Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

308 AC

Two years and two months post the War of Five Kings

Machinations Of A Scheming Wolf

Alfred leaned over the rail of the Silvered Breeze as the ship entered Whispering Sound. The Breeze was a large, three-masted Carrack with five decks that had been requisitioned for this particular quest. She had retained most of her regular crew with the Captain and a few other key positions changing, if only for this voyage.

A merchant vessel like the Breeze, heavily laden with goods would garner little attention sailing into Old Town’s harbour. Which was precisely why Alfred was using it. He had gone to his great aunt Lara first with his idea, as she was the highest ranking Mistwalker in Winterfell. She had gone to Alfred’s uncle, the king, and convinced him of the idea’s merit.

The basic plan had been to sow discord between the Lannisters and the Tyrells. Everyone with half a brain knew that as soon as winter was over, the realm’s other kings would want to expand their holdings. As the Lion and the Rose posed a greater threat than the Stag, they had been the obvious target.

It shouldn’t be so hard, Alfred thought.

With the deaths of Tywin and Joffrey Lannister, the disappearance of Cersei and Myrcella and the failure to capture the Imp, the Lannisters seemed particularly weak. That coupled with Margaery disappearing on her wedding night, and Alfred wasn’t sure how the Lannister-Tyrell alliance hadn’t collapsed then and there.

Mace Tyrell was the likeliest suspect, Alfred reasoned. With Renly gone, and as the Tyrells were never going to join Stannis after besieging him for a year during Robert’s Rebellion, the Lannisters seemed to be their only pathway to the Iron Throne. And the Tyrells were nothing if not ambitious.

Fortunately for Alfred, that was a trait many other powerful houses in the Reach shared. Especially the Hightowers. After the Tyrells they were the strongest house in the Reach and the perfect place to start fomenting trouble.

As he watched the prow of the ship crest over the waves of Whispering Sound, Alfred found himself missing the presence of his dragon. Of course, Frostmourn would have been more of a hinderance than an asset for the clandestine task that Alfred had given himself. Still he found himself longing for his white-blue dragon.

Soon, Alfred thought. I’ll be done with this soon and home.

He took some comfort in the fact that Uhtred was with him. The bond between a Stark and their direwolf was unbreakable, even for a Stark who wasn’t a warg. And they were deceptively stealthy. Not to mention smarter than most men Alfred had met. While Frostmourn might be too visible, Uhtred wouldn’t let Alfred down. He never had.

“That’s Three Towers over on the cliffs.” Alfred heard the voice of Captain Jeymes Flint to his right, pointing towards the keep with three tall towers sprouting from its walls.

“However did they come up with that name?” Alfred deadpanned.

Flint chuckled. “The same way they thought up ‘Hightower’ I reckon. These southerners aren’t the best at naming things.”

“To be fair to them.” Alfred countered. “We built a giant wall and called it ‘The Wall’.”

Captain Flint leaned against the ship rail. “As Old Town grows near, I think it’s time you tell me what you actually plan to do.”

Alfred regarded the man for a moment. He wasn’t the tallest man, but he was stocky and strong, with a ginger chin beard and waxed moustache. Flint met Alfred’s gaze, he could tell there was little the man did not see. Perhaps that was what made him the most effective ship commander in the North’s navy.

“I plan to talk to Lord Leyton.” Alfred confessed evenly. “And show him certain messages that suggest Stannis wants to attack the Lannisters come spring.”

Flint hummed in response. “And why should the lords of the Reach tie themselves to a sinking ship?”

“Exactly. The Lannisters need the Reach more than the Reach needs the Lannisters. And if the Tyrells want to pin themselves to a lost cause…”

“Then why should the Hightowers go down with their misguided overlords.” Flint finished for him. “It could work… There’s more than a little discontent among the Reach lords for house Tyrell.”

Alfred nodded. “One side of their family is from Valyrian invaders that came with the Targaryens and the other is a line of glorified stewards that surrendered Highgarden.”

“Those Valyrian invaders brought dragons with them though.” Flint countered. “Lord Hightower might not be too keen to turn on an overlord who could send his sons to burn down Old Town. What happens if he decides to make an offering of you? The oldest son of the Grand Marshal of the North is nothing to sniff at.”

“I imagine that’s what the eight cannons we have stashed below decks are for.” Alfred said. “If I don’t make contact by nightfall, bring the Hightower low.”

—————————

The following day, they began to pass fields and small fishing villages, with small boats moored at their docks. It had clearly snowed in the past few days as the fields were still coated in a light dusting of frost. It was nothing like the snows they had in the North, but it certainly stopped them from growing food.

Winter has truly come, Alfred had thought when he spied the villages for the first time. To him and the other northerners on the Breeze, it barely warranted an extra layer, yet the people in the villages were bundled up like they were about to walk beyond the Wall.

Alfred spent the most of the next day in his cabin as a thick, cool mist had blown in from the west, turning the world into a cloudy grey. The fog was so thick they’d almost collided with another ship leaving the Honeywine and seemingly bound for the Dorne.

Given the lack of visibility and accompanying chill, Alfred had chosen to spend his time tweaking the new weapon he had commissioned for himself before he journeyed south. It was a hand-held personal Thunderer, like Jon and Robb had. A firearm that had come to be known as a pistole. Alfred had dubbed it the ‘Ill Omen’. It had four long barrels and a curved wooden handle.

Unlike most of the new generation of Thunderers being made, the ‘Ill Omen’ used no magical runes at all. The design had been specifically chosen so the pistole could have plates of Dimeritium riveted to the frame. As Dimeritium was a magical nullifier, no mage or other arcanist could use telekinesis to yank the weapon from Alfred’s hand in a moment of need.

Thankfully Alfred had been tinkering with designs for a long while before he’d taken the idea to Monfryd Gunn. The dwarf had been quite impressed with Alfred’s ideas and even had some additions of his own to incorporate into the design. When they were finished, they had created a pistole that was completely functional without any magic.

Unfortunately, as with any prototype, there were still a few kinks to work out. The pistole only sometimes misfired, and the automatic turning of the barrels worked most of the time. But most of the time was not good enough for Alfred, so he kept tweaking the mechanisms of the pistole with Uhtred curled up at his feet.

He’d just finished putting the Ill Omen back together when he heard a call from the deck above. Upon reaching the top deck, Alfred saw that the fog had mostly dissipated and the beacon of the Hightower was in the distance.

Across Oldtown’s harbour stood a line of warships, anchored by three big dromonds and Lord Hightower’s towering six-decked banner-ship, the Honour of Oldtown. There were smaller ships too, hundreds of them. All fishing or smaller trade vessels that wove between the bigger vessels anchored in the harbour.

Alfred remembered learning at a young age that Oldtown was the largest city in Westeros. It certainly looked it. It was bigger than White Harbour, bigger than Rydertown, bigger even than the Winter City. Hundreds of houses and other structures lined the harbour and the many isles of varying sizes that dotted the Honeywine as it widened out into the Whispering Sound.

Larger than the rest, of course, was Battle Isle, where the Hightower loomed over the city. The massive stepped tower rose from a squat, square fortress of black stone that sat atop Battle Isle. At the very top of the tower burned a flame that could be seen for miles around, a beacon for weary sailors.

Looking up at the tower with his keen eyes, Alfred could see where new stones had been added to the Hightower over the years, building it higher and higher. The legends said that Brandon the Builder himself gave the first Hightower King the designs for the Hightower, though both knew it would not be truly complete until centuries later. Alfred found it hard to believe, but he could not deny certain similarities between the structure of the Hightower and Winterfell. Especially when coupled with the fact that the Hightower was built on a convergence of magical lay-lines much like Winterfell was.

Pulling into port was simple enough. Their papers were in order and their hold full of trade goods so the dock-master’s inspection didn’t take long. Alfred was certainly glad for the unnatural stealth of direwolves then, as Uhtred would have been difficult to explain away.

“Play your part.” Alfred ordered Cpatain Flint before he made to leave the ship. “Sell the ship’s cargo and fill it with something else like any other merchant captain.”

“I’ll be sure not to rush it.” Flint responded. “We may be here a while.”

With that, Alfred had left the ship, a large, heavy over-cloak concealing both Ill Omen in its leather holster and his Black Uru sword, Piety. Newcomers were mice in a viper’s den in a city like Oldtown, Alfred didn’t let anyone get close enough to plant a knife in his ribs and make off with his coin-purse.

Though the mist had waned, there was still a cold damp hanging in the air, as was so often the case with ports. There didn’t seem to be a dry part of the cobbled streets so he did his best not to slip as he made his was along the river road. Alfred had concepts of a plan. They began with finding a nice tavern to lay low in until sundown when he could steal a rowboat and make for Battle Isle.

Slippery as the ground was, it was preferable to the constant rocking of a ship’s deck beneath his feet. Though the ship did offer security that couldn’t be guaranteed out in the city. Eyes were on him, Alfred knew. Be it a spy, a nosy washerwoman or a cutpurse looking for their next mark. Or perhaps all three.

There was no way to know who saw him and if they were able to pick him out of a crowd. He’d dressed in older, more shabby clothes especially so he wouldn’t stand out to any watchful observers. Though even the most keen eyed would still be unable to spy Uhtred padding from shadow to shadow in Alfred’s wake. He had not seen his wolf since he’d left the ship, but he knew him to be following. Having Uhtred to watch over him certainly eased Alfred’s worries somewhat. Though of course not completely.

With a frustrated huff, Alfred pulled his cloak closer around him and made for the closest tavern, its windows glowing with a warm orange light and the sounds of people making merry inside.

—————————

The sun had set by the time Alfred left the tavern after hours of listening in on the local gossip. Lord Hightower hadn’t come down from his tower in ten years, his sons ran the city and they didn’t like how their supplies were being eaten into by sending it off to feed the Westerlands, some criminal gang had gone to war with another, taking their territory and gold.

Alfred heard a hundred tales and believed only a third. Either way it was good news for him. There was discontent brewing on the streets of Oldtown. Something he could certainly use to his advantage.

With the moon rising in the sky, there were fewer people in the streets. It was easy for Alfred and Uhtred to find their way to an unattended rowboat tied up at an open quay. Before setting off, Alfred took a small runed chalk pebble from a pocket, crushed it in his hands and sprinkled the dust over the boat. For a time it would render the boat and any who were on it unnoticed. It was one of the standard tools a Mistwalker used for infiltration. Alas, Alfred only had three more with him so he had to use them sparingly.

Thanks to the beacon that blazed brighter than the moon atop the High tower, Battle Isle was easy to find. It took Alfred less than half an hour to row from the quay to the rocky shore that was the base of the isle the High tower rose from. Looking up at the high walls of the square keep that was his first hurdle, Alfred realised there was no way for him to carry Uhtred over them.

“Apologies, my friend.” He scratched his wolf behind the ear affectionately. “Seems you’ll just be tasked with guarding the boat.”

Uhtred gave a small whine and turned his head to the side in a way that nearly made Alfred’s heart melt. But his dire wolf didn’t need telling twice, he turned and padded back towards the moored boat while Alfred withdrew a rope and grapple hook from his bag of holding. He hoped he’d waited until the right time for the guards not to be there when he swung the grapple and threw it towards the battlements.

On the seventh attempt it finally caught and held firmly. Alfred let out a sigh half of annoyance and half of relief. If he hadn’t been able to climb the walls, then walking through the front door would have been his only other option.

Thankfully the rope held and he began to scale the oily black stone walls at the base of the Hightower. It was fifty feet to the top of the walls, Alfred was glad the rope was long enough. More than once his feet slipped on the oily black stone, his body slamming into the rock with a thud. Yet he kept climbing.

With a tired huff, Alfred pulled himself over the crenelations with aching arms and tumbled onto the hard wood flooring of the battlements. Looking up at the night sky, momentarily too tired to move, Alfred hoped a guard hadn’t heard him.

When he heard nothing for a few moments, he rolled over and rose to his feet. The High tower loomed to his left, so tall it was nearly dizzying to look up at it. Stowing his grapple, Alfred ran through his ideas. The first was perhaps more difficult in the long run: sneak up to the higher floors to Lord Hightower without being seen.

The next idea posed greater risk in the short term, but would probably make things easier for him in the long run. He would have to find a guard, dispose of him, steal his clothes and armour and pose as a Hightower guardsman.

Alfred crouched next to some large wooden crates as he thought through his options. Though it seemed the Gods had chosen for him when a guard holding a lamp shuffled through the doorway of the nearest tower, meandering along.

Alfred thought quickly.

He had no means to render the guard unconscious for long enough, if he struck it would have to be deadly. A body could be found and a dead guard didn’t ingratiate a guest to a lord. But if he was seen and the alarm raised, he’d likely captured. Again, not ideal.

Alfred could only be thankful that the cold darkness caused the guard to hold his oil lamp close, the light near blinding him. He made his decision when the guard was a sword’s length away, taking a moment to look over the city from the battlements.

Quiet as a cat, Alfred rose from behind the crate, crept towards the guard and struck. His arm locked around the guard’s neck like a viper. The lamp was dropped in the struggle as the guard flailed in his confusion.

Alfred dragged the guard to the ground, keeping his arm locked around the man’s neck with all his might. The guard made a few choked shouts as his mailed fingers tried to grab at Alfred’s hair. Yet they found no purchase as Alfred had cropped his hair very short after it caught fire fighting a dragon at the battle of the Green Fork.

