Alone to Die

Ned Stark

He started telling him everything about his nephews and nieces as he took another drink.

As Ned talked about his children, mostly about Jon, knowing Benjen had a soft spot for him. Benjen listened with attention; he had decided to visit Winterfell after this Rebellion ended; that would be a chance to catch up with his nephews and nieces and see them again.

Ned took a sip from his beer before smiling as he remembered something. "This one time, Arya was only a few months old, she was crying her heart out, Cat was desperately trying to make her stop, but she just didn't wanted. Cat came to me, complaining and telling me to come, perhaps she would quite down, We arrived shortly only to see Jon singing to Arya," Ned said, smiling brightly; Benjen returned the smile, imagining it in his head.

He imagined a little Jon singing to Arya, whose cries eventually turned to giggles in his mind.

"From that point, every time Arya was crying, Jon would start singing, and she would be silent immediately. Sometimes I even wonder if she purposely cried just so Jon can sing to her," Ned finished with laughter, soon joined by Benjen.

After it quieted down, Benjen drank water, wiping away the taste left on his lips. "I wonder from who he got that from," Benjen commented, not noticing that Ned suddenly stiffened.

"Can't be Brandon; he couldn't sing shit; even a donkey could sing better than him. What do you think?" Benjen asked with a burst of laughter before looking up at his brother again, only now noticing his pale face, almost as if he just saw a White Waker.

"Ned, you okay?" Benjen asked, concerned as he put the cup down on the table before looking closely at his brother, who looked as if he didn't hear him.

"Ned," Benjen shouted, now breaking his brother from his thoughts; Ned looked at him confused.

"What?"

"What do you mean 'What'? What happened?!" Benjen asked with concern.

Only now did Ned notice that he had probably been too deep in his thoughts. "N-Nothing Benjen, just... old ghosts," Ned spoke, suddenly feeling his throat dry.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to open old wounds," Benjen apologized, thinking that talking about Brandon was still a sour topic for him.

Ned was about to change the subject when the guard walked inside.

"My lord, his grace has called a meeting," The guard spoke before leaving. Ned drank some water before standing up, suddenly feeling nervous, he knew it would eventually come the time to stand in front of the King again, but still, he felt unprepared.

Benjen seemed to have noticed his discomfort. "Hey, everything alright?"

Ned looked at him before nodding his head, "Yes," he murmured before walking outside, closely followed by Benjen.

Arriving at the tent of the King, his eyes saw many faces, some new, some old; he immediately recognized the sour face of Stannis, who looked older than his age; Ned wondered whether or not to talk with him but immediately decided to shut down that idea entirely.

His eyes saw Jon Arryn, who didn't look to have aged a day; a smile formed on his lips, wanting to talk to him later.

His eyes found The Viper of Dorne, who was grinning in a way that Ned didn't like; beside him stood a girl who seemed around nearly her twenties.

On The Reach side stood the man that was Mace Tyrell; Ned wondered if the man did nothing but sit on his ass all day but eat and eat, not to mention the proud look on his face for some reason, looked very proud of himself as if he was the King.

The Blackfish stood close to his nephew; Brynden made eye contact with Ned before giving him a nod of acknowledgment.

Ned's eyes then found Westerlands. There stood Jaime Lannister, and surprisingly no sign of Tywin anywhere; Ned wondered what was happening; Tywin was attacked directly by House Greyjoy, so for him to not attend the meeting was more than just strange...

Ned then looked at the King; the Stark Lord almost tripped on his feet; it had been six years since he had seen the face of a Targaryen, the face of Rhaegar Targaryen. During that time, Ned had started to strongly believe that Jon had taken so much after Lyanna that not even the Royal Family would be able to see any sign of Rhaegar on him, but looking at him now.

Ned almost felt like punching himself, Jon might have had the Stark coloring, but the shape of his face was almost identical to King Rhaegar.

Ned exhaled, looking at him now, thinking that Jon would not be recognized by The Royal Family and maybe even from the Kingsguard was just wishful thinking.

Hell, Ned was almost certain now that if The King gave Jon just one good look, the doubts and questions would start popping out immediately, which would lead to questions on who he was, that would lead to the truth eventually revealing itself.

Ned made a mental note to make sure that Jon would not get in contact with the Royal Family; that...would be dangerous!

But is his family, what rights do you have to deny him his family

A voice told him, Ned wanted to say that House Stark was his family as well.

