8 A Tear to Wash it All Away

Jon Snow - 289 AC

Although Lady Trout glared at him constantly while he was eating lunch, Jon was still curious about where his father had gone. The snow touched his hair. His father had left; he didn't know why he had been afraid that it was because of him. "I'm the bastard of Winterfell," he thought as he finished his lunch.

"Lady Stark, can you tell me where Lord Stark is?" In his question, Jon had asked with greater determination than he had anticipated, his voice strong rather than weak, and he had shown no signs of weakness in front of her.

Although he was well aware that a woman like her would never love him, he was no longer bothered by it because he still had his brother, Arya, and Father.

Instead, Robb responded, knowing that his mother would not be pleased with him talking to His mother. "House Greyjoy has started a Rebellion, Jon, and Father has gone to War," Robb said instead, knowing that his mother would not be pleased.

When father had left, Jon had not been there; Robb didn't know why.

The bastard finally realized why his work around the castle had become more difficult and numerous.

After cleaning the horses and cleaning the stables, his fingers were still itching, his nails were almost black in color, the skin on his fingertips had been slightly ripped out, the smell almost made him throw up his lunch, the water tasted different, the fire in his room was no longer there, and everything had become more difficult since his father had gone away.

Jon jumped out of his chair, almost knocking the chair to the ground, and ran out the door without saying anything else because he didn't want to be in the presence of Lady Trout any longer.

"Bastard," "Bastard," "Bastard, "Bastard," "Bastard, "Bastard" They were all calling him that word as he walked down the corridor, heading towards the Godswood, and he could feel the harsh words being directed at him by everyone, the servants and guards alike. But Jon just let the harsh words pass through him, like a gust of wind, and the words were nothing more than that to him. Words are like the wind.

Since Father had left, the bastard had noticed that even people who had never called him anything, and even some who had taken pity on him, were now being harsh on him. Jon wondered if it was because Father was no longer present that they were able to show their true colors.

But Jon had noticed Lady Trout's growing smirk every time a servant "accidentally" dropped the water or food in front of him, and he was beginning to worry.

Jon had no idea when it happened, but it was only now that he realized he was in Godswood; the snow had blanketed everything, and even the trees appeared to be made of snow.

Jon felt his breath stinging against the back of his throat as if sharp blades were inside his throat; coughing, he fell to his knees, his throat hurting and his entire chest burning.

Am I sick? Because the food had been tasting different since his father had left, Jon pondered what he should do. Everything had gotten worse: Robb spent less time with him, the servants and guards were harsher to him, and, even more importantly, Ser Rodrik no longer complimented his Sword Fighting.

Maester Luwin no longer permitted him to read books, and the only thing that had remained the same was Arya, whom Jon whispered with a smile, knowing that, unlike the others, she would never abandon him.

Standing up, he could hear the crow's cry in his ears, and as he walked towards the Weirwood tree, he could hear the crow's cry in his ears again and more snow.

A crow perched on a branch above Jon; his eyes were judging him; he was and would always be a bastard; Jon kneeled in front of the tree, saying small prayers for his father; please, father, return soon, Arya and Robb miss you, and even though he likes to act tough, Jon prayed, his eyes closed, completely oblivious to the crow perched on a branch above him.

With the opening of his eyes, he saw that the same eyes of the trees were looking back at him, but they weren't judging him. Jon felt complete, as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Coughing, Jon placed his hand over his mouth, his throat burning. As he moved his hand away, his brown eyes were drawn to the red liquid on his skin, his blood slowly rolling from his palm and dipping into the snow below, freezing.

A crow caws, and he quickly turns his head to see a crow look back at him. Suddenly, Jon felt his body become weightless, and everything went black around him.

Ned Stark - Before

The Mountains of the Moon were especially unpleasant at this time of year. Winter was coming to a close, but great swathes of the inhospitable mountains were still buried in a thick layer of snow. The rocky hills were wild and bleak, bereft of the warmth and comfort of the Gates of the Moon, but Ned did not mind. After all, he was of the North, and winter had kept his home safe from southron zealots and any swordsman. It had been too long since he had been home to Winterfell, and he regretted it. Now was not the time to dwell on that, though, not when the clansmen they had been chasing for nigh on half a moon were closer than ever.

Robert trotted up beside him, and his blue eyes were bright with excitement. The Baratheon giant loved nothing more than a good fight, but he tended to whinge like a child whenever there was a chill in the air. "Gods, Ned," his friend boomed in what he thought was a whisper. "Gods, these bastard mountains are cold today!"

Ned just shrugged. He did not relish the damp valleys either, but he would not complain. After a minute of comfortable silence, Eddard spoke. "Well Robert, it could be worse."

"Hmm?"

"I said it could be worse. At least it's not as bad as the Stormlands. Now there's an awful place."

Robert laughed and called him a prick, for he was the heir to the kingdom of the Stormlands. That made Sir Cayle laugh, and soon enough the whole party was laughing, though less out of amusement and more out of nerves for the encounter to come.