With a deep grunt and a twist of his arm, he snapped the guard’s neck and he finally went limp in Alfred’s arms. His heart was racing. It was the first time he’d ever killed someone with his bare hands. He didn’t particularly enjoy the feeling.

Whatever feelings Alfred had, he pushed them down in the face of his task. There had been a reason he came to Oldtown and a reason he came to the High tower. The guard had been an obstacle that needed to be removed.

With a grimace, Alfred took the guard’s surcoat, mail shirt and gloves, half-plate legs and kettle helm. He already wore a gambeson so felt no need to take one. Once he had all he needed, Alfred heaved the body over the edge of the battlements. He tried not to hear the sound the body made when it hit the ground as he donned the dead man’s armour.

Making sure he was fully equipped, Alfred picked up the oil lamp from where it had fallen and made towards the main structure of the High tower. At least it won’t be too hard to navigate, Alfred supposed. Just keep going up.

Most of the halls and corridors Alfred wandered through were dark and deserted. Just what he needed. The lack of a map didn’t make it easy for Alfred to find his way around the vast insides of the High tower. He mostly just climbed every stair he could find. Sometimes Alfred felt he was wandering in circles, but looking out of the window did show the ground to be further away. For a brief moment, Alfred could have sworn he felt the tower lean slightly with the wind. It was not an idea he relished.

Against his better judgment, he continued up and up. As high through the tower as he could go. Sometimes he would come across servants and guards, though they all grew fewer and fewer the higher he went. Thankfully none paid too much attention to him given his disguise.

However there was one being that gave Alfred pause. It was shaped like a man, but made from wood and metal, with glowing arcane lines across its surface. Its face was still and impassive, expressionless as it carried jugs of water down the corridor past Alfred. Every step gave a slight creak and whir of metal gears. It had regarded Alfred for a moment, with blank, empty sockets where eyes would have been. Seemingly understanding Alfred’s surcoat it carried on past, categorising him as unimportant.

The creature reminded him of some kind of golem or homunculus. He’d seen some more crude constructions in the higher levels of the Palace of Magic in Winterfell during his education. Seeing such a thing in the South certainly surprised him.

Though on further reflection, Alfred thought he shouldn’t have been. Lord Leyton Hightower had once been known as one of the most powerful arcanists in Westeros, at least in his youth. Now he was an old man that seldom left his tower.

Alfred resolved to follow the homunculus, thinking that it was his best lead to finding the lord of the High tower. It didn’t take long before the homunculus arrived at a doorway embossed with brass with two more homunculi standing guard. Alfred chose to stay a few paces back to not be seen.

The homunculus with the water walked through the gate and into the room on the other side of the doorway, then reached out and turned some form of arcane wheel Alfred couldn’t see properly. With a metallic ding and the sound of creaking wood and iron, the room slowly began to rise up.

The Engineer’s Guild would kill to take a closer look at this, Alfred thought to himself with a sly smile. Such lifts had been created by the guild, and were already in use at the Wall, but seemingly not as refined. He watched for a time, until the lift came back down with another ding.

Weighing his options, Alfred took another runed chalk pebble and crushed it in his fist before covering himself with the dust. Hopefully the homunculi wouldn’t notice him sneaking past them. Thankfully, it seemed he had become invisible to them. Alfred surmised the vision of these homunculi was as poor as their northern cousins. What he assumed to be the lift control was a brass lever on a wheel of glowing High Valyrian script.

Thankfully Alfred had learned High Valyrian at a young age and was nearly fluent. The control seemed to be particularly worn around the Valyrian word for “Observatory” so Alfred believed that to be his best option.

The handle was warm to the touch and stiff to move, but with a deep clunk Alfred managed to turn it to the correct option. The small room seemed to vibrate, then began to rise up at a steady pace. Given the feeling of the compartment as it ascended, Alfred imagined it to be suspended by a rope. He tried to picture it in his mind’s eye to pass the time. Perhaps a winch was used, like at the Wall? Or perhaps something more arcane in nature?

In truth it mattered little, Alfred put his hand on the grip of his pistole, safely hidden under his surcoat. He didn’t know what lay at the end of his ascension but he didn’t want to be ill-prepared. The lift seemed to pass other floors by as it continued to go up. It was reasonable enough to assume the observatory to be on one of the higher floors. Idly, Alfred began to wonder how far off the ground he was. Perhaps by putting a hand out of the window he could touch the clouds.

The gears began to slow down until eventually they stopped at what Alfred supposed was the observatory level. It looked like a darkened corridor with high windows lining the curved wall on one side. Gingerly, Alfred stepped out of the lift. There was no one around. With a hiss and a groan, the lift began to descend again once Alfred had passed the threshold.

Guess there’s no going back now, Alfred thought, grimly and forded on down the corridor.

But for the windows it was mostly featureless, with grey stone walls and a vaulted ceiling. A few times Alfred chanced a look through one of the windows and saw twinkling lights of Old town below. He couldn’t stare too long or the distance made him feel seasick.

At the end of the corridor was a large oak door that opened into a large circular hall with a high ceiling partially made from glass. From the light of the beacon, Alfred guessed the room was barely a hundred yards from the top of the tower. Bookshelves lined every wall, filled with books of all shapes and sizes.

In the centre of the hall stood an obsidian pillar nearly as tall as he was. At its crown was a still flame that did not flicker. But it was certainly bright. Almost too bright, and it distorted colours when near it too, changing red to blue and blue to yellow.

A Glass candle? Alfred wondered in disbelief.

Glass candles were some of the most powerful scrying tools in the world and part of what had made Valyria so powerful. With a Glass candle, an arcanist could see any place not shielded by strong magics. And much more besides. They were very rare and required someone particularly proficient in the arcane to use. Tetra had wanted one as long as Alfred could remember. He wondered what she would say if she could see him now.

A large balcony stood at one side of the hall, with the biggest far-eye Alfred had ever seen. Looking through the far-eye was an old man, hunched over and absentmindedly mumbling to himself. He had his back to Alfred, but seemed to be in a well-worn sleeping robe and slippers, the point of his sleeping cap flopping down his back.

“No… No… Not the right time…” He mumbled quietly, eye pressed against the end of the far-eye. “The portents… The One who sleeps beneath the deep had begun to stir… Queens of fire and ash… False dragons twice over… Shadows on the walls… Must we wait a thousand years, and one, for another chapter in the weave of fate?”

Gods, he’s fucking mad isn’t he? Alfred sighed as he thought to himself.

“If I am mad, it is mercy, Alfred Stark.” The old man spoke with a deep, powerful voice he hadn’t had before. “May the Gods help the poor fool who can gaze into eternity and remain sane to the dreary and doubtlessly unimpressive end.”

A grim terror gripped Alfred with icy fingers. In an instant the Ill Omen was aimed at the old man’s back. He began to edge towards the door but it slammed shut behind him. Gripping his pistole tighter, Alfred braced for a fight. “You know me?” He tried to keep the panic from seeping into his voice.

“I saw you.” The old man finally moved from his far-eye and indicated towards the Glass candle. “You wanted to talk with me?” At least it was lord Leyton he was talking to, though perhaps not under the best circumstances.

“How much do you know?” Alfred asked, still pointing the pistole at the Hightower’s head. He was quite confident that he could coat the wall behind Leyton in a map of the inside of his head before the old wizard could utter a spell, but that didn’t mean he felt no fear in that moment.

Lord Leyton smiled softly, running his fingers through his long grey beard. “I know why you’re here.” He said, his sharp eyes never leaving Alfred’s. “It’s not even a bad plan… But if you want the Hightower to fracture the houses of the Reach, you will need to do something for me.”

Alfred swallowed. He hadn’t expected this. He couldn’t have. Not in a hundred years. “But you know I aimed to use you? And you’ll still do as I ask?”

“I move in spheres above your understanding, young wolf.” The Hightower lord seemed perfectly relaxed even as a deadly weapon was pointed at him. He went to sit in an old oak chair at a desk covered parchments and open books of magic.

“But you need me to sweep your doorstep for you.”

The Hightower nodded. “I see much and more with that bauble.” He indicated towards the Glass candle. “But there are some things hidden from my sight. In particular a man. His name is Guthrum and he runs half the gangs in Oldtown.” Lord Leyton explained, shifting in his seat. “He even spies on the Hightower for the Tyrells. At least five knights sworn to me are in his pocket.”

“And you cannot find him yourself?”

“He carries with him magics that block any and all scrying.” The old man answered sourly. “No doubt obtained for him by his rosy benefactors. But you…” A sly smile spread across his face. “And your wolf. That’s a different story. I’ve heard a dire wolf can smell their prey from miles away, is that true?”

“Aye, there’s little that can hide from a dire wolf.”

“Then go hunting, Stark.” The lord of Hightower ordered. “Bring me the head of Guthrum and we can discuss how I might repay you.”

—————————

The rain was falling so heavily Alfred needed to stand in a doorstep to escape the small rivers that had formed along the gutters of the street and were flowing down into the Honeywine. Thankfully the canopy Alfred huddled under was large enough to keep him mostly dry. Being cold could be an inconvenience, but being wet and cold could be dangerous.

Yet in spite of that, Alfred stood in the doorway of an abandoned house with a good view of ‘Blaggard’s Barn’ the drinking hall that Guthrum apparently operated out of. Upon accepting lord Leyton’s request for assistance, he had ordered his daughter, Malora to escort Alfred down the High tower to one of a number of knights they knew to be in the employ of Guthrum.

Malora had been a striking woman when Alfred had seen her for the first time. She was more than twice his age, but certainly did not look it. Her hair was brown and curly with a silver streak falling over her face. Her iliac eyes had been cat-like and they had watched Alfred with a piercing gaze that reminded him all too much of Tetra Gilcrest. And much like his former tutor, it certainly seemed the Hightower woman was generously built.

She had not said much as she guided him through the High tower’s winding halls and endless stairs. Alfred had gotten the distinct impression that she was assessing him in a thousand tiny ways. For what, he could not say. And he could likely say with some confidence that it wasn’t to his benefit.

Together they had retrieved Uhtred from outside and gone to the chambers of the corrupt knight. Malora had told him the name of the knight in question, but Alfred hadn’t bothered to remember it as it was likely of little consequence.

Sure enough, it had been.

The man had been a knight with no name to speak of and little power outside what the High tower had given him. Malora had sent the knight to sleep with a spell, confirming to Alfred that she was an arcanist like her father.

Uhtred had picked up a thousand different scents in the room which told them little. So Alfred asked Malora to take him to all the other knights they knew to be taking money from Guthrum. Comparing all the different scents each of the knights had given them, that greatly narrowed down Alfred’s search.

The sun wasn’t even up by the time he’d found Guthrum’s main den on the northern side of Oldtown, on the banks of the Honeywine. According to the locals Alfred had asked, ‘Blaggard’s Barn’ had been called that for its previous owner Æla the Blaggard, a gang leader whom Guthrum had killed when he first came to the city.

Alfred had the distinct feeling that lord Hightower wanted him undertake this task alone, perhaps a measure of his skill. In truth it mattered not why he wanted it, Alfred knew he needed to do his best to ingratiate himself to the man, so he had to do as he wished. At least he had some of Captain Flints marines on guard dispersed throughout the surrounding streets, to prevent reinforcements from Guthrum’s gang when Alfred went to confront him.

For some hours Alfred watched Guthrum’s tavern, figuring out how many were in there and how many exits he’d need to account for. Uhtred sat beside him, still as a statue, eyes fixed on the tavern’s front door.

Eventually Alfred decided that the best way to kill Guthrum would be quietly. If he ran his den the same way the gang captains in the Winter City ran their dens, Guthrum would be on one of the higher floors of the building, with his men blocking off all but the first two or three levels for the regular tavern patrons.

Getting past the guards from the ground floor wouldn’t be easy, or quiet. However, Alfred noticed a number of windows on the building’s upper floors, most lit with a warm orange glow. Many of the windows certainly seemed reachable from the rooftops of the surrounding structures. Alas, climbing again meant no dire wolf.

“Keep a keen ear open, boy.” He patted his wolf on the head before heading into action. “You’ll know if I need you.”

Uhtred would only be a last resort, to be called if Alfred wanted to turn ‘Blaggard’s Barn’ into a slaughter house. An angry dire wolf was a deadly enemy for a knight in full plate, to a bunch of lightly armoured knifemen in an enclosed space with nowhere to run? The thought didn’t bear thinking about.

The rain made climbing difficult but Alfred managed to reach the roof of a neighbouring building close enough to an open window that he could make the jump. He checked his belt to make sure it was firmly secured. Both Piety and Ill Omen were still tightly attached alongside a small dagger.

After a moment’s thought, Alfred took one of the chalk pebbles from his pouch, crushed it and spread the dust over Ill Omen’s leather holster, rendering it and the pistole inside unnoticed. For his sword that would be more difficult, and if he was caught they would think it strange that he carried no weapons.

Looking back to the street for a moment, Alfred saw his wolf watching him with a stony expression, body tense, waiting to spring into action if he fell. Down the street two men together on a corner, one leaning against a wall while the other twirled a hand axe. Both had been Flint’s men on the Silvered Breeze and were looking up at Alfred with confused looks on their faces. Alfred gave them a wave then made to jump.

