Chapter 18:
Sansa Stark:
When Sansa heard of the news, the cold horror felt like it cut her to the quick.
“Father… Is it certain?”
“Nothing is certain right now.” He answered, brushing past her and Bran both, their direwolves yipping as they chased each other.
“But Marianne, cousin Bernadetta, they would have had guards!”
“Guards can be overwhelmed.”
The voice of her brother no longer made her stiffen with trepidation, but she did glare at him as he stepped into view, his dismissive tone making her hackles rise.
“Dont talk like that!” She spat. “They’re fine.”
Felix’s gaze narrowed. “Dont be a fool. This isn’t one of your songs.”
She grit her teeth, trying to remember her courtesied. She’d long given up on having anything resembling a kind twin brother or even anything more than a coldly distant relation. But even she’d hoped that he’d have some reaction beyond thinly veiled disdain and cold cruelty.
“Stop fighting!” Bran said a second before their own father.
“Enough! Both of you.” Her Father barked. “This isn’t the time for one of your arguments. Your cousin and Lady Marianne are missing or worse!” He shook his head. “I must speak with the King, and discuss what is to be done.”
“We know what’s to be done.” Felix scoffed. “We head back North and find them!”
“So eager to play with swords again even when it's family that’s in danger?” Sansa couldn’t help but sneer.
Felix’s features darkened, glaring at her with anger.
“I said enough.” Their Father’s voice lowered into something severe and the glare he threw at both of them made her wilt and Felix wither.
“Now, I will go and speak to the King. I will allow you the courtesy of joining if you will both mind yourselves.”
By his tone alone he would brook no argument and Sansa meekly bowed her head nodding as Felix grunted a “Yes Father” with averted eyes.
Jon Snow-
To say Jon had second thoughts and reservations would have been an understatement.
For years now, his one goal had been to go to the wall, to join the night’s watch. To go somewhere his bastardry didn’t matter.
And then overnight, he’d been offered a different path, at his father’s urging no less. Something he’d never even considered an option beforehand, to join a mercenary band.
And he’d taken it. Almost on impulse, on reflex. He’d woken up and said yes to Ser Jeralt’s offer.
The Mercenary leader had smiled, clapped him on the shoulder and told him Alois would sort him with the rest of the men.
And just like that- he was no longer a member of the Watch, he was a Sell Sword. An Ashen Beast.
Ever since leaving Winterfell, Jon had kept his head down,worried that either his father, or Ser Jeralt or someone would second guess things and rethink why Jon’s Fate had been turned on its head suddenly and he was here rather than at the wall where Baseborns should be.
Alois was kind enough, the man’s only sin was his horrible taste in jokes but if that was all Jon could complain about it was hardly a thing to even bother with.
The rest of the men were welcoming enough. Two of them were also Baseborn, and they’d spoken of another one called Balthus Stone, currently on a job with a long time associate either in the Erie or across the narrow sea by now.
Jon wasn’t sure how, but Alois always made sure they had food for the night and a spot of their own in the camp.
The Lady Byleth always made a point to check on all of them at least once per day, and smiled in that strange way of hers when one of the men would cheerfully say there was ‘Nothing to report’.
Shamir, he did not know, and the way she watched each of them in utter silence sometimes frightened Jon, but it was not his place to question it, or her and so he let it be.
Ser Jeralt rode with Jon’s father and the King more often than not, Jon rarely saw him for more than a few seconds a day as he spoke with Alois and Shamir before wandering off.
But tonight the pattern broke as even if you were blind and deaf you’d be able to hear the commotion overtaking the center of the camp.
Jon pushed his way through the crowd, hearing voices being raised and spotted none other than Shamir within the throng of camp aides and soldiers watching and listening.
She turned looking at him with eyes that seemed almost ruby red in the dimming light of dusk. “Snow.” She said, voice neutral.
Jon swallowed. “What’s happening-”
She shook her head. “Bad news.” She surmised. “Listen for yourself.”
—
Dimitri
“Like Fuckin hell!” His father roared. “That’s Jon Arryn’s Girl! I’ll March past the fuckin wall and put the whole lot of those wildlings to the fuckin torch!”