Is it?! Then why is he living as a bastard? Why are you allowing your wife to yell at him, to treat him badly?? For him to think of himself as worthless, as nothing?

He's not nothing, he's my nephew, he's... Happy

Is he? Or do you do this because you hate him for what his parents did?

Ned almost bit his tongue; he didn't hate Jon. I love him; he's my son...

Rhaegar Targaryen

"Thank you for arriving, my lords," King Rhaegar started, soon explaining their plan of attack; everyone agreed; during the meeting, Rhaegar had made sure to give his son a few glances every now and then; he didn't want him to fall asleep... Again. Ser Arthur stood close to make sure that didn't happen.

As the meeting went on, Jaime Lannister gave a few ideas here and there, Rhaegar had wanted to ask where Tywin was, but he decided to ask later since, in a way, Jaime now was the Lord of Westlands; Tywin wasn't obligated to attend this meeting of his son was here.

Rhaegar looked a bit different than he was six years ago; a small beard around his jawline had started growing, his purple eyes looked less bright than before, but despite everything, Rhaegar kept the vibe of a True King around him.

Ser Arthur and Ser Martell stood close to the King; soon, the meeting ended with Lord Tyrell wanting to talk to him later about something.

Rhaegar didn't even need to give him a glance to know what the man wanted. The King of the seven Kingdoms felt a headache coming; how much he wished that Elia or his mother had come along, they would know how to handle a man like him.

One thing Rhaegar noticed was Lord Stark; while he and the Lord never had any kind of friendship or anything, Rhaegar still noticed the glances he was giving his son. The King wondered what that was all about! Before his mind went somewhere else.

Since six years ago, Rhaegar had wanted to see Lyanna's tomb in Winterfell, he really hadn't had the chance for that, but he wondered if he could now, but would that be appropriate.

He knew he was the King, but he didn't want to bother him; going to Winterfell would force Lord Stark to spend a good amount of gold, not to mention other lords would be forced to, at the very least, stop in Winterfell to see the King. They would much rather return back to their homes as soon as possible; being forced to stop in Winterfell would delay their return to their homes and families.

As he pondered about the past, King escaped his thoughts when his son grabbed his hand with his little fingers.

Rhaegar leaned closer to hear what Aegon wanted, despite already having an idea...

"Can I come with you to the War?"

Ah, Shit, Here we go again. Damn you, Oberyn.

Ned Stark

Ned almost rushed out of the tent, his mind was full now, he hardly paid attention to anyone as he passed through the camp.

Arriving back on his tent, he poured himself a drink before drinking it down with one go.

That night, Ned had dreamed of the past, a past he wished he could go back to, when things were simple and everyone was alive and happy.

He swung the long blade at the unprepared archers and screamed at them. He drove them back, roaring, and hacked down and felt his sword shudder as it bit into a skull. He wrenched it free, yelled at the clansmen and swung again. He was outnumbered perhaps ten to one, but they were not used to fighting in close quarters and were unsure what to do about this enemy with a wild face over his wicked sword. Ned turned back and found one of his men clinging to the building by the tips of his fingers. He hauled the man up and yelled "Help the others get up here! Use your belt!" His eyes were bright with excitement, but he turned to obey anyway. An arrow whistled past his head, the wind blowing on his ear, and Ned turned to see many of the men with bows and slings retreating, only to be replaced by men with pikes and swords. Wild with the madness of the fight, he ran towards them, and the crazy thought flew into his mind that he wished Brandon could see him now, could see that he was as strong and true as any Northman, that he was not a pampered southerner like he had said. Who was Brandon to speak to Ned of being soft? It was Ned fighting in the cold light of dawn whilst Brandon was likely still asleep beside a whore or three.