He aimed for an open window on the fourth floor of Guthrum’s tavern. It seemed to be in a dimly lit corridor, so hopefully empty. The gap between the two structures was maybe six feet. Alfred’s heart was in his throat when he hung in the air for a moment before he slammed into the windowsill. His fingers dug into the wood as his feet braced on the wall, but his grip held. It wasn’t the most dignified scramble through the window, but he didn’t fall so Alfred thought it a success.

At least until he felt a razor sharp blade at the back of his neck. Damn, that was quicker than I expected.

“What’s a pretty boy like you doing climbing through our windows?” The voice was northern, which took Alfred off guard. It was gravely, but still distinctly a woman’s voice.

Alfred raised his hands slowly, doing his best to sound like a southerner. “Would you believe me if I said I was a tax collector?”

The woman laughed at that. “Is that right? No wonder the boys wouldn’t let you upstairs.”

“I hear an awful lot of coin moves through this place” Alfred added. “and something tells me not all is declared properly in the legal fashion.”

The woman laughed again. “Oh you’re a funny man. Maybe we’ll keep you as a fool like them lords do.” She reached forwards and slowly drew Piety from its sheath on his belt, still holding her blade to his neck. “I don’t know many tax collectors with Black Uru swords.”

The woman walked around and Alfred finally got a look at her. She was shorter than he was, lithe and with short dark hair. Though the thing that took most of his attention what the blade coming from under her sleeve. A Hidden Blade.

“And I don’t know any street thugs with Hidden Blades.” Alfred retorted. “Only Mistwalkers have and know how to use those weapons.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Clever and pretty… Guthrum’ll want to see you.” Pushing the point of his own blade against his chest, the woman urged him backwards down the corridor.

“Care to tell me your name?” Alfred ventured as they turned a corner to a painted wooden door.

“Soma.” The woman answered. “Soma Blackhand.”

The name rang no bells in Alfred’s mind. He was sure a rogue Mistwalker’s name would have been known to him. Mostly by virtue of it being a very uncommon thing. She still pointed Piety at Alfred’s neck when she knocked on the door three times sharply, then entered, pushing Alfred in before her.

The room was heady with woodsmoke and incense. At the centre of the room was a round table where four men sat playing cards. The biggest of them was a man who looked more like a bear in human form, with black shaggy hair and a long beard. A long pipe stuck out of one side of his mouth when he looked up to their entry.

“What’s this, Soma?” He was northern. Alfred judged the man was from somewhere around the Rydertown area from his accent. He’d certainly heard Ygritte and Val enough to discern the dialect.

“Says he’s a tax-man, Gurthrum.” Soma walked around the table and tossed Piety on it. “I caught him climbing through a window on the fourth floor. With an Uru blade.”

The other three men - Alfred assumed they were henchmen of some sort - rose from the table. Two made to guard Alfred, taking out clubs and knives while the other watched him carefully. Guthrum finally rose from his chair with a smirk and picked up Piety, its green runes casting strange patterns on the walls.

“It’s been a long time since I held pure Black Uru.” He gave it a few practice swings in the air. Just from those few movements Alfred could tell the man had been a skilled warrior. The fact that’d he’d been no stranger to Uru gave Alfred pause too. “I imagine you weren’t intending to give it to me?” He held the point of the blade an inch from Alfred’s throat.

It took every part of willpower Alfred had to keep a stony face. He was a Stark. Ice ran through his veins.“How about an answer for an answer?” His voice was defiant.

Guthrum gazed at him with surprise for a moment, then a smile spread across his face that turned into a laugh. “Gods, the balls on you, lad.” He said as he went back to his seat, laying Piety in front of him. “Sit. Narry, pour this… Tax-man a drink.”

The man who’d been watching Alfred poured a cup of ale and placed it in his hand and he sat down opposite Guthrum. Alfred looked at Guthrum for a few moments, trying to glean every detail about him he could, silently cursing Leyton Hightower for withholding information. His hand rested on his closed holster, the heavy weight of Ill Omen inside.

“Why do a Winter Wolf from Rydertown and a Mistwalker give up their commissions and come south to become criminals?” He finally asked. Guthrum’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, then his eyes narrowed.

“This one’s too clever by half.” Soma arched her eyebrow again in amusement. “Did you know that before you came here or after?”

“You’re both clearly northerners.” Alfred stated. “Your Hidden Blade is not so hidden and you’ve held Black Uru before.” He nodded from Soma to Guthrum. “And you swing a blade like a well-trained warrior.”

“Soma’s right, you’re too clever by half, lad.” Guthrum plucked his pipe from his mouth and put it on the table. “It’ll get you into trouble one day…” Then he leaned back into his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. “Aye I was a Winter Wolf. My family was an old, but very minor house you’ve probably never heard of.” He began. “I fought those Iron Born bastards for the North and when I got home, I found the Ryders had reduced my old and proud house to paupers due to claims of ‘money laundering’.” He spat. “My family had lived in the North long before those Ryders came below the Wall, and I’ll be damned if those fucking Wildlings can besmirch my family’s honour.” As Guthrum spoke, Alfred slowly began to ease his fingers around the grip of Ill Omen. “With my family name and holdings in tatters, my beloved Soma and I absconded with some of the Ryder fortune and came here to start a new life.”

“You betrayed your oath as a Winter Wolf.” Alfred said through gritted teeth.

“Fuck the Winter Wolves.” Guthrum spat.

“The penalty for abandoning from the pack without just cause is death.” Alfred’s voice was ice cold as his finger found the trigger. Guthrum’s death was no longer a favour for the Hightowers, it was the duty of the Starks. “The man who passes the sentence, should swing the sword.”

Realisation dawned across Guthrum’s face and he made to grab Piety. But Alfred was quicker. Ill Omen was up and out when he pulled the trigger at Guthrum’s chest. There was a loud bang and flash, then Guthrum’s chest exploded in a rain of red gore as his body was thrown backwards.

What happened next had to have only been over a few moments, yet to Alfred it felt like hours. He’d caught them completely by surprise so he tried to make use of it. Ill Omen only had four shots and there had been five others in the room.

In the moment following Guthrum’s death Soma was his next target as she was the biggest threat. The Mistwalker stood in shock at her lover being killed in such a surprising way, Alfred wouldn’t get a better chance. He aimed and pulled the trigger, the barrels turning automatically to the next loaded one. Only instead of a bang, there was a click and a clunk.

Fucking shit! Alfred thought. The pistole had jammed.

Soma’s surprise had morphed into rage and she sprang at him, her Hidden Blade out and razor sharp, aiming at his throat. Throwing himself back into his chair, he tumbled back, using his feet to deflect her over him and into the stupefied henchmen behind him.

Alfred rolled and scrambled to his feet quickly, bleeding from where her blade had gashed his chest, but he could not feel it. The man who hadn’t been knocked over slashed at Alfred with his knife, a curved and rusted thing with a jagged edge.

Alfred dodged away then swung his pistole at the attacker’s head. Even jammed, it was still a heavy object of ivory and steal. The four barrels caught the man in the face and knocked him off his feet with a cry, blood exploding from his eye.

Alfred barely had time to twist the barrels manually before Soma leapt at him again, screaming like a banshee. Her blade half an inch from his throat when he pulled the trigger again. A bang even loader than before filled the room, with more smoke and an even brighter flash.

Soma was cut in half my the shot.

A leak from the jammed shot had caused all primers to be ignited at once, Alfred recognised after a moment. Three rounds instead of one had been fired, killing Soma and one of the men behind her too. Alfred didn’t have time to think before the next man was on him, tackling him to the ground, knocking the pistole from his grip.

They rolled together, kicking and punching and grappling. One of them pulled a knife, Alfred couldn’t remember which, but both their hands were gripping it when Alfred shoved it into the other man’s eye socket and into his brain.

Panting heavily and sore all over, Alfred looked around the room at the carnage he had caused. One of them was still alive, crying and half-blinded from a shattered eye-socket on the floor. Alfred made an end of him with Piety easily enough, then he took Guthrum’s head.

When his blood began to cool, Alfred wondered why more hadn’t stormed into the room when they heard the sounds of a fight. But upon listening for a moment, he realised why: men were dying downstairs.

The ground floor of the tavern was a wash with blood when Alfred walked down the steps. Uhtred must have burst the door off its hinges and just began to rip and tear until it was done. The marines from the ship alongside Captain Flint were there too, wiping the blood off their swords and looting the corpses of Guthrum’s dead men.

“I see you were successful.” The Flint Captain nodded to the head hanging from Alfred’s grip with a smile. “Let’s get you patched up. Death is a nasty business.”

Alfred had not the words to respond. He needed a drink and he needed rest.

—————————

Alfred stormed into the observatory near the top of the High tower battered and angry. The Hightowers had sent him against Guthrum withholding secrets they must have known and he would have his explanation. Yet lord Hightower was not who he found in the observatory, it was his daughter. Malora Hightower sat with her back to the hall’s entrance reading an old tome, seemingly disinterested in Alfred.

“I did as your father asked.” Alfred took Guthrum’s head from the bag he was carrying and tossed it onto the ground. “And he doesn’t even deign to see me?”

“My father rests after gazing into the Glass Candle for a bit too long.” The woman explain, rising from her chair and turning towards him. “He’s not as young as he once was… Though if he were awake, I’m sure he would be quite impressed.” Her eyes dropped down to the head on the floor.

“For killing a former Mistwalker and a Winter Wolf?” Alfred seethed. “Did neither of you think to tell me?”

The older woman gave a cat-like shrug in response. “What does it matter? You succeeded, as we knew you would.”

At that moment, Uhtred stalked out of the shadows. She smothered it quickly, but Alfred saw a hint of fear in the witch’s eyes when she saw the dire wolf. Unsurprising as dire wolves were terrifying in combat and immune to enchanting. They were a deadly foe for those with and without magic.

Uhtred padded forwards, a low growl rumbling from his throat, teeth bared. He strode over to Guthrum’s head, placed a paw on it and crushed it like a hammer squashing a pumpkin. All while looking straight at Malora Hightower. The sound it made was terrible, but the mess it made on the carpet was worse.

Malora swallowed, her throat tight. “Perhaps you should have been made aware of Guthrum’s capabilities.”

“An alliance built on anything other than trust is made of straw.”

She inclined her head in agreement. “Then as you upheld your end of the bargain, we shall adhere to ours…” She paused for a moment. “But first… Do you have Guthrum’s ring?”

The ring had been a powerful anti-scrying tool, of course Alfred had looted it. The design was also one he recognised as having been in the possession of certain Mistwalkers in the past.

“You want it?” Alfred cut to the truth of what Malora was going to ask.

She nodded. “Such magic is powerful. And useful…”

“This ring belongs to the North.”

“Then perhaps we can come to an arrangement…” Malora’s fingers began to run along the binds that ran up the side of her bodice. He understood her meaning quickly. Given the time he’d had in the last few days, Alfred wasn’t of a mind to turn down a fuck.

“Wait outside.” Alfred ordered his wolf as the Hightower woman began to disrobe in front of him.

In moments, the stifling outer layer of her dress was on the floor, leaving Malora Hightower in a delicate silk slip. She cut a truly sinful figure standing before him. The woman was more than twice Alfred’s age, but you wouldn’t know that to look at her. Her light brown hair with its silver streak hung loosely about her shoulders, reaching down to the deep cleavage of her bosom.

And what a bosom it is… Alfred marvelled, his eyes raking across her generously built form as it strained under the thin confines of her slip. Either the Gods had been very kind to the woman, or she had put great effort into sculpting her own flesh to her liking.

Either way it mattered little.

Alfred certainly liked it.

She sauntered towards him, putting extra sway in her curves as she walked through the study barefoot. In the dim light of the room’s candles, Alfred could see Malora’s large nipples were hard beneath her slip.

“Surely you can see we have much to offer each other?” Her voice was low and sultry as she came to a stop before him, lilac eyes filled with lust.

Alfred found it difficult to lift his gaze from her supremely full breasts, especially as they rose and fell with her every breath. The pale green slip Malora wore was beautiful, but he believed it concealed a better view.

Taking a firm grip of the fabric around her hips, Alfred pulled the silk apart with a long, sharp rip. In moments the slip was in pieces, falling from Malora’s body. She gave a mocking gasp and a scandalised look.

“Alfred Stark!” She rose a hand to her chest, now completely bare. “That was Myrish silk! Is that any way to treat a noble lady?”

Alfred only chuckled, appreciating the mighty heft of Malora’s breasts. He took one of her pale melons in hand, leaned down and kissed it hungrily, lips latching onto the nipple. The woman gasped when she felt him at her breast for the first time, then sighed contently. In moments he had her moaning as he lavished her massive, pale breasts.

Not needing to look, Alfred began to walk her backwards until they bumped against her father’s desk. He pulled away from her breasts, taking in her fully nude form. While her torso wasn’t completely flat, Alfred certainly wouldn’t call her fat either. Her waist was small and her hips were as wide as her shoulders.

Malora’s meaty arse clapped loudly as she leapt onto her father’s desk after knocking off papers, books and other things Alfred couldn’t care any less about. Her thick thighs parted, revealing the bald and glistening lips of her cunt, just waiting for him.