The clansmen they were chasing had sacked and burned a small hamlet a few leagues to the east, and so Lord Arryn had left his stout castle at the base of the Giant's Lance with a group of men-at-arms in sky blue cloaks, as well as his two wards, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark. It was not the first time the two young men had fought raiders from the mountains, and they were damned good at it. Robert fought like a demon with his mighty hammer that could crush a man's chest like it were an egg, and Eddard was quicker with a blade than most. Lord Arryn believed that Ned was accomplished enough to one day serve in the King's seven, but Ned disagreed. For a Northman, there was more honor and purpose at the wall than on the Red Keep, and Ned was fiercely proud of his heritage- no matter what his brother Brandon thought of the time Ned spent in the south.

Ahead of them, Lord Arryn, who was dressed in functional plate armor with little frill or flourish and had a falcon helm on his head, held up a hand and the men behind came to a stop. The winged helm was all that marked Lord Jon as above the common knight, for the Warden of the East was a practical man, and looked down on merchants and traders who spent gold frivolously. He turned his horse back towards the rest of the men and lifted his visor to reveal a lined face with an aquiline nose and sharp blue eyes. He took a moment, then spoke.

"Men" his voice was strong and proud, belying his ever-increasing age. "Past this summit, there is a decaying watchtower, and that is where our prey lies in wait." Towers of unmortared stone were dotted across the mountains, and the mountain men must have used the abandoned fortification as a refuge from both the cold winds and Lord Arryn's knights. "It is old and crumbling. There is a hole of a decent size on the tower's western face, and it is there we shall strike." The men all nodded, and some let out nervous breaths or worried at their lips. They had been chasing their foe for nigh on half a moon, and it would all come down to this battle. They all knew it would not be an easy fight, and like as not they would be dead in the snowdrifts by the day's end. But they all knew their duty. And so they went.

By the time they were close to the small stronghold, it was the hour of the wolf. The stars above peered down at them, and Ned wondered idly if the ancestors were watching him as well. He prayed they were not. It was the Andal knights of the Vale who had slain Great Robar II Royce and then persecuted and massacred the first men of the Vale. It was Andal kings who had killed Mighty Tristifer IV Mudd, and it was Andal fools who had raised their seven-sided star banner and marched up the neck only to smash themselves on Moat Cailin or to be chased out by the great Northern army. But today, and for years past, he fought beside Andal knights, and did battle against the only others in the Vale of Arryn who spoke his language and worshipped his Gods. He often wondered what the great Stark Kings of old would say of him being on these incursions against his fellows. What would Savage Theon the Hungry Wolf think of him, what would Unbreakable Roland of the Valleys do to him when they met in death? He tried to put it out of his mind, but never could completely. It was not that he was not as zealous and proud in his worship as the Starks of old were, for he was, but the mountain clansmen had killed innocent men and raped innocent women, and for that, they must die. He just hoped the Gods understood.

Lord Arryn decreed that they would all attack at dawn, and set up four men as sentries. Ned sat down on a gnarled tree root, and Robert lay on the ground beside him, using his mount's saddlebags as a pillow. Robert yawned and wriggled around to try and get comfortable.

"Wake me when Glory calls, Ned"

"And which one is Glory, Robert?"

"Hilarious" came the dry reply, and then Robert turned onto his side to sleep.

"G'night Rob" Ned said quietly

Robert grunted, and began to snore.

Ned knew he would not be able to sleep, for he never could before a battle, so he resolved to make himself useful, and pulled his sword from his back. It was an ugly thing, five feet of heavy metal, straight-bladed and brutal. It was too heavy and cumbersome for most men to use effectively, but Ned was tall and strong enough. He was deadly with the brute of a weapon, that could be used as a club just as well as it could a sword. Gently placing the blade on his knee, he pulled out his cloth rag and slowly ran it up and down the blade. He then fished his whetstone out of his pack and oiled it. He slowly moved it against the weapon and continued to do so until it was as sharp as a razor. He looked down at his reflection and saw misty grey eyes looking up at him. He had always wondered about his eyes, which seemed to change depending on how he felt. It was said that the ancient Marsh Kings of the Neck had been blessed by the Old Gods, a fact that showed in their strange-hued eyes. The Laughing Wolf, his father's namesake and ancestor, had conquered the Neck and married the last daughter of the King of the Marsh. That meant he was descended from the ancient Cailin Kings, so perhaps that was what made his eyes so odd, he thought. But then again, the Marsh Kings were also said to have ridden Lizard Lions as mounts, and as far as Ned could tell, it was a horse that he had ridden to this damp cluster of trees. The thought of Lizard Lions made him think of Howland, the heir to the Neck, whom he had met at a Yule feast two years past. They had not written to each other for a while now, and Ned idly wondered if his friend had worked up the nerve to talk to Jyana yet.

