( Eddard Stark )
He had never been one to shy away from the worship of the old gods. He was known to visit the godswood quite often, even more so nowadays than in his youth. But in the past year, he sought the wisdom and guidance of those who peered at mortals through the weirwood trees.
The trees wept constantly these days. He could not understand why, and neither did anyone that he had summoned to examine the issue. They wept throughout the nights as though the world was to end the next morning, but nothing ever seemed to happen.
Was there a distant storm brewing in some obscure corner of the world? Was his old friend fraught with such sorrow that he would soon act on his morbid thoughts and plunge the Seven Kingdoms into chaos?
Ned believed himself a man of reason. But honour and dignity were not reason; they came from the heart more so than from a sane mind. He knew the ways of the heart, even more so after those ways robbed him of his sister and pushed a forbidden babe into his arms. For as long as Robert had sat on that throne, he had been worried sick that one day he would prove himself no more than the lesser evil that was chosen to replace the Mad King.
And it seemed to be so when his best friend sat on that accursed throne and did not seem ready to even so much as scold his subjects as they waged war upon one another. But could he truly frown upon this inaction?
Was he any different, kneeling in supplication before the weeping trees, watching its leaves float almost lazily in the air before landing at his feet? He knew what had to be done, but certainly not if he could drag the North, kicking and screaming, into a foolish conflict that seemed destined to drag on until the end of time.
" My lord husband…"
He stilled slightly when he heard Cat's voice. Ever so sweet, but with a stern undertone. The very same she took with their unruly boys. That was how she perceived him these days. Stubborn and full of contradictions, a boy who could not be made to see sense.
" Another letter from the Riverlands?" He asked softly. He remained in his position but opened his eyes to stare at the face carved in the tree. The eyes almost seemed to focus on him, to judge him. He wondered how the Gods viewed him, the wolf holding back a snarl for more than a year now.
" My uncle wrote to me this time. Most dire news…A bitter victory and stolen supplies. This war won't ever see an end if nothing is done…"
He turned his head slightly as he put more of his weight onto his sword and stabbed into the soft ground before the Gods.
" Your brother won't call for help. He refuses to believe in even the possibility of defeat, no matter the numerous setbacks. Cat…You know I have half a mind to ride to the Riverlands, even on my lonesome if that is required…."
He heard her quietly sob. His heart clenched at the sound. Catelyn was strong, unbelievably so. But war had raged in her family's ancestral lands for a decade now; she had left a brother behind, a foolish boy placing pawns on a board with as much thought as a drunkard put into managing his coin at the local tavern. She worried then, and now she was terrified.
The more this went on, the more she saw through the veil of confidence and bravado. Her house truly stood to lose more in this conflict than even during the rebellion against Aerys. Edmure barely ever wrote to her. Her constant berating of his intelligence and lack of caution had truly soured their once pure relationship.
He went back on his feet without even realizing it. Glancing at his lady, he smiled to comfort her, as though this slight upturning of the lips could truly warm her heart amidst the frigid morning winds. Her auburn hair floated wildly around that exhausted face of hers. She had walked here hastily.
" The wildlings, Cat….With them raiding our villages, we cannot afford to join a war uninvited. You have known the Northern lords for long now. You know, as well as I do, that as much as joining this war would split our forces, it would also split the bannermen's hearts."
" They would listen to you, lord husband. They would ride for you, without needing much of a reason. You are Lord in the North, you have their swords and their souls."
He walked up to her and took her in his arms. That much would truly warm her, body and spirit alike. But he shook his head.
" Soon, we will rid our lands of the wildlings. I know not what commanded them to push into our lands with such ferocity, but they will leave once they realize their folly. Even beasts know fear as men do. Then, the North could join the Riverlands, even unbidden. But until this point, I cannot justify an intervention. If Edmure does not call upon our alliance, even my own desire on the matter will not change our current realities." He spoke. But even then he knew she could probably see through the facade. His clenched fists were enough of an indication.
His honour demanded that he march on these Rebels and put them down. His house was bound to House Tully, and he was a lord of the realm as much as he was Lord Paramount of the North. He could not suffer the chaos that the rebels brought with them and their insurrection never had much ground to stand upon, beyond a pathetic attempt to unseat House Tully due to their perceived weakness.
But the worrying accounts of Wildling raids kept coming to him. It had gotten to the point where he wondered if the North was not truly about to be fully invaded by the hordes that had, until then, remained safely on the other side of the Wall.
More than that, a certain rumour had reached his ears.
" You fear that the Lannisters are truly behind this, don't you Ned?" Cat asked as she buried herself in the fur of his coat. He narrowed his eyes as he saw a tuft of dark brown hair in the distance, poorly hidden behind a tree that could hardly conceal the figure.