“Come now.” Malora smiled playfully, her hands pulling up his shirt. “If i’m to be fully exposed, you should too.” He helped her. His belt hit the floor first, then his torso was made bare. Almost frantically, Malora loosened his breeches and pulled them down to his knees.

“Gods be good…” Malora almost whispered when Alfred’s aching cock sprang free of his smallclothes. The Lady of Hightower was faced with twelve thick inches of hard Stark cock. Her hands were warm as she palmed his shaft, moving it around, getting a feel for it. “Alerie and Lynesse have told me many tales of Stark virility.” Her eyes were glued to his length. “I see they were not exaggerating.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Alfred grunted, then pushed Malora onto her back, knocking more things off the desk.

She fell back, giggling like a girl as her immense bosom bounced. “Gods, you’re going to destroy me with that thing.” She moaned as Alfred brought his cock down on her pelvis as he stood between her thighs. The meaty pillar went all the way from her cunt to her navel. Seeing the comparison always brought Alfred a thrill.

“You’re not the first.” Alfred fisted his length, lined it up to her cunt and began to sink it deep into the depths of her womanhood.

She had the tightest, wettest, warmest cunt Alfred had ever enjoyed. What few inches he’d managed inside Malora so far ripped a deep, guttural moan from her throat. The woman was naked and shivering on her father’s desk, eyes tightly shut as her hands were above her head, gripping the edge of the desk so she wasnt pushed off.

Her breathing was laboured, but steady, even as her thighs quivered and her legs locked around Alfred’s waist. She wasn’t letting him pull out so he dove further in. He made her count the inches as he sunk deeper into her cunt.

Her magnificent breasts stood proudly on her chest, quivering under his gaze as he fucked her slowly. Alfred couldn’t help but crack a smile when he felt Malora rolling her hips, trying to get more of him inside her.

“Stretch me.” She moaned, breathlessly. “Fill me. Break me. Fuck me!” Her whines became more insistent with each passing moment.

“As you wish.” Alfred grunted, taking both her hips in his hands and thrusting hard.

He wondered if the sound Malora made could be heard in Essos. Her back arched, raising her mountainous breasts up as she threw her head back in a wordless cry to the Gods. Her cunt gripped Alfred so tight he thought she might break his cock off. Under his hungry gaze, Malora Hightower was wrecked by a climax that rippled from the top of her head down to the very tips of her toes and back again.

Looking down and where their bodies met, Alfred saw that he was only just over two thirds of the way inside her. She had a long way to go yet.

“I wonder if Oldtown knows what a whore Malora Hightower is?” Alfred jeered, pulling his shaft out a few inches then pushing deeper again. The walls of her cunt fluttered around him, massaging his length.

Malora did not answer him, she only moaned and squealed, her hands gripping the soft pillows of her bosom, playing with her nipples as she was taken. Again and again Alfred pulled back and slammed home, fucking her an inch deeper each time. She was bathing his cock in her pleasure again by the time the whole length of the shaft was in her.

Even as Alfred’s movements were rough, his cock glided in and out of her cunt like silk slippers over ice. Malora was whining, then she moaned. Finally she whimpered as Alfred fucked her on her father’s desk. More stacks of paper were knocked to the floor as Alfred continued to rut into Malora’s curvy form.

“Gods! I love your cock!” She cried, gripping his forearms tightly, pulling him closer to her. A deep red flush was spreading across her chest and face the more Alfred fucked her. Malora’s eyes lost focus, rolling back into her head as she moaned mindlessly, creaming on his cock. The clapping of his hips on her thighs filled the room.

Eventually the feeling of her cunt lavishing him coupled with the sight of Malora’s bouncing breasts became Alfred’s undoing. He slammed every inch of his footlong cock into Malora’s cunt, reaching all the way to her womb, and filled it with his seed. Rope after rope he deposited in her innermost sanctum, triggering another release from the Hightower woman. Her high shrieks died down eventually, as her quivering subsided.

Yet Alfred was still hard.

Next he took her against the iron railing on the study’s balcony, half leaning against the massive brass far-eye Alfred had first seen Leyton looking through. Malora was barely holding herself up, slamming her meaty arse against his pelvis as they looked out over Oldtown together.

The woman’s arse was as large and pillowy as her breasts, the sight of it bouncing as his cock drove into her cunt again and again was maddening.

“It’s almost a shame none of them below will be able to see you.” Alfred laughed into Malora’s ear. “Call to them, see if they can hear you.”

“LOOK HERE!” Malora cried into the open sky. “MALORA HOGHTOWER IS BEING FUCKED STUPID BY ALFRED STARK!”

“Damn right, you are.” Alfred gave her arse a good hard smack to emphasise his point.

She only shivered in response, pressing back against him wantonly as her torso leaned over the iron railing. They fucked for many more hours, in many more positions. He took her in every way a man could take a woman.

They ended their liaison on Lord Leyton’s armchair, wrapped in each other’s arms. Malora rode him like her life depended on it as he lavished her massive breasts with his tongue. Alfred had lost count of the number of times she had climaxed, but the last one brought him to his final end. They stayed together for a time, chest to chest, their pleasure mixing together in their laps.

“I hope you see how beneficial our arrangement can be.” Malora moaned against his shoulder, her face flushed as she panted.

Alfred ran his hands over the immense twin globes of her arse. “I still think I may need some convincing…”

She only giggled and began to kiss along his jaw. Their night was far from over.

———————————————————————————

308 AC

Two and a half years post the War of Five Kings

Winter’s Call

Ned was not enjoying himself.

Winds strong enough to uproot trees tore about him as he grimly trudged forward through the snowstorm. The snow was up to his waist and near frozen solid, Ned had never been more glad to be immune to the effects of the cold.

What had lead Ned to be marching north through a snowstorm hundreds of miles beyond the Wall, he could not rightly say, but he knew that it started before the turn of the moon. Ned had been woken in the night as the winter winds beat at the windows of his bedchamber. He’d been gripped with a deep, primal urge to go northwards, to the Lands of Always Winter that sat at the crown of the world.

Naturally, Ned had tried to ignore the sudden and unexplained feeling and go back to sleep, snuggled amongst the warm embrace of his many wives. But even in his dreams Ned could not escape this notion. He saw visions of a citadel of ice at the peak of a mountain, with ribbons of turquoise lights dancing through an endless night sky above.

In the following days, Ned had found himself longing to go north, almost in a daze he was so distracted. He’d gone to Luwin, Tetra, Galadriel… Every healer or arcanist in Winterfell. None of them could say if Ned had suddenly turned mad or was being influenced by some curse.

When all lines of inquiry were exhausted, Ned had come to the conclusion that the only way to solve the mystery was to follow the call. The thread that pulled at Ned, leading him onwards wanted him to come alone, so against the wishes of his advisers, who had wanted him to be accompanied, Ned went through a waygate to the Wall then passed through it to the lands beyond. Ned had a certain feeling that where he was going, only a Stark of Starks could tread and not be frozen.

So on he went, even as snow caked his beard and hair. The further north Ned went, the longer the nights became until the sun just stayed under the horizon. Ned was mostly alone between a sea of black above and a sea of white below. As far north as Ned was, there was nearly nothing for him to eat, so he had to rely on the preserved foods that had been packed into the bag of holding he carried.

Ned was wading through thigh deep snow, chewing on some half frozen salted beef when he thought he saw a figure in the snowstorm.

Then he didn’t.

There were few things that Ned’s eyes did not see, especially after the Trial of Winter. So the uncertainty unnerved him. Perhaps I am going mad… Ned thought to himself ruefully. Trudging hundreds of miles north of the Wall for reasons unknown… Of course I’m mad.

He’d finished the last of the beef when he saw the shape again. A pale figure almost gliding across the snow even as a storm raged about him. Ned stood his ground, his muscles beginning to tense in anticipation.

A dark, moonless sky hung above him, with seemingly no trees for miles around. Just a barren tundra cloaked in snow. When one figure seemed to melt into the mist, another took its place, a white shadow in the darkness.

In the blink of an eye, the figure stood before Ned, seemingly materialising from the white frost in the air. Ned knew it in an instant, from all the tales Old Nan had told him when he was a boy. From the histories and legends of his people. From the nightmares of every child in Westeros.

You better be a good boy, or the Others will come to take you away…

Now it seemed the Others had come for Ned.

It stood before Ned, tall and thin. Inhuman in its eerie beauty. Its flesh was pale as milk, with long silver hair that seemed to shine with starlight. Its ears were pointed similarly to a Child of the Forest, though longer and sharper. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; first it was white as the snow it stood upon, then black as the sky above. Patterns shimmered over the surface of the armour like ink in water as it stepped towards Ned.

It was at that moment Ned realised the Other was walking on top of the snow, not through it. Like a weightless whisper it flowed over the top of the snow, leaving no prints in its wake.

“That’s far enough.” Ned warned, drawing Ice from its scabbard with his right hand as a ball of blue flames sprouted from his left. The frozen winds were deafening. Ned didn’t know if the being standing before him had even heard him properly. He knew he had the blood of the Others running through his veins, but that was no guarantee they’d do him no harm.

The Other stilled for a moment, its eyes shining like two cold blue stars. Then a ghost of a smile formed on its lips and a longsword formed in its hand. It reminded Ned of the blades of the Ice Guard, but this was different.

Purer.

The edge was straight and razor thin. It shone with an ethereal blue glow, translucent and rippling as it moved. The blade seemed to be a shard of clear crystal made thinner than a piece of parchment. As the blade twisted in its wielder’s grip it could almost disappear when viewed at the right angle.

Knew I should have stayed at home.

The Other slid forth towards Ned, its crystal blade aiming at his heart. Ice flashed into the path of the Other’s shivering blade, the sound the swords clash made was so high and thin it near split Ned’s head in two.

Grimacing, Ned hurled a gout of blue flames at his attacker, only for the fire to dissipate harmlessly before contact. Ned knew then that fire would be no help to him in that moment. He ducked under the Other’s next swing and made a slash for its legs. They were on different levels and Ned would do his best to lever an advantage from that.

The Other only skipped over Ned’s sword and danced away, silently across the snow. In a heartbeat it was on him again. It was a quicker and stronger foe than any Ned had faced in his life.

A furious exchange of blows followed. Ned fell back a step, then advanced, then fell back again. Lightning coiled up Ned’s body from Foesmasher on his hip, snaked along his left arm and sprang forth from his finger tips. The Other spun, deflecting some of the bolts off the flat of his blade.

The Other laughed then, a deep and terrible sound like cracking glacier. Ned only grunted and launched himself into the air, pillars of ice rising under his feet and swung his sword with both hands, a layer of blue ice forming over the blade before he swung down at his foe.

On the third strike, Ice carved a grove into the side of the Other’s armour. The sound was near unbearable but the reaction in the Other’s eyes was clear. Ned sensed a touch of fear in those shining blue orbs.

Now the Other was on the back foot, it was quick but Ned was angry. He raised great boulders of ice from the ground and flung them at the Other. It split the first with a single slash of its sword, but the second came from behind and knocked it into the arc of Ned’s wide slash.

That would have been the end of the Other then and there if it had not bent under the swing with unnatural grace. Quick as a flash the Other slid its blade under Ice and aimed to stab at Ned’s heart.

Only for Ned to catch the blade in his fist, glowing blue ice covering his gloved hand. Their eyes met then, two pairs of burning blue sapphires. The moment hung in the air.

Then the Other began to laugh again, its sword seemingly dissolving into white mist. “I’ve not had a scrap like that in centuries.” He chuckled, in a voice that was near human. All fight seemingly leaving him, before he bowed his head. “I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Stark of Starks.”

To say Ned was bewildered was an understatement.

“Explain. Now.” He levelled Ice towards the Other’s throat.

“Your tongue does not have the words to convey my name, so you may call me Reif.” The Other gave a conciliatory smile, even with Ice’s point half an inch from his chin. “I have the honour of escorting you to your destination.”

Ned was growing impatient. He’d not been in the best of moods even before he was faced with a demon from ancient history giving him one of the hardest fights in his life. Now that demon was being coy. “Which is?”

“Home.” Reif answered, simply. “Well, my home. Not yours…” He clarified. “That’s why you’ve come all this way north. Our Queen has called you.”

Ned’s brow furrowed. At was at that moment he realised the snowstorm had completely stopped as well. The air was still and cold. “A Queen of the Others?” He asked. Ned had never heard of the Others having a leader. Though there was some vague recollection of some kind of Corpse Queen from an old legend about the Night’s Watch.

Reif only nodded. “Yes, our queen has called the Stark of Starks to fulfil the oath Brandon the Builder made in ages past.” All this was more than Ned could accept without at least some difficulty.

“What oath am I supposed to uphold?”

“Every five-hundred years, our queen calls the Stark of Starks up to the Lands of Always Winter where our domain resides, to reaffirm our alliance.” Reif stated.

“I’ve never heard of this oath.” Ned grunted, still holding Ice up.

Reif chuckled, brushing an ivory strand of hair back. “I suppose you Starks didn’t want your people to know you consorted with ‘Others’…” he paused. “But our blood runs in your veins. You are as much ‘Other’ as you are man.” He beckoned Ned as he back to wander away. “Come. Our queen can explain better than I. She has been around far longer after all.”