The time before the battle seemed to crawl by, and Ned found his mind wandering. He thought of his little brother Ben and hoped he was asleep at this hour. And little Lyanna, it had been her name day, not a moon past. He hoped she had gotten his raven. He thought of his father, who was likely still awake, pouring over papers from merchants in White Harbor or reading reports from Lord Harper, who had been patrolling the Saltspear as of late in response to rumors of pirates. Lord Rickard had previously said that he needed to speak to Lords Redwyne and Tyrell due to an issue with the squirrel and bear trade. He wondered if that had been done yet, and let out a small chuckle at the idea of his grim giant of a father intimidating Lord Tyrell, who Jon had described as a fool and a craven'. Not that any sane man could not be craven when faced with Rickard Stark and his hard eyes. Any man but Brandon, that is. Brandon seemed to swan from tourney to tourney, winning some, losing some, but always receiving their father's immense displeasure. Brandon was heir to Winterfell, heir to near half of Westeros, yet he did not seem to care. Ned had always been a little envious of Brandon, who was taller and more handsome, had an easy laugh and a brilliant smile, and seemed to charm everyone he met. Eddard was not a small man himself, standing a little over six feet, but he seemed dwarfed next to his brother or foster brother, both of whom were loud and boisterous where Ned was reserved and quiet. He knew many in the Eyrie thought him a little slow, for they rarely heard him speak, and when they did it was with a thick northern accent. Ned was not slow, he knew that, but he preferred not to speak more often than not. His father, or perhaps Lord Arryn, had once said to him "A skilled negotiator is a man who thinks twice before he says nothing" and Ned had stuck by that advice. He found himself often getting Lord Arryn and his father mixed up when he cast his mind back to his childhood. It was an odd thing, but of little consequence. He slid his greatsword back into its scabbard and placed it down on the ground next to him. He checked his friend was still asleep and leaned back against the tree trunk.

Not long after, the men began to rise and to prepare for battle. Robert was still sleeping like a log, so Ned gave him a kick to the back, and he woke with a curse. Grumbling, and rubbing his eyes, Robert stood and pushed Ned down to the ground. Ned called him a prick, and Robert let out a booming laugh that scared the small birds in the branches above them into flight. About half a league away, Ned knew their foe would too be waking, and would most likely be preparing to fight. Around him, the men waiting for orders shivered and drank what little mead or ale they had in order to steady their nerves. Armour and mail were obsessively checked, sword belts adjusted and readjusted, and men felt for the charms or talismans they kept. Some had a lucky rock, a rabbit's foot, or perhaps a letter from a wife or child. They held these items and prayed: to the father, they prayed for the strength to enact his justice, and to the Warrior, they prayed for him to lend them his strength. They prayed to the mother for mercy and begged the Smith to keep their armor strong. They trusted in their seven Gods, and in their superstitions and charms, to keep them safe today. Eddard did not pray, for his Gods had long abandoned the Vale, but he did take off his bronze arm ring and twist it through his hands. He read the runes engraved on the side. There was 'ᛖ' for Loyalty, 'ᛉ' for protection, 'ᛏ' for both justice and victory, 'ᚢ' for strength and 'ᛟ', which called upon and honored his ancestors. He knew those carvings as well as he knew his own name, and he whispered them now, in the hopes that his distant Gods were listening.

Ned had on a leather gambeson and some strong mail, as well as a mail coif over his head. Most of that was covered in thick pelts and dark furs, and his massive sword was slung across his back. To the shining knights of the Vale, he looked like the unwashed heathen many of them thought him, but Ned did not mind. Brandon had called him a southern tart last time he had been to Winterfell, had mocked him by calling him 'Lord Eddard Arryn', and never let Ned forget he spent more time in the South than the North. It felt good to show he was still a Northman, even if just to a few knights and men-at-arms. Eddard was not nervous about the fight to come, rather he was remarkably calm, for he knew that the formally trained and better-armed knights of the Vale should eventually rout the hill tribes in any fair battle. Once the Valemen made it through the opening on the western side of the tower, the day was all but won. But the fight to get into the tower would be grueling and painful, and would probably result in many deaths, and that was where the difficulty lay.

Eventually, Lord Arryn convinced himself that his plan was as good as it could be, and the men calmed down and took on the wary look that many soldiers had when they knew they would soon die, but honor and pride demanded they die well. Men were chosen to guard the packs, and then the rest mounted their horses and looked to their liege. The Protector of the Vale spoke to the group in front of him.

"Half a league to the north" spoke the Falcon Lord "Is an old tower. And in that tower are men who have slaughtered their way through your home. They have raped your people. They have burned the villages we are sworn to protect. They dream of entering the Eyrie, and raping your mothers and sisters." The greying Lord stopped for a beat, then spoke again. "Are you going to lie down and let them?"

The vengeful warriors let out a defiant cry, and banged sword and lance on their shields, creating a cacophony of crashes and shouts.

Lord Arryn held up his hand, and the noise disappeared. "Good."

He took another moment to gather his thoughts and then spoke in a firm and calm voice. "As you know, Ser Eon found our prey when scouting ahead of us, and he has told me of a hole at the base of their crumbling hiding place. We have no choice but to storm the place." There was a muttering of agreements from the mounted knights.

"We shall ride slowly until we are close, and then we shall arrange ourselves into a line. One after another, we shall gallop past the breach and thrust our lances into the mass of men waiting there. This will not only drive the savages back but will no doubt thin their numbers".

The riders listened attentively. Ned had never heard of such a tactic, but he could see no true flaws in it.

"Once every man has used his lance, we shall dismount on the northern side of the tower. From there, we shall march in a column two men wide, for the gap is only large enough for two men abreast." Lord Arryn looked to see if his men understood and then continued.

"We shall then storm the tower, and give those scum the justice they deserve!"

The veteran warriors let out a powerful cheer, all previous nerves forgotten in the face of battle and glory. They let out their war cries, then rode on, line after line of shining knights on strong horses, all baying for blood.