He leaped at the group of men, roaring like a mad beast and thrusting with the point of his sword to keep them away. He could not last long, he knew, for he was outnumbered and alone. They countered his thrusts with jabs from their polearms, and he swung at the wooden shafts, bashing them away, but the strikes came again, and once got caught in his thick pelts as he parried another. A man was struggling to pull his spear out of the furs, and so Ned gripped his sword by the blade and drove down the heavy hilt onto the man's head. The man slumped to the ground, and Ned thrust down straight to pierce his neck. He felt tendons snap and bone crunch, and he tore his sword back out. He stepped back and held the greatsword out in front of him. The angry warriors stalked towards the stranded Northman, and he found himself backing away towards the corner. He was moving to engage a swordsman to his right when he heard a shout in a booming voice, and he saw a man to his left fall to the ground with his chest crushed by a mighty hammer. Robert and the two beside him charged into the unsuspecting line of poorly armored men, and now the enemy was frantic and fearful and the stones below them were soon slick with blood. Ned stepped to the side to avoid a quick slash from the older man he was fighting and then jumped back to avoid a wild swing. The man had a bushy red beard, and Ned tried not to think of William Stark, who had been disarmed and decapitated by Raymun Redbeard. Another attack came, this time high from the right, and Ned whipped his sword up to parry the blow. He pushed forward now, bringing his blade down fast and hard from the left and then thrusting forward towards his opponent's belly. The man was forced into an awkward block and had to step back, or else his stomach would have been opened. His opponent was on the retreat now, and so Eddard feinted high, watched the other sword come up to block, and struck. Ned lunged forward at the exposed chest and felt his sword grate against the man's spine. He twisted his blade so that it did not get stuck in the flesh, and pulled it out. The man let out a terrible shriek, and clutched at the hole just below his ribs, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood with his now red fingers. He fell to his knees, and looked up at Eddard with hatred, pure unadulterated hatred, and bared his bloodstained teeth. He took in a ragged breath, eyes manic, and swayed to the side. His beard was now matted and darkened with blood from his mouth, and he shuddered. The kneeling man opened his mouth and gathered his strength, and made a sound. His wound was too large, and his pain was too great, and so he could not form the words he was trying so hard to say. He tried again, but all he managed to produce was a spray of red spittle. His dull eyes flickered open and shut, and Ned could not bring himself to look away. It was as if a seer from the Wolfwood had enchanted him to be frozen, but suddenly the spell was broken, and Eddard was acutely aware of the roar of the battle below and the small whimpers of the man in front of him. Eddard squatted before the man and gripped his shoulder. He stared into his eyes for a moment, grim and stern as ever, and came to a conclusion. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the man's. He spoke softly, and slowly. "Téigh leis na déithe" he said, Go with the Gods, and reached into his boot and slid something out. The clansman clutched at Ned's shoulder, his long nails digging into fur and leather, and looked at Ned with wide, sad eyes. Quick as a Shadowcat, Ned wrapped his arm around the man and slid his hunting knife just below the back of his skull, where his head met his spine. The man stilled nearly instantly, and Ned guided his body to the red-stained stones.

Eddard stood quickly and let out a shaky breath. He noticed his hands were dripping with the blood of the man he had just killed, and he hurriedly tried to clean them on his furs. Try as he might, he could not get the sticky liquid from his hands. He had killed men with his greatsword and his longsword, with an axe and with a spear, but he had never held a frightened man in his arms, reassured him and blessed him, and then taken his life. It seemed almost like he had been watching his body from the outside while it had happened, and suddenly he felt violently sick, and put the back of his hand to his lips to ensure he did not vomit while the battle still went on, but then there was blood on his face and he did not know what to do. Ser Rodrik Cassel had once said to him that some men felt blóðskuld, blood-guilt , after killing a man, but that could not be what he was feeling. It was impossible. The man had been a thief, likely a murderer, and even more likely a rapist, and by killing him Ned had done his duty, and he knew there was no shame or guilt in doing your duty. Lord Arryn said that Justice came before anything, and his father had said it was his duty as a Stark to protect those beneath him, and that if a man deserved to die, he was to swing the sword that killed him. Ned was torn, for he had upheld the honor of his house and house Arryn by bringing Justice to this man, but he had shown this man mercy by putting him out of his misery, and where was the honor in helping criminals? But then where is the honor in leaving a man to tremble in pain after cutting him down? Eddard did not know, and now he realized that in truth he did not know what honor truly was. Was it keeping your oaths no matter what, was it being true to yourself and your Gods, or was it just air, a useless concept? Robert called him a man of honor, but Ned had done bad things and thought worse. If only Ned was still in the north, where he could go before Winterfell's great heart tree and pray, for he knew the Gods would provide answers, or at least give him peace of mind. But he was in the Vale, and the Eyrie had no Heart tree, for the Gods had long forsaken those that lived there. He could not speak to Jon Arryn either, much as he would like to, for he would never be able to explain his conflicting thoughts in High Andalic. Damned southron language. Ned walked away from the man, muttering an old prayer that was common among the loyal clans of the northern mountains under his breath, and readied to rejoin the fight. A fight that should soon be over.