Ned still felt the call to go north in his heart. He knew that he shouldn’t trust the random being who came across his path. But he could not help himself. “I hope we won’t need to walk much further.” Ned grumbled, sheathing Ice on his belt.

Reif only laughed. At least Ned thought it was a laugh. It sounded more like the surface of a frozen lake cracking. With a wave of his hands, the Other summoned two horses from the snow. Two horses made entirely out of ice.

Reif took note of Ned’s shock. “You might be a Stark of Starks, but my people can do things with ice you couldn’t believe.” Ned was half a mind to agree with him as he looked at the ice horses, Reif mounting his own and turning to Ned. “They don’t bite.” He chuckled.

Ned found the feeling of mounting a living horse made completely of ice a little disconcerting. It was cold to the touch, but still felt alive somehow. Even stretching out with his mind, Ned found there to be a soul within the ice-horse. He didn’t try to warg into it, as that might have been too much for one day, but he was still curious.

Reif clicked his tongue and both the ice horses began to canter northwards. Both of them seemed to be gifted with the same alacrity over ice and snow that Reif possessed. “You didn’t say what this oath entails.” Ned ventured after they’d ridden in silence for a time.

“Have no fear, Stark of Starks.” Reif said. “Believe me, you’ll enjoy it.”

“Mayhaps I don’t believe you.”

Reif shot him a smile. “Then maybe I should tell you that my mother is the Queen you will meet… and my father was King Isen Stark, also called the Iron-fist.”

Ned was stunned.

The Isen Stark Reif referred to had lived over two-thousand years ago, when the Starks had been Kings in the North. If he had been called to the North like Ned had been, and then impregnated the Queen or the Others… In that moment, Ned knew exactly why he was coming north. And if he was being honest, he wasn’t exactly surprised.

Ned didn’t quite know how long Reif lead him northwards. As the sun obstinately refused to rise, Ned could not say for how many days they traveled together. The lack of a sunset and sunrise lead Ned to losing all sense of time. He and Reif talked, though not overly much.

Even if the Other was taking him to his death, at least the longing in his head had abated, Ned thought after a time. Even if Ned did not trust his guide, he could not disregard that it felt right to be with him. The ice in Ned’s bones knew it was going home.

Once the pair managed to navigate a path around a large mountain range, Ned saw the home of the Others for the first time. He was astounded. In the distance lay a mighty citadel seemingly carved from glass. It had to be many times the size of Winterfell, even with the Winter City. Even Harrenhall would have looked small by comparison.

To Ned’s eye its tallest towers stood taller than the Wall, and even the hundreds of other towers that didn’t were still larger than any structures Ned had seen before. Little more could have been said on the subject other than that it was awe inspiring, and Ned felt more than a small touch of fear upon looking at it for the first time.

Reif’s chuckle brought Ned out of his trance. “You Starks…” he said. “Many times i’ve led you up here and you all make exactly the same face when you see it for the first time.” He gestured to the citadel of ice and made a funny face. After seeing Ned’s furrowed brow, he stopped laughing. “Come, the Queen will wish to see you.” He cleared his throat, urging his ice-horse onward.

The doorway to the citadel was a mighty wall of ice, when they approached it began to melt way until their path was clear. Walking under the threshold, Ned made a guess that the doorway alone was taller than Winterfell’s main gatehouse.

Upon entering the Citdel, Ned saw many other Others seemingly going about their day. It was strange for Ned, to see such creatures completing mundane tasks or haggling over prices of things in stalls that had been set up along the sides of the massive hall Reif led him down, both still mounted. He even saw what looked like Other Children, which he supposed was not exactly a revelation as the Others had to have come from somewhere.

After what felt like ages of Reif leading Ned through enclosed hallways and streets, everything bathed in a cool blue light, they came to a large pair of doors that looked differed from the others Ned had seen so far.

Mostly because they were actually doors, if only made from ice.

Two guards stood at the doorway, both dressed in the same armour Reif adorned. “I must leave you now, Stark of Starks.” The Other said, motioning of Ned to dismount the ice-horse. “It is probably for the best that you meet with my mother alone.”

Ned nodded as he dismounted the horse, then turned to the guards who both bowed to him. Taking one last look at Reif, Ned pushed open the door into a large, opulent throne room. It was larger than the Red Keep’s throne room, with maybe twenty large pillars running along the length of the room on either side of the door.

Before him, some distance away Ned saw an Other more beautiful than almost any other being he had seen in his life. She had a regal face, with long white hair and glowing blue eyes. The dress she wore as she sat on her throne seemed to be made from a million tiny shards of ice that shifted in colour much like Reif’s armour had done. Her crown, a ring of ice spikes pointing upwards towards the ceiling, also seemed to change colour.

Probably Other magic… Ned reasoned.

He felt the heavy weight of the doors swinging shut behind him. And then there was silence. It was at that moment Ned realised the desire to go north that had been worming its way through his skull had dissipated completely. It seemed he had reached his destination.

“I was called here…” Ned said cautiously as he began to walk towards the Queen of the Others. She sat still as a statue, her eyes fixed on him as he walked towards her. “Reif, my guide.” Ned continued. “He said other Starks had come here before me. That I was compelled by some oath I had never taken, nor was even aware of.”

“That much is true.” The Queen spoke finally. Her voice was like a song, smooth and cold as ice. Though Ned wouldn’t say he detected malice in her tone. “I am Aeyrdis, Queen of the people you know as the Others.” She explained, rising from her icy throne and walking down its steps towards him, her movements eerily silent. “But I was once as human as you.”

That surprised Ned, he’d never heard any tales of Others making people in one of their own. Raising them as Wights, certainly. But that was quite different. “I… I don’t understand.” Ned voiced his confusion as she came face to face with him. She was nearly as tall as he was. “Tell me, why was I called here?”

“It would be simpler for me to explain where you really come from.” With a wave of her hand, a chair of ice rose from the ground behind her and another behind Ned. She gestured for him to sit as she did the same.

“I find that answer to be cryptic and not especially helpful.” Ned stated as he sat on his chair.

The Other Queen, Aeyrdis, smirked at that. “I take it you are aware that there are worlds beyond the one you know?”

Ned nodded. Of course he knew that. It was one of the first things nobles learned when taught about the magics of the world. Spheres, planes, worlds, realms… They were all names for the same thing. It mattered not what men called them, there were as many other realms as there were stars in the sky. Realms of fire and ice and darkness and light and pain and joy and any number of other things Ned could not begin to list.

Aeyrdis continued. “Eight-thousand years ago, just before the time your people refer to as the ‘Long Night’ began, one of the Prime elemental planes of ice collided with your plane and they become one, bringing the ‘Others’ with it.”

Ned furrowed his brow. He knew such things were possible. Though most times when the planes drew close to one another as they circulated the celestial cosmos, they passed almost seamlessly, with the peoples of both planes barely noticing. Though of course, there had always been things falling through the cracks. That was how most of the magical monsters had come to inhabit their world.

“Both planes were thrown into chaos as they changed each other. This citadel is where the realms first intersected, where the bond is strongest.” Aeyrdis explained. “Spreading out from this point, your plane darkened and grew colder while ours was introduced to warmth and fire for the first time. The inhabitants of both realms were unknowingly thrust together, with no warning or prior knowledge.” Ned was doing his best to take all this new knowledge in his stride. It painted a bit of a different picture to what he had been taught of the Long Night.

“I can’t imagine that ended well for all involved.” He stated sadly. It was a painful fact that people were easily afraid. And that fear could drive them to great and terrible deeds.

“You would be right.” Aeyrdis nodded. “The peoples of this realm blamed the ‘Others’ for bringing such extreme cold, thinking that my people did it on purpose. But that is just how we exist. We are the cold, we cannot control it. And the peoples of this realm were not alone in their suffering. Great swaths of the ‘Others’ plane was destroyed by great fire-breathing dragons.”

“There were dragons during the Long Night?”

Aeyrdis barked out a laugh. “Yes. Real dragons, not the wyrms of Valyria that remain on your plane. Mighty great drakes borne from the elemental plane of fire. Creatures of flame and glass-like rock. Truly fire made flesh, so big they could stride across mountain ranges, with voices that could make Gods feel fear…” The Queen seemed almost sad for a few moments. “Alas, they are all gone now. They required a world much warmer than yours to live, the last true dragons died during the Long Night, only these half-breeds remain, their fire cooled from living in this realm.”

“How did it all end?” Ned asked, curious as to what the true history of the event might be. She fixed him with a gaze that somehow projected warmth. “My kind and the peoples of this realm had been fighting for generations. Neither side was winning and neither side had any particular idea on how to put the pieces of their world back together afterwards. Battles were fought and many died. On both sides. As my kind were far, far fewer, they turned to necromancy out of desperation. In the final battle of the Long Night, at a place where many strong magical lay-lines intersect, a man unlike any other lead his men against my kind…” She began to almost talk in reverence.

“They say he was blessed by the Gods of this realm, or that they created him, that he was their last hero, either way it mattered not. He was not the greatest of warriors, in truth he was a builder at heart. He fought the leader of the Others in a desperate battle. He had managed to convince the Children of the Forest, Giants, Dwarves and Wargs to fight alongside him. They made their stand in a small fort built around an old weirwood tree. Their hero fought the leader of the Others before the weirwood, he had his enemy on his knees with a blade at his throat…”

Ned had been in that situation many a time, he generally knew how they ended. “And the Other yielded?”

“No.” The Queen answered. “This hero among men looked into the eyes of his enemy and did not see a monster, only a man much like himself, who was tired of fighting and wanted peace and safety for those he loved.” That certainly surprised Ned.

“Together, they stopped the battle and decided to work together and mend their broken world. It was decided that the leader of the Others and the leader of the peoples of this realm should share the essence of both peoples. His sister…”

She paused for a moment, seeming to forget herself.

“…I… volunteered to take on the essence of the Others so that I might lead them as both an Other and as a woman.”

Ned was in awe. If her words to be believed, Aeyrdis had been alive for over eight-thousand years. “Your brother?” Ned asked, feeling he knew the answer. “What was his name?”

“Brandon.” She answered. “Brandon also took on the essence of the Others, but less so than me so he would still be human. That is how you retain an Other’s blood in your veins. Brandon and I built the Wall to stop the energies of the Ice plane from overwhelming your world and to protect the heat from your world merging with the Ice plane.” She explained. “The Wall was never to guard against the Others, but to protect us and we in-turn protect you from the Winter.”

“How?” Ned asked.

“Just because our two realms are one, that does not mean they are perfectly aligned.” Aeyrdis answered. “As our two spheres tumble through the celestial cosmos, they pull apart and push back together. The pushing back together is what causes what you call ‘Winter’. Without us bolstering the magic of the Wall, your realm would become much much colder.”

Ned took a few moments to comprehend her words. It seemed all the peoples of Westeros owed the Others a great debt if they actually did hold the worst of the winters back. If it could get that cold with their protection, Ned shuddered to think what would happen without it. Then a thought struck him.

“While you have been very informative.” Ned started. “You still have not said why I am here.”

Aeyrdis smirked again. “Brandon made a pact with the Others, that every five-hundred years one of his descendants would come to us, to learn of us and our history and renew the bond between our peoples.”

“And what would that entail?” Ned asked, feeling he knew the answer.

“Every five-hundred years, I get bred by a Stark of Starks.” Aerydis gave him a wolfish grin as she stood and divested herself of her ice-dress. “And now it’s your turn.”

Ned was near lost for words as he took in the nude form of the Queen of the Others. She was completely bare under his gaze, wearing only her ice-crown. Her skin was more pale than milk, with a faint blue tint. All the Others Ned had seen possessed an ethereal, otherworldly beauty.

Aerydis was no different.

The woman had a body built for sin, with wide hips, a thin waist and a monumental chest capped with small pale nipples. In the shifting light refracted through the ice of her throne room, she looked like a Goddess.

Ned was certainly enthralled.

Not needing to be told twice, Ned removed his own clothes as fast as he could. Aeyrdis, hopping onto a table of ice she risen from the floor as she observed Ned’s haste. It was easy to notice when she saw his cock for the first time as that was when she stopped giggling.

When Ned looked up after divesting himself of his last stitch of clothing, he saw the Other Queen looking at him hungrily, thighs spread wide, her pale cunt open to him. He crossed the space between them in the blink of an eye, pulling Aeyrdis into a heated embrace, his hardened cock resting against her thigh.

She was cold to the touch, yet strangely vibrant with life. It was pleasant in a way Ned hadn’t expected. Her lips, her tongue felt cool against his own, yet soothing. A shiver ran up Ned’s spine in anticipation for what was coming next.

Aeyrdis was not idle, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer into their embrace. The twin globes of soft flesh that made her bosom pressed against Ned’s torso. He kissed down Aeyrdis’ jaw as she hummed pleasantly, then further down to worship her breasts, making her moan.

Burying his face in the Other’s monumental bosom felt lovely and comforting to Ned, like a blissfully cool pillow on a hot and windless night. However Ned’s aching cock didn’t let him leave it unattended to for long.

“Gods, you Starks…” Aeyrdis moaned, stroking her long, cool fingers against his throbbing, hot length. The mixing sensations of the hot and the cold nearly ended Ned right then and there. Yet he persevered. “I’ve seen hundreds of Stark cocks over the years and every one of them has been perfect.”