Jon Arryn sat astride his horse at the side of the path, watching his men trot past. He waved them on and shouted encouragement to them, and they sat up taller with the knowledge that they would win, for the Gods were on their side. He watched the younger of his two foster sons go past, and called out to the boy. Eddard turned towards him and tilted his head quizzically. By the Gods, but the boy looked like Rickard! He would never reach his father's height, true but Rickard was unnaturally tall. Whenever he saw that long stern face, he could not help but be reminded of his friend fighting beside him in the war, for Eddard was but his father writ small. He was proud of the boy, and he had often wished that he was his own blood. He hated himself for the thoughts, for Jeyne had died trying to bring their child into the world, and Rowena died of the chill far too soon. He could not help it, though, for he loved both of his wards like they were his own, and had watched them grow from small boys to skilled warriors and, more importantly, good men. Yes, they were good lads, and Jon wished they would not be leaving him in a few years. "Lord?" Jon heard Eddards question and realized he had been sitting silently for the last minute. "Ah my boy, my apologies'' Jon smiled kindly at the boy "you know how old men are''

"You are not old yet, Lord." Ned indulged him with a kind smile.

His other foster son was riding past and heard what Eddard had said. "Neddy is right, My Lord, you don't look a day older than when you went to war!" Robert's eyes sparkled with mirth, whilst Eddard rolled his eyes at the nickname.

"Why thank y-" Jon began, but Robert could not contain himself and burst in again.

"And how was the Dance of the Dragons, my Lord?" Robert laughed uproariously, and rode away, for that war had been over a century and a half ago.

Jon raised his eyebrows and turned to see Eddard's face was a mixture of amusement and exasperation. It was a familiar expression.

"Now, son, what was I saying?" Jon took a moment to gather his thoughts and then spoke again. His face took on a bashful look, and he almost seemed to wince. "Ah, yes. Well, my boy, I was hoping you might do a job for me?" Eddard nodded his head firmly, and Jon spoke again. "I will give you the command of two men-at-arms. Together, you shall make your way to the southern side of the tower, and try to find another way in. This is a task of utmost importance, and I am trusting you with it. Do you understand?"

Eddard nodded again, but his eyes were hard and his voice cold. "I do, Lord"

Damn him. Ned did not know why he had been essentially exiled from the battlefield, but he was bitter about it. As far as he could tell, there were only two reasons as to why he had been sent away. He knew his task was of no consequence, for Jon Arryn's scouts would have told him of any other way in. That meant that either his foster father did not want him in the breach because he feared for Ned's safety- which was unlikely, for Lord Arryn had very high opinions of Eddard's ability on the field- or that Lord Arryn did not trust him in such close and brutal conflict with his ' fellow heathens ', as old Lord Colin Belmore had once put it. Damn him.

By the time the mounted contingent had reached the tower, the savages were ready for them. All the better, Robert Baratheon thought, let them give us a proper fight. For the last half a moon the cravens had melted away like snow in the summer whenever their party drew closer. Mayhaps that was not a good way of putting it, for Ned had told him once that it snows even in summer in the North. What an odd place. But then again, Ned was most likely taking the piss- snow in summer! Now he thought about it, he realized the idea was ridiculous and laughed at how he had been fooled. He hoped his brother was alright, for he had seemed to be in a mood a few moments ago. Well, if the killing didn't cheer him up, then Robert would just have to get him drunk when they got back to the Gates of the Moon. And if Ned didn't want to, then that was too bad. Elbert had told him there was a new whore in the Red Swan , which would be a good reward after a hard-fought battle. Or at least he hoped it would be hard-fought, for Robert's blood was up and he was thirsty for a fight.

As the Valemen came into range, the wildlings on the battlements launched rocks from their slings that whistled through the air and rained down on the knights. Stones crashed down onto the ground, throwing up dirt and snow into the air. Horses reared up, screamed and roared, and tried to throw off their riders and flee. Jon Arryn screamed at the men behind him to raise their shields and dismount their horses, and the soldiers yelled at each other and begged their now wild horses to be calm. The horses were bleeding from their wounds and blinded by the dirt flying through the air and ran riot through the now dismounted attackers. They huddled together and cowered behind their shields, and felt their arms begin to bruise and ache from the constant bombardment. Three men lay dead or dying on the ground, trampled or dragged by their feral mounts. The stones kept coming, and now deadly arrows were screaming alongside them. An arrow thudded into old Ser Hector's shield and pierced through the wood far enough that the point scraped along his cheek. The mass of shields was soon bristling with arrow shafts, and before long the projectiles would make the shields unusable. After what could have been hours of their shields being beaten, the ground beneath them had become a muddy mess, and men slipped in the wet ground. The men were forced backward slowly, shields still held desperately overhead. Spitting and swearing, the party stumbled away, gradually losing ground. Jon Arryn, who was near the front of the group, felt his shield arm start to buckle. The pain in his foreman was unbearable, and his shoulder was throbbing from holding up his shield for so long. He knew that they could not hold for long and that something had to be done else they would all be slaughtered.