The ground beneath Jon's feet had become a slippery mess of mud and blood, and his heavy armor was difficult to maneuver in the boggy mess. Jon was barely able to move, powered only by rage, his old bones aching from the effort of hours holding a shield in a rain of arrows. But he kept on fighting, not only because it was his duty, but because he wanted vengeance. Decades ago, the clan of the burned men had carried off Jon's niece, his sweet niece, and he had scoured the mountains in search of her. The burned men had evaded him, however, and she was never seen again. What the savages had done to her did not bear thinking about, but Jon could not help but think of her innocence being defiled and her abused body being left to die in a ditch or cave somewhere nearby. Bile rose in Jon's throat, but he pushed it down. He faced them now though, and he would have his due. Twice the huddled crowd of blue shields had pushed towards the wild heathens and twice had they eventually been forced back by stones and arrows hurled down at them from on high. Some men had shattered bones from the strength of the flying rocks, and others were bleeding from arrow wounds. The charges were not without success though- they had managed to wound or kill plenty of the brutes, and Jon himself had felt his shortsword dig into leather or flesh several times. By the Gods, but he hated these cruel pagans! The damned cowards on the ramparts were a constant blight on his force, and for all he knew they had already shot down his sons. He begged the father above to protect them, but he knew his prayers were for nothing, for Eddard, despite all his virtues, was still a heathen, and Robert cared naught for any God. He grunted as another jagged rock was pelted at his shield, and only managed to stay standing still because there was no room to fall backward in the tightly packed shield wall. His feet seemed to sink into the mud constantly, and every time he took a step it seemed to take a great effort. Jon's men were getting tired and injured as well, and he knew they would not be able to hold for much longer. It was now or never. He called to his men to move forward again, and so, for the fourth time, the men of the vale trudged forward through the muck and prepared to fight.

The fighting was hectic and wild, and difficult. The hole in the tower was perhaps a foot off the ground, so Jon and his men had to get up a step before they could claim victory. The hole was small, too, only two men wide, and packed full of bloodthirsty warriors. Line after line of armored knights smashed into their enemy, then fell back to allow their allies to take their place. The clansmen let out wild roars and battle cries in their ancient language, and Jon's men soon found themselves getting swept up in the chaos, and they screamed for vengeance. Jon was in the middle of it all, jabbing with his blade relentlessly and shouting unintelligibly. He despised these accursed cravens, with their burnt off fingers and noses. The sounds of battle did not stop, screams of rage and cries of pain and swords clashing and men dying, all so loud that they would surely give the Gods a headache. Men piled on top of each other in a mad scramble to reach their enemy, and Jon was knocked to the side by a ferocious man that was drenched head to toe in brown mud. He had a moment to catch his breath now and took a moment to look around at the battlefield. Jon noticed that most men had abandoned their longswords in place of a knife or dagger, for there was no room to swing or parry in the heaving mess of fighters before him. This gave Jon an advantage, for his shortsword was made with stabbing in mind, rather than slashing, so he would have more reach and power than most men. However, much of the fighting was being done with shields that beat at the man in front of them relentlessly and acted as a battering ram to force the enemy back. However, the valemen were now struggling to hold against the feral tide of attackers that threatened to break their line in two, and Jon looked around desperately for a solution, and then it was as if the mother had heard his men's prayers and granted them mercy. Jon had told a few men to sit back from the battle and to try and protect the rest of the men from the projectiles fired at them, but Jon had not realized that the fire had stopped a few minutes ago, for he was so used to it, and then he knew they could win. If the attacks from above had stopped. then his men could fully commit without fear of an injury out of nowhere. He yelled at the rearguard and sent them running into the fray with the flat of his sword, and looked up at the top of the tower to see what had happened. And there, with his sword red from point to hilt, as Eddard.