Ned grinned, angling his length against the lips of her cunt and easing forwards slowly. “Then by all means, my Queen. Don’t let me hold you back.”

The feeling of slipping into Aeyrdis’ cunt for the first time was intense. It was certainly the strongest cunt Ned had ever felt around his manhood. Her inner walls gripped him tightly with a cool, wet strength. Though in spite of the tightness around him, Ned slipped into her cunt as easily as if he was putting on silk slippers.

Aeyrdis threw her head back as Ned entered her, her long hair falling in a silver cascade down to the surface of the table. She held herself up with her arms, presenting a mesmerising view of her immense breasts to Ned’s gaze. Her hips moved with his, pressing together, both surging towards an inevitable and rapturous end that seemed just out of reach for the moment.

“Hope i’m not disappointing you.” Ned grunted as he pushed over half of his cock into her cooled sanctum. The Queen of the Others said nothing. She only moaned, her brow furrowed in concentration as she rolled her hips against Ned’s, taking him deeper and deeper. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Ned firmly gripped her by the hips and roughly pulled Aeyrdis along the last few inches of his shaft. He was completely engulfed in her, watching her whine and shiver in pleasure. Feeling her cunt quivering around his cock. A wordless string of sounds falling from her lips, icicles forming on her hands and forearms, connecting her to the table. Ned assumed she was losing control of her abilities in her euphoria.

He couldn’t help but laugh at the spectacle of his life. He’d lain with Queens and Noble Ladies and Amazons. And now he had an Other quivering on his cock as she came undone around him, the clear white evidence of her release dripping down his shaft and forming small icicles.

“Fuck i’ve missed this.” Aeyrdis seemed to finally be able to form coherent words again. Ned gave a wolfish grin. So had he.

Their lovemaking wasn’t tender.

It was a primal thing.

Two forces of lust and pleasure clashed again and again in erotic harmony. The pleasure was a side-effect, a consequence. Neither put much effort into pleasing the other, it just happened. They both had another main goal. They worked towards an all-encompassing primary objective that filled their minds with singular purpose.

They were there to breed.

Ned thrust the whole length of his cock into his Other lover, again and again, making her feel every inch of his lance thundering into her womanhood.

“Gods! Fuck me! Fuck me hard! Gods, you feel so good!” Aeyrdis whined. Gone was the regal and timeless Queen of the Others. Now there was only a woman filled with lust and desire. “You should stay here with us!” She cried, shaking through her third climax. “We could fuck every day. Every night. All the time!”

“That’s not what the oath entails.” Ned grunted, unlatching his mouth from her hardened nipple to talk, her breasts bouncing wildly without his mouth to steady them. As enjoyable as fucking Aeyrdis was, Ned still preferred his wives.

They fucked so hard the ice table broke beneath them, so Ned formed another. They eventually broke that one too. Ned tired of fucking Aeyrdis on her back and he wished to see her fleshy arse bouncing so he formed a stockade of ice for her and moved the Other’s quivering body into position.

Watching his pelvis clapping against the fleshy pale meat of the Queen’s arse, Ned knew he’d made the right decision. Aeyrdis near howled like a bitch in heat as Ned caused waves of her flesh to ripple in time with his endless thrusts against her arse. He could even see her breasts bouncing as they hung from her chest. They were so large, her back couldn’t obscure them completely.

“Ahhh! Ahhhh! Fuck me! FUCK ME!” Aeyrdis screamed as he thighs quivered, spraying tiny icicles of pleasure from her cunt as Ned ravaged her through her fifth peak.

“I am fucking you.” Ned gave her pale arse a good hard smack, making her yelp in surprise and pleasure. He continued to pound her with singular purpose: to fill her with his seed. Her pleasure-filled screams echoed off the hard ice walls of the throne room, doubtlessly heard throughout the citadel of the Others.

Good, Ned thought. They should know what a whore their Queen is.

Ned railed her hard and fast. The feeling of her quivering cunt almost ending him many times, yet Ned pushed on. Aeyrdis hadn’t had a Stark for five-hundred years, he was going to make her remember him. Even if she wasn’t going to be walking for the next week.

The Queen of the Others was a quivering, incoherent mess by the time Ned found his end. They had carried on their rutting even as the stockade broke. He slammed the whole length of his cock home, holding it there until he felt a tightening in his balls. His release felt like it lasted years. He filled her with so much of his seed Ned was surprised it didn’t come pouring out of her mouth.

When Ned withdrew from her, Aeyrdis collapsed in a heap among the broken ice in the mess that the two of them had made of her throne-room. Ned sat back on his knees, panting heavily after such a hard fucking.

After a time, Aeyrdis regained consciousness. “That certainly was… enjoyable.” She sighed, rolling onto her side to look at Ned, running her fingernails across her skin.

“I’m happy to be of service.” Ned smiled, running his hand through his sweaty hair.

“You’ve given me a babe, I know it.” Aeyrdis placed a hand on her stomach. “Now were will be teaching you more of our magics, so that you may be a true Other.”

True to her words, Ned was taught the magic of the Others. It took less time than he expected it to. Apparently because the skills were already present in his Other heritage. It just needed to be unlocked. His creations became stronger and more refined. Ned even learned how to make living creatures from ice. First he started with wolves, eventually working his way up to creating dragons of ice.

Even Ned’s physicality changed, he moved with silent ease across snow and ice, leaving no trail behind him. It even got to the point where they were teaching Ned how to move through solid ice as if it was water. Soon enough walls that had once been solid barriers were no longer an obstruction for him. As Aeyrdis was still controlling the time dilation between the realm of the Others and Ned’s home, he managed to spend quite some time there, honing his skill and growing in power.

Eventually though, Ned knew he must return home, even at the loss of Aerydis’ bed. They bid a sad goodbye, knowing he had planted a seed in her womb and set off towards the Wall with Reif leading the way.

“Here is when I leave you.” His escort told him when they were in sight of the Wall, a structure Ned could not hope but look upon differently now he knew its true purpose. “I was glad to have met you, Eddard Stark.”

“And I, you.” Ned responded, taking the Other’s outstretched hand. “Look after my son for me.”

Reif nodded then turned back north on his ice-horse. Ned watched the Other go until he faded into the cold mist that hung in the air, drifting through the tress.

I should write memoirs, Ned thought to himself as he turned back south. Strange things keep happening to me, perhaps others might want to read about them one day…

———————————————————————————

309 AC

Three years post the War of Five Kings

How a Wolf Rules

And to think the day started pleasantly, Ned lamented to himself as he forlornly looked over papers in his solar in the grey of late afternoon.

Some ‘evidence’, that came from somewhere only the Gods knew, had been brought forward by what few remaining male Freys were left that implicated Lara Stark and the Mistwalkers in the burning of the Twins, not Tywin Lannister.

Ned had already been informed by Robb of his decision to preemptively deal with old Walder Frey when his son was marching to free him. While it may not have been something Ned would have done, he could not find it in his heart to hold it against Robb. Though he was a man grown, in many ways he would still be the red-haired little boy Ned had bounced on his knee. And there was no power in all the realms that would keep Ned from protecting his children.

But the Riverlords have been wroth with the news, they’d been on the cusp of demanding blood. Thankfully Lara had offered to take full responsibility and accept punishment for the act, saying that she had acted alone and without the permission of the Stark of Starks.

Ned had had to publicly banish her from his kingdoms or put her to death. The remaining Freys had found that they needed to accept her being banished. The worst pain had been denying Lara her dragon when she was sent away. Sending her away as a free agent with her own dragon was asking for trouble.

He’d made a promise to Lara that he would reverse her banishment in a few years, once the outrage had died down. Even saying that she should go to Themyscira or Dorne where she could live in luxury and out of the way. But Lara had denied him, opting to go to Essos as a covert Mistwalker and gather intelligence. The woman’s loyalty to her family warmed Ned’s heart, even in the turmoil the Freys had sent it into.

The whole thing stank of outside interference, meant to force cracks in the alliance that held the Stark kingdoms together. Perhaps as retaliation for Alfred’s work fracturing the Reach? Ned wondered. There had been a number of reports of brewing discontent between the Reacher lords and the Westerlanders. His nephew had done good work. Mayhaps someone had noticed and taken issue. Varys was who Ned suspected most. The eunuch had practically disappeared once the Lannisters lost King’s Landing.

Ned knew there was no way in all the heavens or hells that Stannis would even accept lord Varys working for him. The man was prickly and suspicious while Varys was sly and conniving, no matter the aires he put on. If Stannis had executed the eunuch, his hairless head would have lined the walls of the Red Keep. Yet Ned’s spies told him nothing of the former Master of Whispers.

As Ned was wondering what games were being played in the shadowy places of the realm, two women walked into his study with regal grace. First came Sylvie, in a light shirt and riding breeches. Following her came Hippolyta, in a loose and flowing gown that was common fashion on Themyscira. “How might I be of assistance to you two?” Ned rose from his seat, silently thankful to have a distraction.

“Her nibs and I were discussing how hard-done-by you’ve been, what with the Frey business and all.” Sylvie nodded in Hippolyta’s direction as she crossed her arms.

Like a cat, the Queen of the Amazons glided over to Ned putting a hand on his arm. “We decided to… alleviate any stress you might be feeling at this moment.”

They'd barely made it into Ned’s bedchamber before Hippolyta pushed Sylvie against a cabinet and pulled the shorter woman into a deep kiss. Ned hastily unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head as he watched his lovers vie for dominance.

Hippolyta had height and strength on her side, but Sylvie had boundless passion. With a sharp ripping sound, Hippolyta tore Sylvie’s shirt in two, freeing the Child of the Forest’s large jade breasts to the open air. She took them in her hands, tweaking the darker green nipples until they were tight and hard. Sylvie was not idle however. Not to be outdone, she gripped the Amazon Queen by the arse and pulled their bodies closer together. Another hand snaked through Hippolyta’s golden locks and pulled her in tighter, deepening their impassioned embrace.

By the time Ned was fully disrobed, the pair eventually pulled apart, a thin string of saliva connecting their plump, swollen lips. They were both flushed and panting as they stared into each other’s eyes and Ned slowly pumped his shaft, content to watch for now.

“I hear you were his first.” Hippolyta’s voice was thick and heavy.

“Aye, I made a man of him.” Sylvie made short work of the simple silver clasps that held Hippolyta’s dress up, letting the fabric wall into a puddle at their feet.

“Perhaps you could show her how.” Ned hummed, his member now achingly hard at the sight of the two beautiful and mostly naked women. “On your knees.” At his command, both women dropped to their knees before him. Thankfully the floor was heated and well-carpeted so they weren’t uncomfortable.

Ned grinned down at the two of them. Two leaders of their peoples naked and on their knees before him. Both looked as if they’d been carved from marble by goddesses of fertility and war. Sylvie’s jade breasts were large and full, sitting high on her chest above a toned stomach and wide hips. If Sylvie’s curves were large then Hippolyta’s were immense. Two titanic, teardrops of pillowy flesh sat perfectly on the Queen’s chest, heavy and soft.

It was a difficult debate in Ned’s mind if he should make use of their plump lips first or their pillowy bosoms. Such were the difficult choices of a Stark of Starks.

Like a great battering ram, Ned’s thick and throbbing shaft cast a shadow over the two women’s faces. They both looked up half in desire and half in terror. The veiny pillar of flesh was longer than their faces.

Without an order, both women attacked with wanton lust. Hippolyta latched her lips around the head of Ned’s cock while Sylvie licked down his length to his ballsack. The feeling of both mouths on him at the same time was heavenly. Their tongues, their lips. The pair of women lavished Ned’s shaft like it was the source of their joy.

They alternated who would get to suck Ned’s cock and who would kiss along the shaft. Sylvie’s head eagerly bobbed up and down, taking his member so deep into her throat she choked while Hippolyta lavished Ned’s balls with her tongue.

Then they swapped.

It was Hippolyta’s turn to take him deep as Sylvie moved behind Ned and stuck her tongue in his arsehole. Feeling Hippolyta’s lips go all the way down to the base of his cock while Sylvie tongued his arse nearly made Ned go weak at the knees for a few moments. He held both women in place, his fingers gripping their scalps tightly.

Both needed air, yet he still held them in place. Once Hippolyta’s watery blue eyes began to roll back Ned let them both go. The Queen of the Amazons sat back on her feet clumsily, coughing and spluttering, her face flushed as she gulped down air.

“It takes skill and experience to take a Stark’s cock properly…” Sylvie purred, crawling around Ned to Hippolyta. She kissed the other woman hungrily, wanting to taste Ned on her lips.

Leaving the Amazon to recover, Sylvie turned back to Ned with a hungry look in her eye. She effortlessly deepthroated him, taking him all the way to his base and staying there for what felt like an eternity before pulling back until only the tip remained between her lips.

After a time spent massaging his cock-head with her tongue, she plunged back down again. When Hippolyta regained her breath, for the first few moments she could only watch in awe of Sylvie and her decades more experience with Ned.

He could certainly feel it. Her throat gripped him so sinfully tightly it sent a shiver up Ned’s spine. Not once did she come up for air. She held herself down on Ned’s shaft as she choked, drooled and her eyes rolled back.