It was no use, Ned thought, no use at all. The bloody door was frozen shut, and the wall was too slippery with ice to climb up from the ground. Bloody Jon bloody Arryn. He had skirted around the tower with his two men and had tried to find another way in, but their efforts were futile. When the slingers on top of the tower had started launching rocks, the three of them had taken cover in the shadow of the tower. The sky was grey, and the air was cold. The mountain clans sent arrows out of the hole, and the cluster of sky-blue shields was driven further back. Every time a shield dropped or retreated, the defenders let out a sardonic cheer. They started to sing an old of the First Men, and although the words would mean nothing to the blue cloaks, Ned understood them, and he burned with impotent rage. The song was one sung throughout the North, and to hear it when he was about to lose smarted.

Jon was completely baffled at how long the savages had been repelling them. There were supposed to be no more than twenty poorly supplied clansmen in the tower, but the assault they were receiving led Jon to believe that there was at least double that number. He had sent two men to watch the tower in case of an attack in the night, but they must have fallen asleep and missed another group of heathens joining the ones they had been chasing. Carl was lying in the mud, but Gawen was still standing. If they both lived to see tomorrow, Jon would have to deal with the lad. Damn. The archers were singing now, in deep, loud voices, and Jon wondered if Ned knew the song. He was glad Ned was not in this disastrous assault, but he was still stranded behind the enemy. Gods, but that song was annoying him. He flinched as yet another rock struck his shield, and turned his head to see how many of his party still lived.

He could count perhaps fifteen. Damn. Jon knew they had inferior numbers, and he also knew that if they did not do something drastic, they would die. And so it was that knowledge that persuaded him to make his decision. He muttered a quick prayer to the Warrior and made the sign of the star on his chest with his free hand. "Men!" his first shout came out hoarse and weak. "Men!" He had their attention now. "Back to the tree line. Quick about it now, and calm! CALM!"

It was a ragged retreat, and painfully slow, but at least his men were out of range of the slingers, and the trees would protect them from any arrows. He turned to address his brave men, whose faces were streaked with sweat and dirt. "Do you see how they fear us!" Jon exclaimed and knew he sounded like a madman to his exhausted men. "They dare not face us like men, so they have to hide behind their walls!" Jon's voice grew more passionate with every word. "They know that if we make it to their hovel then they are but pigs for slaughter!" The red-faced fighters looked unsure, but the Warden of the East continued. "If we get close to them, then it shall be an easy victory, for not only are they inferior to you in combat, but at least half of them are cowardly bowmen!" The men seemed to get back some of their previous bravado at the reminder that they were only facing a few poorly armed clansmen in a crumbling old tower, not a fully garrisoned Bloody Gate or Moat Cailin, and murmurs spread through the ranks. "This is what is going to happen." The Lord offered no time for doubts to settle and kept on speaking in a confident, sharp tone. "We are going to form into ranks. The first row of men shall hold their shields in front of them, and the rest shall link their shields above us. We shall march straight to the opening. We shall not stop, we shall not flinch, we shall not falter." Jon Arryn's voice suddenly became harder. "Do. you. Understand?" The group muttered their agreements, and Jon continued. "When we get to the hole, we shall lock shields again, and push through the measly defenders there. We shall then storm the tower, and we will be victorious!" The men were invigorated, and fully ready to march and fight once more. Robert Baratheon, standing at least a head over every other man amongst the trees, was grinning like a fool and had a manic look in his eyes. He hefted his Warhammer onto his shoulder and walked over to his foster father. "Jon!" He grinned "Here's the thing. My shield is going to be about as useful as tits on a broomstick, so I reckon I'll just charge ahead of the rest and smash whatever's in my way! Whaddya think?" Because of how Large Robert's hammer was, he could not truly use a shield, but Jon had made him bring a small buckler just in case. Said buckler had likely saved his life but was now riddled with arrow shafts and dented from stones. Jon sighed. The heir to the Stormlands was as skilled a warrior as any in the land, barring perhaps the Bold and the Sword of the Morning, but he was also a fool that forgot he was not invincible. "No, Robert" Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath "no." Robert's face dropped and he grumbled like a child. "Robert, you pulled the same face when I said you and Ned could not go out into the yard until you had finished your lessons. You were eight." Robert let out a great huff, and Jon fought to contain his smile at the lad's childishness. "Besides lad, I need you to go and get Eddard." Robert perked up instantly, and once more he was smiling from ear to ear. "When you retrieve him, either join the rest of us in the fight or if he has somehow managed to find another way in, then follow him there. Robert nodded eagerly and bounded off like a puppy to retrieve his helmet. Jon chuckled and looked towards the rest of his men. He raised his voice to speak one last time before the battle. "Knights of the Vale! I am proud to call myself your Lord, for no man could ask for more loyal or more skilled warriors! Now get in formation, and let us get justice for our men and women!" They hurried to obey and then raised their shields. And then they marched.

"Ry'n ni yma o hyd!" the clansmen sung. It meant ' we are still here '. Ned wished they would just be quiet for a few seconds. They had raped and killed their way across the Vale of Arryn, and now had the arrogance to sing and dance? It was not right. He could see the sky blue column going for another push, and the hill tribesmen rained strike after strike down at them. Ned knew that if he could clear the battlements of the defenders, then Lord Arryn's men could capture the tower much easier. However, the tower was over two and ten feet high, and neither of the men with him were tall enough to reach the top, even if he tried to boost them up. So for now, he was left as a useless observer until he could join Lord Arryn and Robert at the gap. If they were not dead by then.

