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TWL Chapter - 61
🕑 Added 2024-12-29 23:53:39 +0000 UTCNed sometimes cursed his brother.
Not out of malice - gods no - but because if Brandon had used his head instead of letting his temper rule him, things might have been different. His brother's headstrong march to King's Landing, demanding justice from a mad King... Ned understood the righteous anger that drove him. How could he not?
But understanding didn't change the fact that Brandon's rash actions, however justified, had cost him his life and thrust Ned into a position he'd never been prepared to hold.
Brandon had been raised to be the Lord of Winterfell. He'd had the temperament for it too - bold, charismatic, commanding respect without effort.
Growing up alongside Robert at the Eyrie, he'd constantly heard his friend complain about the duties expected of him as heir to Storm's End. Back then, Ned had felt a quiet satisfaction knowing he'd never have to deal with such burdens as a second son. He'd never admitted that feeling to anyone, of course.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Now here he was, sitting where his father used to sit, dealing with the fact that the North had somehow become the center of attention for not just the Seven Kingdoms, but even Essos. The quiet, familiar castle town he'd grown up in was barely recognizable anymore.
The amount of paperwork crossing his desk seemed to multiply at an ungodly rate. Trade agreements, diplomatic correspondence, petitions - it never ended. And some of his "guests" appeared content to simply stay indefinitely rather than return home.
Tyrion at least was making himself useful at the Clinic, keeping busy and staying out of too much trouble. His presence had actually been a blessing in disguise - the dwarf-turned-teenager had taken over managing much of the clinic and school’s administrative work, freeing up Freya to focus on healing and teaching.
The Tyrells, thankfully, had shown the courtesy of informing him of their impending departure. But before they left, Willas Tyrell had presented an intriguing proposal - a very generous trade deal in exchange for Sansa's hand in marriage.
A few years ago, he would never have imagined such a generous offer would be made to him. He could see what the Tyrells were planning. Fortunately for him, their ambitions aligned with his daughter's best interests.
The contract gave him full control over when the wedding would take place along with a lot of leeway for any changes, meaning Sansa could complete her healer's training first. Having a healer trained by the White Mage as the future Lady of Highgarden would be worth far more than anything they were offering in the current negotiations.
The Tyrells knew this too - it's why they were so eager to secure the betrothal now.
But Ned also understood their other motivation. The Tyrells had always been ambitious, and he knew they dreamed of making Margaery the future queen. The only potential obstacle to that plan was Sansa, given his close friendship with Robert. By arranging this marriage, they'd elegantly remove that complication while gaining a valuable alliance with both the North and, by extension, the White Mage's growing influence.
El’s existence seemed to have given them another option, for why else would the queen of thorns send her beloved granddaughter across the continent, but to see if they could tie the mage to their family by blood?
It was a clever play, Ned had to admit. One that worked in his favor so he didn't really have any issues with it.
Ned would never willingly send any of his children to King's Landing, least of all his kind-hearted Sansa.
That cursed city had already taken too much from his family.
Though Highgarden was further south than the capital, Ned was certain it would be a far better home for Sansa.
The Reach was not perfect, but it was safer than the viper's nest known as King's Landing.
Still, he kept these thoughts to himself - no need to show his hand to the Tyrells just yet.
When he'd countered their offer by suggesting Margaery's hand for Robb instead, Willas's response had confirmed his suspicions. The heir to Highgarden admitted he lacked the authority to negotiate such a match, which told Ned everything he needed to know about their plans.
But truthfully, Ned didn't care much about their ambitions. The deal they'd offered was beyond generous - a guaranteed supply of grain from the Reach for five decades, at mere transport costs. Such an arrangement would ensure the North's food security for the foreseeable future.
No other house could offer such a deal, and Ned was nothing if not practical.
After careful discussions with both Sansa and Catelyn, finding them both amenable to the match, he'd agreed to the betrothal. His daughter's eyes had lit up at the prospect, not with the starry-eyed dreams of her younger days, but with thoughtful consideration.
She'd spent some time with Willas during his stay, their conversations ranging far beyond the usual courtly pleasantries.
But even with this matter settled, Ned's desk remained piled high with other concerns requiring his attention.
The Martells had been visibly disappointed when they learned El had disappeared on another of his mysterious journeys in the middle of the night. Not that Ned could blame them - the Mage's tendency to vanish without warning was becoming a pattern he'd grown used to, even if it did complicate matters sometimes.