Arya, most likely.
" I do fear for your brother, my lady. I worry for your house…"
" I worry for the Seven Kingdoms. Winter is coming, and I fear that the first sightings of snow may unexpectedly come from the South…"
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( ??? )
Rain, nothing but dark omens upon dark omens. The Gods wept about as much as the lords whined in anticipation of the coming siege.
Apart from the pitter-patter of the deluge, he heard nothing else. Neither the neighs of thousands of horses in the distance nor the approaching clatter of armours and shields. They were not there yet. They still had time.
But beside him, men and boys alike shook like the Others of old were upon them. He would never blame them. He knew very little of war and had barely ever fought outside of duels. But he knew his own skills would suffice to keep him alive. What did they have to rely upon, but the cunning of a band of Sellswords and the empty promises of their lords, that they would see the sun shine on this downtrodden castle and roar in victory?
He giggled somewhat sardonically, but most ignored him. Their hearts pounded in their ears with the force of a dragon's flapping wings. He couldn't help himself really.
He always found humour in the absolute powerlessness of those who were often the first to be thrown into the jaws of war. Oh, they could strike fear in the very souls of the peasants they trampled, but at their core, they were just as pathetically unimportant.
Faceless men in shoddy leather and plate, sneering at the cowering smallfolk whilst their own lords lounged in their keeps mocking them with delight. But what they did not know, could not possibly hurt them.
Assuredly, if he could speak to each and every one of them before their deaths, he would impart onto them the sad truth of their existence.
But he held himself. He reined his foul proclivities in. The rain struck his armour constantly. He almost felt detached from it, as though he was gazing at the torrent from behind a window, tucked in a bed and with a good hearth not far from him.
He reckoned, with the envious looks that had been sent his way when he'd arrived at Pinkmaiden, that the dark plate he wore, as well as his odd helm, made him stand out quite fiercely. But it was highly protective, thank the gods. Though perhaps the visor fashioned as a bone white expressionless mask was a tad too much. His inner desire, or rather need, to unsettle had truly come out when he'd commissioned this.
But it served its purpose. He would be more than impressed if those loyalists did not sully themselves when they faced him. He would take a page right out of the Hound's book. Not that the man read books in any case, but that was beside the point.
But as he hummed to himself, immersed in the sound of the rain hitting his armour, he heard them. At first, it was a sort of distant rumble. His eyes immediately shot in their direction, he was quite adept at detecting the origin of any sounds. He moved amidst the crowd of archers fumbling around nervously. His sudden steps alerted a few but most did not seem to have heard anything yet.
To his right he felt a pair of eyes, staring with a smouldering intensity. One of the lords, a minor one truth be told, but one of the rare nobles who seemed to have any idea as to how to behave in a war. With composure, and the will to defy the odds.
He nodded at him. His sharp senses were quite renowned by now; he was a scout in all but name despite his best wishes.
The lordling notified others, but without raising his voice.
'Avoiding a panic, eh. With this lot, this might be the most sensible fucking thing a lord has done since the start of this war.'
He could only hope the fuckers on the other side were half as anxious. They were bound to have quite a few recruits amidst their rank anyway, what's with the losses the sellswords dealt them. That and the Mallisters. But he had not heard word of the Freys serving much of a purpose in the last couple of battles and skirmishes; how typical.
He left this high spot upon the walls. He was no archer. He would only come there if the loyalists somehow climbed the walls on their own. With the current disposition of rebel troops in Pinkmaiden, he would be greatly needed if they did so. Hopefully, they'd first try to breach the gates.
He heard them roar, and the stone walls almost shook from the rage alone.
His lips curled up, at halfway between a mocking snarl and a genuine smile.
' Didn't quite like the Coppers and their arrows, I presume. S'about how I felt after the Ruby ford you fucks.'
The men moved before him, a colony of panicked ants scampering around to the sound of the barking officers and lords alike. None paid him much attention.
After the Ruby Ford, after Harrenhal…after everything, now they recognized him with but a subtle glance. Not a great knight, nor a peerless warrior. Not one possessed by the grace of the Red Viper nor the vigour and brutal strength of the boisterous boar they now called King.
He was but one Knight amongst many. But they all knew his versatility. They all knew his capacity to adapt. Above all else…
They knew Ser Derrick Frey had been forsaken by the Stranger himself.
Once more, despite the odds, he would not die.
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A.N: Hey y'all, just wanted to say comments and reviews will be appreciated as like many authors, I function with interaction be it positive or negative. And it also helps me know what I'm doing right and what I'm completely messing up