Robert traipsed through the trees, just out of sight of the tower. He knew that Ned had to be somewhere nearby, but he could not see him. The cunts in the tower were still singing, and their bizarre words drowned out him shouting for Ned. He wondered what they were saying. Ned had tried to teach him some words from the Northern Tongues, and he had picked up some more just from Ned sometimes saying a phrase or two whenever he was annoyed or happy, but the Northmen and their frozen beards had far too many languages. Ned had once said that a man from Bear island would likely not understand a man from White Harbor, and Robert was glad that only the men of the Dornish Marches spoke a different tongue to the rest of the Stormlands. He hoped that he could do some killing soon. If he could just get to the tower, then his beautiful hammer would be able to smash those damned sheep fuckers into the seven hells. "Ned!" he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled. "Ned! You bastard! If you're dead, I swear to the Gods I'll kill you!" There was silence, and Robert started to worry. If he lost Ned, he did not know what he would do. "Ned!"

"By the Old Gods, Robert, have you ever heard of being quiet!" A harsh whisper came.

Good. His brother was alive then. Good. "Ned, damn you, I can't see you"

"Come out of your trees and go to your right"

"My trees? I'm not bloody hiding, I'll have ya know!"

"Just come out!"

Robert stumbled out of the thin forest and found Ned. The two men laughed and embraced firmly. Eddard checked Robert for injuries, and Robert checked that Ned was still in one piece as well. The chants of the clansmen still filled the air, but Ned had a plan. He knelt and held out his hands and Robert stepped onto them. Ned hoisted him up, and groaned with exertion, for Robert weighed as much as an aurochs. His arms started to shake from tiredness, but all of a sudden, the weight was gone, for the two men he had brought with him, joined him and Robert managed to grasp the ridge of the battlements with one hand. Ned grinned, for it seemed they could finally clear the top of the tower of the men who were a blight on the struggling main body of knights. Robert threw his other hand over the edge of the wall and started to pull himself up. He grimaced with the effort, but the eager look in his eyes never left. But just as it seemed he had made it over, he froze and then lunged forward. A bored sentry had happened to walk over to the part of the defenses that Robert was clambering over, and had jumped in shock. He turned to alert his allies, and Robert knew he could not let that happen, lest the attack fail. He sprung forward and grabbed the young man's tunic with his great right hand, and pulled him as hard as he possibly could. The force brought both men tumbling down to the ground with a crash, and the two Valemen beside Ned eagerly moved in to finish the tribesman, for the men atop the tower had killed friends of the men, old friends, so Ned did not blame them for wanting vengeance.

Robert got back up on his feet, rubbing his head, clutching his shoulder, and cursing like a sailor. He would live through, and Ned was sure his injuries were not serious. The idea of the others at the top noticing their missing friend terrified him, however, and knew he had to act quickly. A mad idea came to him, and before he had time to realize it was mad, he had already acted. "Robert! Throw me!" Robert wrinkled his nose in confusion, but did not object, and lifted Ned like he was a sack of potatoes and threw him upwards. Ned's arms flailed in the air, and he nearly lost his sword but managed to grab onto its hilt. He sailed past the tower, and desperately threw out his hand, and managed to grab the edge of the parapet. He slammed into the stone and the wind was knocked out of his lungs. He gasped for air and clutched onto the tower with all his strength. He checked the blade was still slung across his back, and scrambled up the stone, pulling himself up with his hands and trying to use his legs to push himself up from the slippery stone. He managed to get on top of the casement and dropped down onto the wide tower top. He staggered a little and found his feet. Ned looked around. The archers and slingers were completely unprepared for him, looking away over the opposite edge and unbothered by whatever was happening behind them.

His heavy sword scraped out of its scabbard, and the killing began.

Now

After opening his eyes and taking a look around, Ned remembered where he was, the sound of soldiers and horses outside. He exhaled with relief, wondering why he was dreaming about the past. Before deciding to ignore the dream, Ned know he would be meeting with King Rhaegar today.

He drank water and washed his face before getting to his feet and getting ready to start the day. As he began to dress, Ned reflected on how Jon would have been feeling now. He had received word that Prince Aegon Targaryen was with the King, despite the fact that he was 7 Name days, the prince had decided to come. Lord Stark was well aware that the prince would not fight and would instead choose to remain behind.

Ned was curious as to whether or not this decision had been made by the King or the Prince, considering war to be a fun game in which to gain Glory.

Ned Stark imagined Jon coming here, dressed in Targaryen clothes instead of his usual dark clothes, with his brother nearby, and meeting him, if not the first time ever. Would the King be willing to accept him? Would House Martell be willing to do so? Or would they simply attempt to cause a "Accident" to occur to him?

The image of his son dressed in Targaryen clothing caused him some irritation. As the sound of footsteps approaching his tent drew Ned's attention away from his thoughts.

Ned was about to ask the guard who was here when he overheard some conversation outside...

The guard informed Lord Stark that his brother had arrived.

Before Ned had time to process what the guard had said, the tent door opened, revealing his brother, who was dressed in a cloak made of bearskin with the House Stark sigil stitched on his left side, standing before him.

His face appeared to be brighter than he remembered, his arms appeared to be larger despite the cloak that covered them, and his cheeks appeared to have gained a little weight.

His eyes remained the same, but they appeared brighter, revealing more of his brown eyes in the process.