But El's absence wasn't what truly troubled Ned's thoughts. No, it was their last conversation that kept him awake at night, the disturbing implications of the deserter's words and El's reaction to them.
He'd spent hours poring over the ancient books of House Stark, and a troubling pattern had emerged. The records, cryptic as they were, all seemed to hint at the same thing - the return of the Others. The references were scattered throughout their history, carefully hidden in seemingly mundane passages, but once you knew what to look for, the message became clear.
Was this the secret knowledge passed down from each Lord Stark to their heir? If so, it would explain why he'd never learned of it.
As a second son, he'd never been meant to bear this burden. The tragedy that had befallen his family - Brandon's and his father's execution - hadn't just changed the line of succession. It had broken a chain of knowledge stretching back thousands of years, leaving him oblivious and unprepared for what might be coming.
The timing couldn't have been worse. If what El suspected was true, if the Others truly were stirring beyond the Wall, then he needed to prepare. But how do you prepare for something out of legend? How do you convince others to believe in threats they consider nothing more than tales meant to scare children?
At least he had El's support in this. Whatever else the Mage might be, Ned trusted his judgment. If El thought this threat was real enough to investigate personally, then perhaps it was time for the North to start preparing, quietly, for winter's true arrival.
Before Ned could spiral further down that dark path of thought, a knock at his solar door pulled him back to the present. "Come in," he called out.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Lord Stark?" Maester Luwin's familiar voice carried a note of concern that immediately caught Ned's attention.
"No, come in, Maester. What seems to be the matter?"
"I've just received a letter from the Citadel which is... rather concerning." Luwin's usually steady hands fidgeted with the parchment.
Ned gestured for him to continue, noting the unusual display of nervousness from his normally composed Maester.
"If the letter is genuine - and I've verified its authenticity as best I can - it seems the Citadel was attacked by a swarm of locusts." Luwin's voice carried a hint of disbelief at his own words.
"Excuse me?" Ned leaned forward in his chair. "Did you say locusts?"
"Yes, my lord. I had the same reaction." Luwin's expression suggested he still couldn't quite believe what he was reporting.
"And how is the Citadel faring now after this... attack?" Ned chose his words carefully, trying to make sense of this bizarre news.
"It's functioning again, but..." Luwin paused, searching for the right words. "It seems the locusts targeted a specific group. Every single Archmaester present in the Citadel is dead, yet remarkably, no one else was harmed."
"My condolences, Maester. Did you lose anyone you were close to?"
"No, not really," Luwin replied. "I merely thought you should be informed of these developments, Lord Stark."
"That is indeed an odd occurrence," Ned acknowledged, choosing his next words.
"Forgive me if I sound crass, Maester, but I have more pressing matters than contemplating an attack on the other side of Westeros."
Luwin hesitated, and Ned could see the usually composed man wrestling with whether to speak his mind. Finally, the Maester ventured, " I understand, I hope I'm not overstepping, my lord, but... might these matters relate to the deserter?"
Ned felt a flicker of surprise before letting out a weary sigh. He should have known better than to think they could keep such news contained.
The deserter's final moments, his desperate warnings, the look in El's eyes - these things had a way of spreading.
"Sit down, Maester," Ned gestured to the chair across from his desk. "This will take some time to explain."
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I followed Tormund as he led me towards a small group of six people sitting next to a fire. I was happy to see that Benjen was with them, seemingly deep in conversation. I had no idea where he had wandered off to while I was busy healing.
As we approached, they fell silent. Not to sound too narcissistic, but I thought they might have been talking about me.
"Right then!" Tormund called out, clapping his massive hands together. "Let me introduce you to the poor bastards crazy enough to join your hunt, healer boy."
He gestured to a tall, lean woman with pale blonde hair. "This here's Val. She's the best scout you'll find north of the Wall—really mean with a spear, and she knows these lands better than most."
Val gave me a measured nod, her sharp eyes studying me with open curiosity. I could practically see her cataloging every detail, trying to figure out what I was.
"Ygritte you've already met. She's really good with a bow, even better at spotting things from leagues away" Tormund continued. The red-haired archer merely arched an annoyed brow at him. It was no surprise to see her here; her reputation as a tracker was well-earned.