Without the hindrance of the attacks from on high, and with a few more men on their side, the battle turned in the Vale's favor. They surged forward, fierce and deadly, and their Lord was right alongside them. The re-motivated ranks of sky blue shields marched together and force the enemy out of that accursed gap and back into the small tower. Jon's vision had clouded red with a fervid rage, and as he plunged his blade into the man in front of him he called out his niece's name. "Alyssa!" he cried, "Alyssa!" and as he stepped towards an unsuspecting enemy and drove his sword through his back he did not stop yelling her name. He vaguely noticed that most of the men facing his men now were archers and that some of them had thrown down their slings or bows in surrender, but his men were too caught up in feral savagery to notice and went on with the butchery. Jon's beard had a coating of blood that had sprayed up at him, and his legs and face were caked in mud. He tried to wipe himself clean, but could not, but it was of little consequence. He laughed, because he knew the battle was won.

Ned exhaled heavily and tried to put all thoughts of the man lying behind him out of his mind. He gripped the hilt of his greatsword tightly, raised it, and looked around for another enemy. It seemed, however, that all those who had not been killed in Robert's charge had fled back down to the safety of the group. He let out another deep breath and pushed a loose strand of hair away from his eyes. He lowered his blade and headed towards Robert, whose back was turned. "Robert?" he called. His voice was hoarse, and his shoulder throbbed with a dull pain. "Roibeárd!" His voice was louder now, and his friend turned to face him and grinned from ear to ear. "Gods, Ned, what a fine day for killing!" He thumped Eddard on the shoulder with an enormous hand, and let out a whoop of joy. "Been a while since you called me that Ned!" The equivalent of Robert in the old tongue was Roibeárd, and Ned had often called his friend that when they were younger. Robert's eyes suddenly lost their merry sparkle, and he took on a more solemn tone. He nodded towards the stairs and spoke. "Stubborn cunts, aren't they?" Ned hummed his agreement, and Robert's face took on a cloudy look. He frowned, and hesitated as if he was afraid of what he was going to say. He pursed his lips but eventually spoke again. "D'ya think..."

"Robert?"

"Yes. Right..."

"What is it, 'Bert?

"You don't think anything's happened to Jon, do ya? Just...it's been a long time since the fight started, and we both know he isn't quite in his prime anymore."

"No." Ned was not as sure as he sounded

"Sure?"

Eddard nodded firmly and strode over to the ridge that overlooked the battle. He leaned over, frantically scanning the battlefield for a winged helmet, but he could not see one. And then, as if a great druid had worked his magic, Lord Arryn appeared below, lacking a helm, but seemingly uninjured. He called down to him, and his words were lost in the clamor of the battle, but it did not matter, for his father foster father had seen him and was sending the rearguard forward to join the struggle, and Eddard knew that now the Valemen would be able to attack without fearing death from the skies, the battle would soon end. He raised his steel in a salute that went ignored in the chaos of the melee, and went to join the fight.

Eddard organized his men into a wide ring about the opening of the staircase, with Robert and Benedict on one side whilst Eddard and Adrian stood to the other. He then realized that the enemy line had not yet broken, so he moved his men into the steep stairwell and down towards the main fight. It was then that the defense below was shattered, and Eddard cursed his eagerness. If he had waited, then the fleeing clansmen would have run straight into his waiting blade, but he had not, so now he and the other three were to fight on a narrow and damp stairway that turned so often and was so steep that a man had to always have a hand on the wall to keep his balance. Damn. It would have to do though, for he could hear the echo of the first retreating footsteps on the steps. He looked to the men behind him and told them how they would now be victorious. There was room for two men side by side in the stairs if both men were standing sideways on. He knew that there would be no room for his large sword in this awkward chamber, and shuffled and shimmied until he had just enough room to sheath it. Adrian, who had been first over the wall after him, and who was so eager to prove himself in battle, stood beside him, armed with a dagger and his sword hung at his waist. Benedict was behind him, next to Robert, and was praying silently. Robert though, was grumbling. He too had discovered there was no room for large weapons like his war hammer but was reluctant to part with it. He had to though, else he would become as useless as a glass shield. Ned gave him a wry smile and turned to draw a handaxe from his belt. As the first man turned the corner, panting and fearful, Robert snarled. The man jumped in shock, as he thought he would be able to escape from the tower top, and then a mighty hammer was cartwheeling through the air and crashing into him, sending him staggering backward. "Hold that for me, would ya?" came Robert's shout, and then he guffawed. Ned snorted in amusement, for it seemed that Robert had preferred to throw his hammer rather than just put it down. Adrian hurried forward to slit the man's throat, and Robert drew the hunting knife that Lord Arryn had given him for his last name day. Adrian came back to the rest of them, and then Eddard signaled for them to move forward.