"It's good to see you again brother," Benjen said first, giving him a hug; Ned returned the hug; all the sadness suddenly vanished and he found himself smiling.

With a chuckle of embarrassment on his face, Ned teased his brother, "It's good to see you little brother, how has your Wife been treating you?"

"Ajanna is... pregnant, and we are expecting a Wolf very soon," Benjen exclaimed, his eyes twinkling like a star in the sky.

"Congratulations brother, you should have sent a letter," Ned said, his smile growing even brighter as he motioned for him to sit down and he reached for a bottle that had been hidden.

"We found out just a month before the Rebellion, and I had planned to send you a letter, but then the King sent word that House Greyjoy had rebelled, so I wanted to surprise you," Benjen explained as his brother filled two cups with the Strongest Beer in the North.

"Have you been drinking?" Benjen inquired, a little perplexed because his brother wasn't someone who drank excessively.

"GreatJon when I arrived here, he handed me this bottle of beer and said, 'A Lord should always have beer,' and I accepted his offer. Since then, I haven't touched it" Ned laughed as he remembered the large man speaking half-drunk, his mouth smelling like a horse's mouth.

"To the Health of your Child," they both said as they drank from a cup of beer they had given him earlier.

After swallowing the beer, he felt dizzy, he had not yet used to it, and he knew that GreatJon would be delighted to hear it.

"Can you tell me what you're expecting?" Ned inquired after taking another swig from his glass.

"Ajanna says she wants the first to be a son, and if it is, we want to name him Adrian; if it is a girl, we want to name her Lyarra..." Benjen said the name with a sudden sadness in his voice as he continued to drink. Ned found himself thinking about his mother, who was a true Wolf, through and through.

"Can you tell me how my nephews are doing?" Benjen asked, a smile returning to his face as he expressed his desire to see Jon as soon as possible.

Ned gave him a friendly smile before telling him everything.

A Red Lady

Melony does not like to think her name. It is a dangerous word. Every time she hears it, something bad happens. Someone is hurt or will be hurt, or there are consequences. Even hearing it in her mind puts her at an alarming state of alertness.

She must never be too alert. She must always be careful.

If she is not there will be punishments. But there are always punishments anyway.

She can hardly ever get to sleep. She is alone, anyway. She has been alone since Lot Seven, when she was sold.

There is one candle in the sleeping quarters. It is small and there is so more melted wax hardened around the candle than there is any of the actual candle left. It is red and the fire on its wick that lights the whole crowded room is small, about the size of one of her fingertips. She has small fingertips. "Too small for hard work. She had better grow soon," she heard one of the masters say once. It made her afraid.

She tries to look away from the candle. If keeps her eyes in the darkness she can get to sleep sleep, if she keeps her eyes in the darkness she won't be afraid of it. If the candle goes out she'll be in the dark. They all will. But she saw things in the small fire, If it goes out, she'll be alone with those things, that much she knows. Those aren't things everyone can see. Not even the masters.

She doesn't know why she's seeing them.

Sometimes she looks back to it even when she's supposed to sleep.

She doesn't want to want to see it. She can't.

Fire shouldn't do that. But it does, for her.

She hates being afraid. She hates the cold and the sickness and the death it brings to her kind, to slaves, she hates the fires and how they burn still bodies and she must take the ashes of these fire-bodies away in their small, ornate urns and the heat, she can feel it. She hates the words of the priests, because they are salvation for everyone, but they do not mean everyone.

She is so cold. The thin, threadbare, dirty fabric of her robe chafes against her cold skin as she wraps her arms around herself for some semblance of warmth.

In the corner of her eye she can see something in the fire. Almost like a falling star, in the flames. All of this is happening within the small fire, like the masters' decorative glass globes with little scenes inside- mermaids swimming around shipwrecks, beasts on white mountains. It's small, but it's so real. She can nearly see it in the sky through the small window, and she closes her eyes and the sight of the fire is still in her mind.

The night is dark and full of terrors, says the Red Priest. She is not meant to repeat, but she heard him, and his devotees. He is right.

She will be fine. She will have to be fine. Because she will be here her whole life, and that is more nights than she can think of, more darkness and terrors than she can imagine. She thinks the star in the fire must be a sign from R'hllor. To her, for some reason. There can't have been a mistake. She can't tell anyone now.

And so the nights pass by, and she lies there, her emaciated arms wrapped around herself in the cold, and the candle stays overhead, just enough to show some light and be reassuring, but not enough.

Most nights she stays awake staring at it in fear it will go out.

That would be a terrible sign.

"Melony." She freezes, even feeling cold. She hates the cold. And she looks up, and the master hands her a bowl of stew. Her food for the day. It is an old battered bowl, not even half full.

She knows it's nothing. But it's all she has. It's everything. She wonders how many days she could go without these bowls.

She doesn't cry very much. It feels hot on her face. She's always cold, but that heat and discomfort, the feel of the saltwater- it makes her sick. It hurts. It's wrong.

She dreams of crying, though, of all the real things in her life distorted to unreal levels of horror, things that cannot exist in the same place as she lives- but a part of her does not think they are false. She can hardly see them but she can sense them.

She wishes she never had to dream.

Xx

It burns one day. It all burns. Masters and slaves alike die, and she is outside while it happens, gathering wood for ceremonial pyres.

They die. They had always said fire is salvation and pure and holy. She wonders about that. She wonders if she never understood until now.