It was divine, and more than a little frightening.

Not wanting to be left behind, Hippolyta rejoined the fray. Both women worshipped Ned with their mouths. Lavishing him. Loving him. He used their throats, their lips, their tongues. They were used for his pleasure and seemed very enthusiastic about it.

Eventually, after Ned had moved to sit at the foot of his bed as the two women were swapping his cock-head between their mouths, he felt a familiar tightening in his balls. In the following moments Ned painted both their faces with half of his thick seed, the other half going into the open and waiting mouths.

As the aftershocks of his rapture rippled through Ned, he flopped back onto the furs of his bed, panting wearily. When he heard giggling, he looked up to see Hippolyta and Sylvie kissing and licking each other’s faces. They were going after his seed like it was a tasty treat.

Eventually they completely cleaned each other… and Ned was still hard.

The two women looked up at him with hungry eyes. The next thing Ned knew, Sylvie was launching herself at him, pushing him back onto the bed. “God’s, it feels like forever since you’ve been inside me.” She moaned, sitting in Ned’s lap, gyrating her pelvis against his cock. In truth it had barely been a week. Though that was a long time by their standards.

“You poor woman.” Hippolyta purred, languidly laying herself on the bed next to Ned, putting her monumental bosom against his face.

He hungrily kissed around the abundant tit-flesh, nuzzling for a hardened, rosy nipple for him to lavish. In moments he found his target, locking his lips around the hardened point and sucking. His Amazon queen began to moan, the deep sounds reverberating through her chest. His right arm snaked down Hippolyta’s body, taking a firm handful of her arse, while his left rested on Sylvie’s hip.

With a furrowed brow and bitting her bottom lip, Sylvie lined Ned’s shaft up to her sodden cunt and slowly lowered herself down. Ned grunted into Hippolyta’s tits as he felt Sylvie’s heat sinking onto him, immersing his cock in her tight, warm embrace.

“Gods, you make me feel like a maiden every time.” Sylvie moaned, leaning forward slightly to brace herself on the bed with a hand.

“It’s only fair.” Ned’s mouth unlatched from Hippolyta’s breast for a moment. “After all you made a man of me.”

Sylvie giggled as she began to ride him, her dark red hair falling loose about her shoulders, her large breasts bouncing pleasantly. “And what a man I made.” She panted. “To think, I had no idea what a monster I was about to unleash when I took that quiet lad into the Godswood on his nameday.”

“I take it the experience was a memorable one?” Hippolyta chimed in, running her hand along the taught muscles of Ned’s stomach.

“I’ll say.” Sylvie responded before Ned could. “The smug fuck ravaged me so hard I passed out. I still couldn’t walk straight for a week afterwards.”

Hippolyta burst into laughter, clearly amused at the thought of a young Ned giving an experienced woman like Sylvie the fuck of her life. Ned was content to lay back and watch as his green lover rode him with increasing speed and wanton need.

“Gods, you’re so big.” Sylvie grunted, the sounds of the wet slapping of her arse on his thighs filling the room. “Pillage my womb with your big Stark cock!”

Ned’s reply was muffled by Hippolyta, who seemed to be trying to smother him with her monumental breasts. The soft, flawless golden flesh filled his eye-line and his mouth. The sensations of Sylvie’s needy cunt sucking him deeper and deeper were maddening. Her silky inner walls massaged his shaft, coaxing the seed from his balls.

She took him in completely, moaning and gasping as Ned’s cock-head knocked on the entrance to her womb. With sharp wails and breathy moans, Sylvie gasped her way through a shivering climax, coating Ned’s throbbing cock with her warm release.

Her cunt was a vice around him as she stilled on his lap, squeezing the life from him. It was a divine sensation that Ned would never forget. Yet he was still achingly hard, so Sylvie continued her riding when she recovered.

“I think it’s time you too had a ride, my dear.” Ned turned to Hippolyta, who was frigging herself with three fingers as she watched Sylvie.

The blonde Queen didn’t need to be told twice. She slung a thick, toned thigh over Ned’s face, limiting his view only to her perfect cunt. Ned’s view was darkened, but he did his best work in the dark.

Just as he had lavished Hippolyta’s breasts, so did he lavish her cunt. Like a staved beast he attacked her womanhood. In moments the proud Queen was shivering astride Ned just like Sylvie. She was gushing like a fountain and Ned tasted her pleasure on his tongue.

He took a firm grip of Hippolyta’s thighs, wrapping his arms tight around them to keep her cunt right above his mouth. It was a position many men would die for, having the Queen of the Amazons sitting on his face.

Were his view not blocked, Ned would have seen Hippolyta and Sylvie locked in a passionate embrace, their lips meshing together as they held each other up. A triangle of lust and pleasure in equal parts. As Sylvie rode him through her third climax, Ned reached his own, eagerly pumping load after load of his seed deep into the womb of his first lover.

After time to collect themselves, Ned threw Hippolyta onto her hands and knees, her face in Sylvie’s overflowing cunt, her massive fleshy arse in the air as he smacked it hard. The Amazon Queen only moaned and raised her arse higher his blows.

Once her bountiful cheeks began to redden, Ned began to probe her cunt with his rod. She spread her legs wide for him, mewling like Cersei after a week of being denied a climax. She took him with a low grunt as he roughly thrust up to the hilt inside her cunt.

Ned gave no heed to her gasping as he pulled out slowly, then slammed all twelve inches of his shaft home again, glistening with Sylvie and Hippolyta’s pleasure.

“You love my cock, don’t you?” Ned took a firm grip on Hippolyta’s golden locks to lift her face from Sylvie’s lower lips.

"I… Ugh! Yes!"

"Louder."

"Oh Gods, yes!" Hippolyta’s shrieks echoed off the stone walls of the bedchamber.

"And you love eating cunts, don’t you?"

"I love it!"

Ned leaned forward, pressing his chest to Hippolyta’s sweaty back, fucking her harder and harder like a wolf taking a bitch in heat. “Tell her that.” He growled in Hippolyta’s ear.

“I love your cunt!” The Queen whined against Sylvie’s thighs as she looked down on her, playing with her green tits. Hippolyta made to say more, but Ned thrust her face back down into Sylvie’s cunt.

Ned’s green lover threw her head back onto the pillows of the bed as the Queen of the Amazons pleasured her. Ned carried on thrusting into Hippolyta’s silky cunt, taking her womanhood for all its worth.

Back and forth he pounded her cunt like it owed him money. Again and again his balls loudly clapped against Hippolyta’s cunt. She was gripping onto Sylvie’s thighs for dear life as Ned thrust away at her arse, waves of flesh rippling around her body.

They continued like that for hours, a sweaty, heady mess of limbs and moans. Ned flipped the two women around so Hippolyta lay on her back while Sylvie rode her face. Seeing Hippolyta’s perfect melons bouncing as he pounded away at her was hypnotising. He took them in his hands, feeling the pillowy flesh of her bosom. He used them as leverage to pound the Queen’s cunt harder and harder.

Her quivering thighs locked around his waist, drawing him tight against her as his balls began to tighten. With one last hard thrust, Ned filled the Amazon Queen with his seed. Her fluttering cunt lavishing him with her essence as his release triggered her own.

With a contented sigh, he collapsed on top of his two lovers, his worries floating away on the breeze. He awoke some time later at a voice calling out to him. Blearily, he recognised it as Ash, who stood in the doorway to the bedchambers with Cat and Elia.

When the three of them began to disrobe, Ned knew the night was long from over.

———————————————————————————

311 AC

Four years post the War of Five Kings

A Family Reunion

Ned woke in the warm embrace of one of his many wives. As his eyes were still closed, he didn’t know which and he didn’t particularly care. His bed was warm and soft, the bodies around him were warmer and softer. Ned was more than content to snuggle against a pillowy bosom and doze through a sleepy winter morning.

Unfortunately, with Ned’s enhanced hearing, the light jangle of one of the room’s window shutters not quite being fully secured became unavoidable. It must have been blown unsecured at some point in the night before, Ned reasoned. They had been told of a storm that was making its way up from the Neck. Ned buried his head deeper into the nearest bosom in an effort to drown out the sounds of the metal latch clanging against the lock.

“….Wha’s tha’?” Ned heard a sleepy grumble from the other side of the bed. Cat he knew at once. Her voice was unmistakable, as was her annoyance at being woken up early in the morning. At least Ned hoped it was the morning and not some time before dawn, else he’d never get back to sleep and spend the rest of the day tired and grumpy.

“Is tha’ fucking window again.” Elia’s voice drew Ned from his thoughts, and the reverberations through the bosom told Ned that it was his Martell wife whom he was snuggled against.

“Diana’s the closest to it.” Next it was Ash’s turn to mumble sleepily. Ned imagined she was between Cat and Elia, meaning Diana was the warm body behind him on the bed.

“After las’ nigh’ I don’ think I can walk for a bi’.” Diana answered, he could hear the smile in her voice. Diana had come back to Winterfell the day before, after having spent half a year on Themyscira. Both she and Hippolyta may have been married to Ned, but they still had the whole of Themyscira and it’s over a thousand islands to rule. So they spent time in both places, a trip made almost seamless due to the waygates.

Knowing his women would eventually beg him to stop the grating sound of the loose window latch, Ned slowly began to untangle himself from his wives and leave the warm confines of his bed. Blearily opening his eyes, Ned saw that the room was dark but for the few dim shafts of light that crept around the edges of the heavy curtains.

The veritable menagerie of Ned and his wives familiars were all in a furry pile in the corner of the large bedchambers. They seemed warm and content, anticipating leaving his bed and his wives, Ned envied their comfort. He did, however, find himself enjoying the sensations of climbing over Diana’s naked form to get out of the bed.

“Come back to bed quickly, lover…” She purred, pressing her body up against his enticingly. “I certainly feel like there’s some more ‘welcoming’ left to do.”

“I’ll be quick.” Ned promised as he pealed off the last blankets and extracted himself from the bed. He did a few stretches to loosen his tired muscles and padded over to the offending window, locking it with a steely gaze.

It was open only a crack, with a cool draft flowing through the gap. The shutter had an old latch that required it to be unlocked completely before it could be locked again. Ned was about to close the shutter fully when he heard the faint sounds of shouting from the keep’s main yard. Wondering just who would have the authority and gall to act like that in Ned’s castle, he opened the window fully to have a look.

What Ned saw chilled him to the very marrow of his bones.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, half disbelieving, half wishing that what he saw was true. When his eyes came back into focus, he still saw it. Ned was a man nearer to fifty than forty, yet in that moment he felt like a child again.

Down in the courtyard over a hundred yards away stood a tall older man in a large heavy cloak lined with fur. His hair was dark, with grey streaks going through it. With a stern, lined face that Ned had once known as well as his own.

He was shouting about something, Ned didn’t quite know what. Something about horses, and asking Beric to be brought to him. Ned couldn’t really hear much of anything as he stared, transfixed.

He was surprised when Diana placed a hand on his shoulder, saying. “Ned. I asked you what’s taking so long?”

“I’m sorry, I did not hear…” Ned replied, numbly.

Diana craned her neck to view down into the yard. “Who’s that old warhorse down there? He doesn’t seem very happy.”

“I imagine he’s somewhat confused…” Ned stated.

“Why?”

“Because he’s my father.”

—————————

Ned still wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t dreaming. Upon seeing his father in the courtyard, Ned had hastily thrown on a shirt and breeches, not even stopping to talk to his wives, and rushed from his bedchambers. The Ice Guard standing at his door had certainly been shocked.

“Tell Harper to get to the main yard!” Ned had barked over his shoulder to them, with Fang hot on his heels, no doubt feeling Ned’s worry, excitement and confusion.

By the time Ned had managed to get there, barging past the bustling servants and people who had heard the commotion, he entered the courtyard to see not only his father but his brother too. Brandon, not Benjen. Ned’s legs nearly gave out under him at the sight of his lost family. His father seemed to be admonishing a very confused Brandon, while simultaneously holding him close in a tight hug.

“F-!” Ned tried to call out to them, but words caught in his throat, suddenly dry and tense. He swallowed, took a deep breath and tried again. “Father.”

They both turned to Ned in confusion. Now that he was much closer, Ned could see his father’s face properly. For the first time in nigh on thirty years. With sadness, Ned realised in that moment that he was older than his father had ever gotten to be.

Prince Rickard Stark starred at Ned in confusion for a few moments, perhaps recognising his second son in the man who stood before him. At least Ned hoped he did. He took a step towards Ned. Then another, his brow furrowed.

“Ned?” He finally asked.

Ned let out a pained breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. Quite uncharacteristically, his words stuck in his throat like ice so he only nodded. If this was in fact a dream, Ned didn’t want to wake up.

“By all the Gods above and below…” All three Starks turned towards Harper when they heard him enter the yard, swearing at what he saw.

“Harper?” It was Brandon who spoke this time, clearly as confused as the rest of them. A confusion that seemed to grow into frustration. “Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on!?”

Rickard only looked on Ned with quiet, sad eyes. “How long has it been?” Ned had forgotten how sharp his father had been in life… and seemingly was again.