The descent down the stairs was perilous and wretchedly slow, for they were constantly slowed by terrified men that fled the battlefield so desperately that they did not notice the men before them, and at that point, they may as well have jumped on the daggers or the axe themselves. The steps were slippy with ice, and now had crimson blood pooling and running down in some places. Still, the two lines gingerly walked on, until they came to the center room of the tower. Before them was a scene of pure carnage, blood-drenched attackers and enraged defenders clawing and stabbing at each other, screaming defiance and prayers. There were far more men here than he had ever thought, but the outnumbered knights still seemed to be winning. He turned to his loyal band of warriors and nodded his head, and then they too surged forward, not bothering to redraw swords as the bloodthirst overtook them. Ned drummed his fingers on the handle of his axe, and moved into the fray. He was soon confronted by a wild-looking man with one of his eyes burned shut. It was a vile thing to look at. The cries and wails of the other battles seemed to fade away until all that was before Eddard was this man, who was wearing a dark brigandine with steel squares sewn onto it and holding a wicked-looking falchion. It was a short, cleaver-like sword used for hacking, and it was screeching through the air at Eddard now, and only years of drills and training kept him from losing half of his face. He was alert now, and ready to fight, and he ducked beneath a wild downwards hack at his eyes, and then stumbled backward to evade a sideways cut across at his neck. As the blade passed by him, everything seemed to slow, and Eddard had a strange feeling overtake him. There was a mark on the blade, near the hilt, the way all smiths marked their work, and Ned was sure that he had seen that mark before. But where! He rose and swung his axe up as he did so, but it was blocked by the broad-edged blade. Ned pulled away and then blocked a surprisingly quick attack. He trapped the blade's edge between the axe's head and its shaft. Both men pushed at each other's weapons to try and get the other to give ground until Eddard switched his grip on the axe so that he had one hand gripping the shaft and another pushing down from the top of the head. He felt the man's arm start to buckle, and then he tried to pull his axe back so that it hooked the falchion away from his enemy. He took a breath and yanked backwards as hard as he could, and the sword went flying into the rapidly thinning crowd. Eddard received a death glare from his foe, but a glare cannot stop an axe, and so cold northern steel was buried in his throat. Ned wrenched his axe out and stepped back, leaving a gaping gash in the neck of the dying man. He remembered the mark on the steel, and now he knew where he thought he had seen it. The older men in his father's guard had the same mark, he thought, but knew that could not be true. Did he? Winterfell had a new blacksmith now, Mikken, but the smith before had been called Karl, and Eddard seemed to remember him marking his works with a symbol of a pair of antlers beside a pine tree. That was the mark on the swords of the Winterfell garrison, and he had thought it was the mark he had seen on the falchion. It could not have been, surely, for no two smiths shared one mark, and if the mark was the same, then it meant these weapons had been forged in Winterfell. He must be simply seeing things where there was nothing to see. It was inconceivable that his father had been sending weapons to these rapists and killers. Yes, inconceivable. Was it not?

Eddard wiped his axe on the dead man's breeches and checked around to see if he was in any danger. He was not, it seemed, so he hung his axe on his belt and watched the last few resistors be put down. One man-at-arms had retained some sense amidst the chaos and dragged a struggling man before Jon Arryn. His hands were bound by a sword belt from a dead man's body, and he had seemingly burned off his ear and part of his nose, as well as three fingers on his left hand. Ned supposed that gave him seniority over the rest, and Lord Arryn thought the same, so he tried to question him. Jon Arryn would have no luck, he knew, for the man had started spitting and cursing in a tongue none of the blue-cloaks could understand. Ned could though, in fact he understood it easier than the language spoken in the rest of the Vale. "Cuireann tú déistin orm!", you disgust me, the burned man swore, "Is bógan thú! Mon mhallcht don lá a bhuail mé leatsa!", You are a spineless snake, and I curse the day I met you, but the oblivious knights just laughed and mocked his language. One pulled him up roughly so that their Lord could look the prisoner in the eye, and the prisoner exclaimed "DIN JÆVEN!", and even Ser Nicholas could tell he had just been called a fucker, or something of the like. He gave his captive a solid thump with a mailed fist in response.