Xx

(The masters weren't careful and were drinking and the fires got out of hand, and everything went up in a wall of flames from the altars of candles, and it kept going, and there was no water, only climbing columns of flame and smoke. If R'hllor is fire, the Great Other is the smoke and ash, because in this world there is not always ice and cold but there is always a good and bad, even if the two are not always easily distinguished from one another. Melony is not sleeping in the basement that collapses, not among the slave group that is crushed in their sleep by the foundations; she is not among the holy devotees burned or trapped among falling-in walls and ceilings. She manages to find a window, small, but she is small too, and she climbs through. The smoke nearly smothers her breathing but the flames do not touch her. She is close, but outside of the walls, she is by the courtyard that is surrounded by flame- but not burnt. The fire surrounds her, but from a distance, it is not coming closer but it is not down.

When it eventually dies down, she is the one left, the only one left. They see her rise from the white ground that has been grayed by ash and smoke and debris, they see her, rag-wearing girl standing with hair that is almost red, not yet, but if you look in the light of the rising sun you can see the shade of auburn red glinting, coming out.

Her eyes have seen. Not everything, not the end, nor the beginning. A part of the middle, a small bit from each section of the cycle. It has seen more of her then she has seen of it.)

When she wakes up, she feels new, and old, for a few moments.

Xx

She hears them when she tries to sleep, and wakes with the unreal sound of their dying calls in her ears. But then they stopped. It comes to her that if the priests and priestesses and novices and temple devotees and all else are correct, then it is not death that silenced them, because the soul lives on after death. The soul, the inside of someone, the true someone, their self that lives on long after the seasons will end and long after every person in this temple dies and everyone who will remember them dies too.

People's souls are meant to live after death. Their souls stopped screaming. They realized they did not have to any longer because the fire could not hurt them any longer- in death they became pure. Close to God. Close enough to be what the good parts of the world is made of.

Are most people during their lives close to what the other parts of the world are made of, close to the force-thing called the Great Other, that is not great but greatly terrible? There is no one she can ask.

She has pieced together what the priests have been saying. It's strange. She's been hearing it since she was born and not really taking it in.

They thought it was not meant for her. That is what they told her.

That is what the world around her seems like, it seems like she will never be free. How can I find comfort in my soul if it is the only comfort I have?

She has always done what she must do.

Xx

R'hllor has spared her. That must have been it. That must be why the closest standing temple is run by someone who frees her, offers her life as a novice priestess.

Not spared. No. She must have been chosen.

Xx

A priest is checking her pulse, giving her water. She has never been given this much water at once, nor this much food. She hardly knows what to do with it. She realizes she will have this amount now- she will be fed more than a small amount once a day, she can have water when she likes, she will wear robes, she will not suffer beatings or the whip or be sold to an even worse place for any reason or no reason at all. She may even leave- although now, she cannot think of why she would want to, why anyone would. She must not leave now. R'hllor has placed her here.

The priest is blessing her. He says the flames surrounded her, and he saw something in it, and it touched her. It is a lot for her to think about. "How old are you, child?" he asks her. He has not yet asked her name. She tries to think back all the years beyond count- the winters, the ceremonies, how old she must have been when she can first remember back-

"Six and ten," she says. "No- more, or less, but only by a couple years, it must be. If I can think on it a while, I will know-"

"Do not worry, child," he tells her. His voice is nice. She remembers some of the elders speaking to her this way, before they burned. Before their souls rose, she reminds herself. "What is your name?"

For a moment she almost does not remember, but how could she forget? How could she ever forget? It is a moment before she says anything. "I want to do what some of the holy men and women do," she begins. "I want to take a new name, a name from the texts of R'hllor." I want my soul to rise from then, I want my soul to rise from Melony, even though she never burned.

He looks honored, and hands her the temple's great book. It is ancient, with varying shades of red in its cover and papers and ink.

There are names of women and men, places and creatures and celestial beings, all different letters, from all ancient times. This all happened, in a great world. It sounds to her how the fires looked when she didn't know what they were, but now there is no mistaking what they must be.

Melisandre

It looks like Melony, for a moment. She cannot help but look at it.

And after the death of Azor Ahai, Lightbringer was kept far beyond man, beneath the star the heavens named Melisandre. Lightbringer's flame burned afterwards under the watchful light of Melisandre, for years beyond count, and will continue throughout every night and The Night.

She knows there are more important things in the world than Melony, things she must forget if she can continue. She must continue. The fires have been calling to her since she was a small child, she just never understood them, she could hardly even see into them. Still, she cannot make sense of them. She had not even known last night.

I will be Melisandre, she tells herself. I must leave the other things, the Other's things. There is a line of blood on her hand from when she had scraped it escaping. Red, a holy color, and flowing blood is life. She does not think it is painful. There are worse pains, other pains, that she knows.

She looks out the window at the city. It is the first time she has looked at it with freedom. The city is the first thing Melisandre will see, she realizes, and the red sun is close to setting, and the night will come.

But she must learn to live through the night.

Xx

That night she does not dream, or even sleep. She goes to the altar and looks at the candles and their flames the whole night long. She sees no vision in them, but she does see their light, their light that does not waver and is the color of the star.

Melisandre looks into the flame. She doesn't know it yet, but it looks back.