Suddenly Ned became all too aware of the many sets of eyes that were on them. People had gathered whispering around the entrances to the yard, peering in at the spectacle. Others were pressing their faces against the windows higher up the keep, looking down on the yard. Even the guards and servants on the walkways and gantries along the walls had paused to watch.

“It’d be best to have this conversation in the crypts.” Ned said, simply. Then urged his father and brother towards the exist closest to the crypts. As both of them could see they were becoming a spectacle for Winterfell, they did as Ned bid them.

Ned pulled Harper aside and told him to summon Benjen and Lyanna to the crypts at once, then followed his father and brother down those dark, narrow steps.

—————————

“…So that’s all there was to it?” His father asked solemnly, looking at the statue of his own sepulchre with his hands behind his back. Brandon was leaning against the wall, his face a grim mask, still processing what he had heard.

Ned first asked them what they last remembered. His father had told them how he had heard word from the Mad King that he was summoned to King’s Landing to answer for his son’s crimes. Brandon’s last memory had been the of Black Cells under the Red Keep. Once Ned had heard their words, he had shown them to where they had been interred and told them of their deaths and Robert’s Rebellion.

“Thirty fucking years…” Brandon swore bitterly, the weight of the situation seemed almost too heavy for him.

Ned felt a pang of pity for his older brother. Even though his older brother was now younger than Ned’s oldest sons. Looking at him, Ned thought of how much Jon looked like Brandon. From certain angles.

When he was young, his older brother had seemed wise, confident and experienced. Even though he was scarcely a year older than Ned. Now though, next to all Ned’s many years of experience, Brandon looked half a boy and Ned was overcome with grief and regret.

He was so young when Aerys murdered him…

If the Mad King stood before him in that moment, Ned would have strangled the bastard with his bare hands for the lifetime he’d stolen from Brandon. A silence hung in the air for a few moments. All three of them were deep in thought.

“…I take it you have no idea why… This happened?” His father finally asked.

“No.” Ned answered honestly. His first thought had been perhaps the Gods had done it, like they had Rhaenyra and Alicent. But that seemed unlikely to happen twice, and there would have also likely been some warning.

“So you’ve been the Prince of Winterfell all these years?” Brandon asked, a mix of emotions on his face. Ned certainly wouldn’t blame his brother for feeling jealous. More than once, Ned had felt like he had stolen the life his brother was meant to lead.

“Actually it’s King now…”

In his surprise and confusion, Ned had actually forgotten to inform his newly resurrected brother and father of his new station. Brandon couldn’t stifle a surprised laugh as father’s eyebrows shot up.

“King?” He repeated, slowly.

“It’s a long story…” Ned said, sadly. The tale was not a happy one for him and he’d wanted to be sitting in the comfort of his study when he told them. “It began with…” Ned trailed off his tale when the three of them heard multiple pairs of footsteps storming down the stairwell onto their level of the crypts.

Two dire wolves came first: Havoc and Endeavour. Father’s and Brandon’s wolves. That certainly put smiles on their faces to see their wolves again as they bounded into their arms. Moments later came Lyanna, closely followed by Benjen.

“If this is a jape,” Lyanna raged. “It’s more sour than old Poole’s ale…” The words died on her lips when she clapped eyes on them. Ned had long known of the terrible burden Lyanna had carried with her, even all these years later. She blamed herself for the deaths of their father and Brandon. Both Ned and Benjen had tried to convince her that it wasn’t her fault, but it was a fruitless endeavour.

“Lya…” Prince Rickard Stark’s voice was thick with emotion when he saw his daughter. Ned could have sworn he saw tears in his father’s eyes then. Both Lyanna and Benjen were still frozen in place, not believing what they saw.

“Gods, girl…” Brandon was the first to break the silence, dashing across the space between them to take Lyanna and Benjen in his arms, pulling them close. As if he could protect them from the lifetime they had lived in his absence. It didn’t matter to him that they were both twice his age, he was the older brother, and there wasn’t a thing any of them could do to stop him from throwing himself between them and their pain.

That was the older brother Ned remembered.

Ned took his father by the arm, and together they joined the warm embrace of their family. Ned could hear Lyanna’s sobbing muffled against Brandon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright lass…” Father consoled her, his voice low and warm. “It’s alright…”

Ned did not know how long the group of them spent like that, holding one another in the darkness of the crypt. It would be the cruellest of injustices, Ned thought, if this was some trick. His brother and his father felt real. They looked real. They smelled real. Ned did not know what he had ever done to earn this extra time, but he would make the most of it.

“Your Grace!” A voice from the stairs broke their silence. In a moment, Ned deciphered it was Harper. “I… I’m sorry to interrupt.” He started. “It’s just… Well Racket was… Making a racket.” Ned tensed at the mention of his mother’s direwolf. “She seemed to want people to follow her so someone did and found…”

The Chosen Man paused, seemingly trying to find the words.

“…Ned, your mother’s in the main birthing chamber.”

It was at that point that Ned’s legs finally gave out under him.

—————————

Nothing felt real for Ned.

It wasn’t even midday and he was sitting in Winterfell’s main birthing chamber with his father, Lyanna, Brandon, Benjen and his mother, who was lying on the bed holding her newborn daughter in her arms. Once it had become known that she was there, veritable hordes of Druids and healers had been sent her way.

Ned had been only a boy when his mother had died in childbirth. The Druid they’d had in Winterfell at the time wasn’t as skilled as Luwin, so when a complication arose, he was not able to save mother and child. Thankfully, Luwin was as skilled a Druid as any Ned had known. He had saved Ned’s mother and newborn sister.

Ned didn’t know what he would have done if he had lost his mother for the second time. But he imagined it wasn’t anything good.

When she had recovered, Ned’s mother had been very confused at the situation. Ned could not exactly blame her. From her point of view, one moment her family had been normal, then the next they had all aged decades in the blink of an eye. She’d even given the maids a stern look when they suggested taking the babe - Lysenna - away to be washed. “And what if you take her away and a crone older than Old Nan comes back in her place?” She had said.

Ned had wanted his family to have some privacy, so Chosen Men stood at the door as he’d ordered all servants out. The family stood or sat or lay around the room in a silence that veered towards awkwardness.

“I think she’ll look like you.” Ned’s father said softly as he sat as his mother’s side, which he hadn’t left since he’d entered the room. As Racket had placed herself on his mother’s other side, it had left little room for the maids.

“I don’t know how you can tell that.” Ned’s mother shot his father an incredulous look as her wolf chuffed. “She’s a little red lump at present… And if you were to suggest I looked anything like a lump I would be most displeased with you, Rickard Stark.”

Ned’s father gave a small smile and placed a hand on his wife’s leg. “Of course dear.”

Benjen was on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall and decidedly not looking at their mother. Ned could tell his little brother was tense, and he wasn’t exactly surprised. Benjen had been the youngest when their mother had passed so he remembered her the least. Before him lay a woman he did not know and who did not know him.

“So…” Ned’s mother looked to him. “I won’t pretend to understand what this is or why we’re here… So I suppose the only thing to do is ask what becomes of us now?”

“Whatever you desire.” Ned stated.

His mother only rolled her eyes. “I doubt that very much… Your father’s titles passed to you when…” She looked to father and Brandon with sadness.

“We died, mother.” Brandon said, sitting at the desk where he’d been quietly drumming his fingers. “There’s no point dancing around it. You died too.”

“That’s enough Bran…” Father’s words were soft and low, but firm too. Ned’s older brother looked sheepish for a few moments, then turned aside.

“We were dead and gone, yet here we are again.” His mother continued, then turned to his father. “Do you become Princ- sorry - King now?”

“If you ask me to, I will step down.” Ned said honestly. Robb had done the same thing for him when he had risen from the dead. In his own way. It was poetic that he should do the same thing.

“Gods boy, I don’t want to be a King.” Rickard swore. “Let alone a King of three kingdoms.”

“I might.” They all turned to Brandon then.

Ned tensed. All his fears and insecurities of usurping his older brother’s place came screaming through his mind. It was the truth. Brandon was the older brother. Ned was never meant to have Winterfell and now the Gods had brought Brandon back from the dead to punish Ned for his arrogance.

Silence hung in the air for a few moments before Brandon began to laugh. “Perhaps a poor time for a jape.” He chuckled.

“This isn’t a game Bran.” Lyanna scoffed from her corner. “We can’t have a succession crisis on our hands.”

“I know.” Brandon said as he rose from his seat and walked over to Ned. When he was within arms reach, Ned remembered his brother was an inch taller than him. He’d forgotten that detail in the years since his death. Another small failing for Ned to hate himself for. In a moment Brandon reached out and pulled Ned into a strong bear hug.

“I love you, my brother.” Ned heard Brandon say. “And I always will.” Then they parted. “I won’t pretend that i’m completely happy about everything… But I also can’t say i’m not.” He stated. “Besides, you’ve led the North for thirty years, through three wars and they crowned you their King. There’s nothing I can say that would be equal to that.” Ned was stunned. In truth, they probably all were. “We can call the lords to Winterfell and inform them of what’s happened.” Brandon continued. “Father and I will publicly, unequivocally and definitively renounce any claim we have and support you as King.”

“You never fail to surprise, Bran.” Benjen said half in disbelief.

Brandon pouted. “I can be sensible!” He protested. “Why is everyone always so surprised when I have good ideas?”

“It’s because someone as pretty as you usually doesn’t have much between their ears.” Lyanna chuckled as she strolled over to Brandon and hugged him.

“You’re just jealous my hair’s better than yours.”

“I should hope so! Given how much time you spend on it.”

“Children.” Brandon and Lyanna quieted when their mother spoke. “Hush now, you’ll wake your sister.”

They all quieted for a time. Until Ned spoke in soft tones. “Ben and Lya already know this well, but you all have a place at Winterfell.” He told his family. “This place is your home… and I would like to keep you close.”

“I can’t imagine your mother and I are going anywhere far any time soon.” Ned’s father answered.

“I’ll stay as long as you wish.” Brandon added. “But this new life is a second chance. I want to travel far and wide and see the world that seemed to not want me gone.” He laughed then. “I might even pop in on Barbrey to see how she’s doing.”

“She’s been widowed two decades.” Lyanna told him. “She could use a good hard fucking.”

“Then perhaps I shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Brandon laughed. “And I imagine Gnasher’s missed me some.”

Ned’s breath caught. He’d forgotten about that. “Bran, father… There’s something I should tell you about your dragons…”

Brandon looked into his eyes for a few moments then swore. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” He took a glass of wine from the table and swallowed its contents.

“I was so proud of my sons when they claimed your dragons.” Ned tried to console them.

“Perhaps you can share them?” Lyanna suggested. “Nothing like this has ever happened before. Whatever will Gnasher and Moonhowler think?”

With Lyanna’s words, a new thought entered his mind. He reached out for Ice, to see if the blade would still head him. He felt the familiar tug at his mind and sighed with relief. His legitimacy as Stark of Starks would have been much less assured without Ice in hand. Ned’s father had clearly seen what Ned was doing and tried to same. He held out a hand then simply hummed in confusion.

“I can still feel it too...” He stated.

“We don’t need to be going through who has the magic swords and armour and dragons right now.” Ned’s mother said in an exasperated tone. “Perhaps I could meet these Grandchildren you have told me about?” She looked to Ned and Benjen.

“And all Ned’s southern wives.” Lyanna chuckled under her breath.

Ned’s mother fixed him with a steely look. “Southern wives?”

Ned just sighed, knowing that the day was only going to grow longer.

—————————

Ned was exhausted.

He’d had barely a moments peace since the day had begun. Fortunately, the sun had just set. Since noon Ned had been slowly rotating his army of wives, children and grandchildren in to meet his newly resurrected family. Most took it with grace mixed with a little suspicion and confusion.

Thankfully, Ned’s mother and father seemed to approve of his children and choices of partners. Brandon also seemed to be getting on well with both Robb and Jon, which warmed Ned’s heart in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

Upon returning from Cookham, Beric, Samara and Tetra had stormed in as well, not trusting these new appearances for a moment. However things seemed to have calmed since then. Though Tetra had insisted on keeping all of them within her eyesight at all times.

She had not been pleased when Ned had denied her. Though he had come to a startling realisation that Tetra and his mother were both quite similar. It was not something he wished to dwell on too much.

Ned was spending his peace writing letters to his lords, bidding them to come or send representatives to Winterfell so everything could be made clear. As the piles of letters grew taller Ned heard a knock at the door.

“Come in.” He called, absentmindedly.

The Red woman was led through the door, her long red silk dress flaring in her wake. She seemed almost as tired as Ned felt. “Another prediction, or is this a more… simple visit?” Ned asked.

It was rare that she would leave her tower in Winterfell. It was usually either to tell Ned of something she had seen in her flames or to fuck him. “Four wolves have rejoined the pack.” She stated, her voice like dark velvet. “You’re welcome.”

Ned starred at her in shock. “You did this?”

Melisandre nodded. “Yes, though it took a great deal of power. We were lucky, it would not have worked if we were not in so powerful a place, if I had not had access to their remains and your living blood.”

He didn’t know if he should have been angry at her or jubilant. “Why would you do this?”

She bowed her head. “I seek only to serve you. And your pack needed to be stronger for what lies ahead…”

“What did you see?” Ned asked, standing from his desk.

“The Dream is coming.” She said. “And all the beauty and horror that’ll follow her.”