sarra, and don't worry about Ser Rodrik, I will tell him I ordered you to do it.” She knew Rodrik would never touch Sarra, under the authoritative manliness, he was a soft-hearted man who cared for his daughter deeply. When Roslin looked back outside the window she noticed the distant flicker once again. “Come here, Sarra.” The servant walked over to Roslin, taking care not to tread on the bearskin rug with her leather boots. “Can you see that over there?” asked Roslin as she pointed towards the distant light.
Sarra pressed her face against the window and squinted. It took her moment to see it but when she did she frowned “Oh that. That where Old Pate lives, though calling it living is an overstatement.” Her disdain for this Pate was clear in voice and face.
“Does he live out there on his own?”
Sarra nodded “yep, in a small tent made of deer hide Septa Mordane donated to him.” She shook her head “should've donated a punch instead. All he does is sit there and befoul the forest with his presence.”
“If he is so bad, why hasn't he been forced to leave?”
The servant sighed “he fought in Robert's Rebellion with Lord Ned, he took pity on him and allowed him to stay.”
The thought of him sitting out there in the extreme cold on his own made Roslin suddenly feel cold, like all the warmth in her room had drifted away. “He can't stay out there” Roslin blurted out.
“What?” replied a confused Sarra.
“He can't stay out there, in the cold like that. He will die if we do nothing.”
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Stepping out of Winterfell's warm halls and into the courtyard revealed the biting chill of the night, and for a moment Roslin considered going back inside. It was only when she thought of how Old Pate must have felt that she felt a burning resolve light inside her, that would be her warmth. Roslin had ordered Sarra to wake three of her household guard to help their quest, but it turned out she may well have to do it herself for one of the ones she woke was her brother, Perwyn. As good as waking Jammos thought Roslin.
“Remind me, sister, why are we helping this beggar again?” asked an incredulous Perwyn. Like the other guards, he was dressed in a mail hauberk with a tabard emblazoned with the Twins. Over his shoulders, he had a thin woollen cloak he had bought in preparation for the North's cold weather.
Roslin noticed his brother shivering “If you feel cold after spending the night in a room with a blazing hearth, imagine what Pate feels stuck out there in the woods.” Before the sulking Perwyn could respond he was cut-off by the arrival of Sarra and the other two guards. In their hands were the leftovers from the evening's meal, and a handful of logs for the fire.
Sarra looked sceptical of the whole arrangement. “The cook wasn't too happy when we took the scraps, she said she was going to feed it to the hounds.”
“Pate will need it more than the hounds, at least they have a roof over their heads.”
Whilst the wood was barely half a mile outside of Winterfell's walls, the trek there was long and arduous. The snows were very deep, with deepest drifts nearly reaching up to Roslin's breasts. If it wasn't for Perwyn clearing a way for them, Roslin and Sarra would have never made it five feet outside the castle gates. Eventually, they arrived at the woods and saw the flickering light through the trees.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” asked Perwyn “it's fucking freezing out here.” It was very cold, and Roslin had begun to lose feeling in her feet. Sarra was even worse off, she didn't have the thick wolf fur cloak Roslin had, and her boots were good enough for slight frosts at best.
“Yes, I'm sure.” Roslin's resolve would not break, even if her friends did. “Follow me, Sarra uses my footprints to walk through the snow, I will not have you losing any toes.”
A relieved Sarra smiled “Thank you, Your Grace.”
When they had finally shambled the light they found a small camp surrounding a burning fire. An old man was sat next to the fire, paying no attention to Roslin or her escorts. It was only when Perwyn coughed that he finally looked up at them. “Can I help you?”
Roslin brushed off the snow from her dress and held her hands around her waist “I thought you could need some company in this foul weather, and maybe some food and fuel?”
The old man looked puzzled “foul? The weather is just how I like it.” When the man took a swig from his wineskin, Roslin looked at Perwyn with confusion. He seemed only annoyed.
Perwyn stepped forward and gripped the hilt of his sword. “Your Queen has brought you gifts, yet you show no gratitude? I should gut you!”
The old man put down his wineskin and wiped his mouth “There's a queen now? Seems only yesterday when I returned with Lord Ned after King Robert's coronation.” He looked up and Roslin, taking a moment to process her, before tapping the floor next to him. “You may sit with me if you wish, company is always welcome I suppose.”
Carefully Roslin and Sarra sat down on the cold earth as Perwyn threw some extra logs on the fire, causing it to blaze even hotter. “That's better,” Sarra said as she began to warm her toes near the fire.
The old man was staring into the heart of the fire when Roslin turned to talk to him. “I hear your name is Pate.”
“Aye” answered Pate “I used to be known as Strong Pate, though I hear I am now called Old Pate. I suppose if we live long enough we will all have that before us. Good King Jaehaerys was called wise and conciliator before he became grey and sullen.”
Roslin smiled at the thought of Robb “they call my husband the Young Wolf, don't suppose he will be known as that for all his life.” Robb's reputation had always bothered Roslin, to many he was a warrior king, undefeated in battle and as ferocious and brave as his direwolf. She knew him differently, to her he was gentle, loving, honourable, and as sad as the old man beside her. The death of his father, the capture of his sister, and the betrayal of his best friend had hit him hard. Sometimes she wondered how he even had the energy to fight the war.
“Possibly” answered the old man “though
mayhaps he will be like the Daeron the First, forever young.” A cold breeze caused the fire to blow toward Sarra, making her rescind her feet back towards her body. “Be careful of fire during winter my father used to say, it's warmth and light can be so tempting that you may just jump in if you are not careful.”
Sarra sneered at Pate “I'm not stupid.”
“Perhaps, though why I wonder did you come out here?”
Roslin answered before her servant could let out another insult. “I made her come”
Pate turned and squinted at her “you dragged her along this foolish crusade.”
Roslin felt the anger well up inside her “Foolish? I have come out here to help you.”
Pate raised his voice “Help me? More like help yourself.” Stunned, Roslin looked at Sarra, who was as astonished as her. “The lord and ladies always like to charitable when it suits them, a way of making themselves feel free guilt when they see a starving peasant in the street or a slaughtered family during a war. Where was that charity when my wife was dying of stomach-rot, or when my daughter was raped and murdered by brigands, or when my son was killed at Pyke.” A tear rolled down his cheek when he took another gulp from his wineskin. Roslin, unsure what to think or say, stood up and motioned to Perwyn.
“We are going now,” she said quietly “we will live Pate in peace.” When everyone was ready to leave, Roslin looked down at Pate and turned to leave. As she stepped away he grabbed her arm and forced her back to her original position. She tried to wrestle her arm free, but his grip was tight.
Still looking at the fire, Pate began to speak “if you want to help those who are less fortunate then you must first destroy the reason why they suffer.” He looked up and smiled “as long as kings and queens exist, the commoners shall suffer war and strife caused by the whims of highborn rulers. It would have to take a long night and a man with a heart of ice for that to come to pass.”
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Author's Note
Hi everyone!
I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read this AAR so far, I never expected it to be as read as it has been. I just want to say that this is the last chapter before Christmas, and there may not be any until next Saturday due to travelling away to see family. I hope everyone has a merry Christmas and a fun holiday!
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