"Then we've got Errok," he pointed to a grizzled man with a club on his side whose scarred face spoke of countless battles. "He's killed more wights than anyone else here, so he might actually be useful."
The last member of our group stood slightly apart from the others, his eyes distant and unfocused. "And that's Orell," Tormund finished. "He's a warg - can see through the eyes of his eagle. Might help us spot what we're looking for before it spots us."
I couldn't help but smile at the assembled group. "I shall be in your care."
I was met with silence, as it seemed I was dealing with a quiet bunch. Heh, I had enough time to annoy them into talking. If all else failed, I was quite sure Tormund would keep me entertained.
Orell's abilities particularly intrigued me—I had been wanting to study a warg up close. I hadn't scanned anyone who had awakened and was actively using their warg powers.
Mance approached as we finished our final preparations, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of our equipment. I recognized that calculating look - it was the gaze of a man who'd survived countless winters beyond the Wall by leaving nothing to chance. He wasn't just looking at our supplies; he was measuring our chances of survival.
"Any words of wisdom before we head out?" I asked, adjusting the straps on my pack. Though I had confidence in my abilities, I wasn't too proud to learn from someone with his experience.
Mance's expression grew serious. "Just one," he said, choosing his words carefully. "There's no shame in running away."
He left the rest unsaid, but his meaning was clear enough. Even the King-Beyond-the-Wall knew better than to face certain death just to prove a point.
"Ha! Wise words indeed. Don't worry about that; I know I come off as very cocky, but I have been thoroughly chastised for biting off more than I can handle. The moment things start going sideways, I will grab everyone and haul my ass south. Don't you worry," I agreed with a grin.
He let out a breath and nodded. "Thank you."
Benjen came up to me. "The horses are ready," he reported. "Though I'm not sure how well they'll fare where we're heading."
"Don't worry about the horses," I assured him. "I've made some improvements. They'll manage."
Tormund, overhearing this, looked at me curiously. "What kind of improvements?"
"The kind that'll keep them from freezing to death or getting tired too quickly," I explained.
"Nothing too fancy."
"Nothing too fancy, he says," Tormund muttered, shaking his head. "Like making horses immune to cold is a simple thing."
As we prepared to depart, I noticed movement in the treeline. Through my thermal vision, I spotted Hobbes lurking in the shadows. The Shadowcat had been following us at a distance, apparently still curious but maintaining his distance.
Looking at our assembled group—the first ranger of the night watch, a handful of wildlings, and not to forget the shadowcat stalking us—I couldn't help but chuckle at the situation.
There was definitely a joke in there somewhere; I just couldn't quite put my finger on it.
"Right then," I announced, mounting my horse. "Let's go hunt ourselves some ice zombies."
We set off north, deeper into the lands of eternal winter. The wildlings led the way, with Ygritte and Errok taking point. They moved with the confidence of people who knew where they were going.
As we rode, Tormund pulled his horse alongside mine. "You know," he said conversationally, "most men would be more concerned about heading into the heart of White Walker territory."
I shrugged. "Most men can't dissolve people with a thought."
"Fair point," he conceded. "So, do you think you can deal with a White Walker as easily as you dealt with the crow killer?"
“Well, I’m pretty sure that it will work on a Wight, but I can’t guarantee that it will work on a White Walker,” I replied.
That was precisely why I needed to catch one—to understand exactly what we were dealing with. The show's portrayal of the White Walkers might not be entirely accurate in this world, and I needed to know what we were really up against.
I was not about to leave the fate of the world in the hands of an eighteen-year-old girl and some parkour moves.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the promise of colder days ahead. Something told me this trip was going to be more interesting than I had hoped.
And not necessarily in a good way.
“So, where are we going?” I asked.
“The last place we know they were spotted was when they attacked a small tribe at the Fist of the First Men. We’re going to start looking from there.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
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A/N: Hello everyone, I have permission from the people who control my life that if and only if I get 350 patrons (currently at 114) I can drop everything else and just do this full time instead of spending most of my day filling out pointless job applications and sending stupid emails begging for a job.
I would have loved for this to happen organically but I am losing my mind faster than I expected.
I swear on my laptop and everything I hold dear that I will write a chapter every day if you help me get there.
Very very sincerely,
elfon
Comments
Monzter E
Last update before the new year?... thanks for the chapter 🙏