Jon Arryn was tired. He had fought for hours, and gone wild and joined in the savage slaughter, and now he was just tired. He looked around the room, at the bodies strewn across the floor, at the blood dripping down from the walls and the stairs, at abandoned swords and axes, and at guts spread out loose on top of corpses. The air reeked of shit and death, and for some reason, there was now another one of the pagans before him. Jon was shocked at the brutality he had witnessed, appalled at himself for his part in it, and worried that he had sullied his honor. Now was not the time to think on such things, however, for his duty was not done. He stared apathetically at the disfigured man before him, but felt no hatred. It was odd, for but a few minutes ago he had been wild with righteous anger, but now it seemed all his rage had deserted him. The man started to yell in one of Ned's languages, but Jon was able to get a general idea of what he was saying thanks to the time he had spent with his son over the years. It was not particularly flattering. Jon waited for the heathen to stop, and when he spoke, though he knew it would be futile. "I am Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and the Vale. Do you admit to the rape and murder of my subjects?"Jon could not be bothered with subtlety at the moment, not after a days slog through mud and death. "If you do not respond, you will be executed for your crimes." The man stared straight ahead in stony silence. "Who are you?" Jon tried one last question, and the clansman raised his head and spoke in the same tongue as before. They stared at each other for a moment, warrior to warrior, man to man, but then they both looked away and the moment of honesty was over.

Eddard stepped forward. Jon Arryn turned his back on the man, and so Ned strode forward. The man had called himself 'Cormac, son of Muirdeach, of the painted men', so Ned introduced himself as 'Eddard, son of Rickard, a son of clan Stark'. That gave the man paused, and he twisted his head to get a better look at who was talking to him.

"Stark?" he questioned, "you speak true?"

"Aye."

"So why do you hunt me? We are the only ones left in the land of rocks that worship the true Gods, and yet you come to me with the blood of my kinsmen on your blade. Why, I ask you, why! The wolves have been at war with the birds more often than they have not, and now... what? They march together? Or have you just forgotten your histories, abandoned the ways of our people, gotten into bed with the septons?"

Eddard clenched his jaw, and the irate man spoke on.

"You have betrayed your people and the Gods! No true Stark would ever attack us! You have no quarrel with us, it is the Arryns who warred with you longer than anyone can remember !" His face screwed up in anger. "Where is your honor boy! "

Ned clenched his fingers around the shaft of his axe, then spoke.

"You say our people as if they are the same thing. They are not. Regardless of the Gods, you have broken the law, you have raped and killed, and so you shall be punished." His words were solemn and steady, although he was troubled by what Cormac, son of Muirdeach had said. "was he a traitor? He did not know. He started to walk away, and then turned back and added, almost as an afterthought, "Your men's swords. Where did you get them from?" He tried to make it sound like a meaningless question, but he knew he had failed. It was not an afterthought at all, rather it concerned Ned greatly, but Cormac need not know that. Cormac looked him in the eyes, grey eyes, Stark eyes, and shrugged. He smiled mockingly and whispered something. Ned leaned in to hear him, and the man moved his lips to his ears. There was silence for a moment, and then the word 'traitor' was whispered. Ned frowned, and walked away. He heard Jon Arryn's voice call out a few seconds later, and then Cormac was dead. Justice had been done.

Opening his eyes, his mind returned back to the reality, but he couldn't help but feel that something was wrong...

Jon Snow

He prayed in front of the Godtree; when he felt it, he felt the words caught in his throat, he wanted to scream, but no words came out, only blood.

Putting his hand on his mouth, the boy coughed and coughed; his hand had turned red, blood leaking out of his mouth down his chin, into his neck.

Jon touched the tree in hopes of the Old Gods helping him, his throat was burning hot, and he felt as if a fire was burning his insides.

His vision got blurry, coughing more and more, he could see nothing but red, the boy tried to stand, but his legs couldn't hold his weight, he wanted, but his legs were too weak, falling on the cold snow, his face resting on the snow, the boy felt tired, he wanted to close his eyes, he wanted to just... die a little...

Jon saw the pool of hot water near him, a crow crying in his ears, suddenly feeling a bit of power on his body.

Jon didn't know how, but he started crawling towards the pool, a voice telling him that he should. Jon touched the water with his cold hands before putting his hands on the frozen ground; with all his strength, using his hands as a base to move his body, his body slowly fell into the pool, feeling completely weightless; everything seemed to not matter anymore, his blood leaking from his nose had stopped, as his eyes were frozen, not moving anymore.

Jon watched as everything seemed better now; he felt peace, he felt... Nothing.