They were in the center of ‘camp’ the tents hadn’t even been set up yet, a crowd had gathered around them. Baratheon men, Lannister and Stark all mingling together as they watched the lords discussing what to do.
“Your Grace,” Barristan’s features looked almost pained. “I understand you are angry but we are in no condition to turn around and march north with the column of men here.”
Dimitri knew he was right. They didn’t have the supplies, nor the equipment to haul even their paltry force of a hundred or so Baratheon and Lannister men farther north. Even if they took provisions from Winterfell or Last Hearth or even the Wall itself, after they got past the wall they’d only be able to take as much as they could carry with them. That would last for what? A week? Two at the most, not nearly enough to search for the Wildlings who did this.
“We’re also needed at the Capital.” Cersei reminded. “The realm has been without a King, the Queen or Hand since we left, by the time we return it’ll be the better part of a year.
“Ned can continue down south while I sort things here-”
“Robert, I'm warden of the North.” Eddard protested, eyes like flints as he stared at a spot on the wall. “What would my bannermen think or say, if I left while my Ward and Good niece were attacked by Wildlings and I continued south and left others to deal with this?” The Hand shook his head. “I will not leave until this matter is sorted.
“Feh!” Robert scoffed, his large hand brusquely cutting through the air. “Your son is acting Warden now, isn’t he!? Let him act it!”
“And you are the King! Eddard shot back. “If anyone should not be talking of going north to fight wildlings it would be you.”
Barristan turned to the messenger. “Before you left, did you hear what orders Winterfell had set out?”
The Messenger nodded, mumbling. “I believe Lord Robb was to ride out with some thirty men.
“That should be sufficient.” Cersei cut in. “The Northmen know their lands, their quarry, if thirty men and the son of Lord Stark can't track them down either of you heading North won't add much but needless complication to the situation. “
“And have the whole realm say I’m a bloody coward?” Robert scoffed, pointing his finger as if to emphasize the point. “Fat or not; I’m still the Demon of the Trident!”
Dimitri listened to the building argument, a pressure burgeoning behind his eyes at the center of his forehead.
Wildlings had attacked Bernadetta.
Wildlings had attacked Marianne Manderly.
He forced himself to sit still. Forced his body to obey his will, even as fury mounted like a sealed pot bubbling with frothing steam until it threatened to boil over.
He would kill every last one of them.
“Your Grace-” A new voice cut into the cacophony of noise, tickling the prince’s subconscious mind as his eyes strained to open and look at who was interrupting.
“Aye, Jeralt what?” His father answered.
Dimitri looked at the mercenary who offered a quick bow, one hand across his chest. “Your Grace, My Lord Stark- if I might be so bold as to make a suggestion, neither of you can or should go north.”
“Ya better have a damn good explanation.” Robert groused, glaring at the man.
Jeralt stepped closer. The Torchlight casting flickering shadows across his face
“As the Queen said, the realm needs a King and Hand.” Jeralt nodded. “But more than that there are others to act for you. Robb Stark is already marching out. Your Grace, you have near a Hundred Baratheon men and your Kingsguard to send. Some of the finest warriors, set loose, won't need to worry about their duties as bodyguards and can instead focus on the rescue… or retribution.
“You would have me shirk my responsibility to the North?” Ned contested.
“Forgive me for being so bold, you now have a responsibility as Hand.” Jeralt answered. “A responsibility that might become more and more… out of reach the longer things go on freely in the south.”
It sounded like a reiteration of old arguments to Dimitri’s ear, but Lord Stark’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursing in distaste as if something the Mercenary had said broke through.
“Feh.” His Father scoffed again. “I’m still-”
“I’ll go.”
The words were whispered, and as all eyes turned to where he was sitting, Dimitri realized the syllables had tumbled free before he realized that he was speaking at all.
Even so, the Baratheon prince stood up from his seat. “Robb Stark has been sent-” He nodded to his father. “It’s only right you send your son in your place, along with any brave man that volunteers to go.”
“Like hell You’re going without me!”
“Father-” The Prince cut in, his voice firm enough to give Robert pause. “Please. I’ve never asked you for anything. Let me go and do my duty here, with the peace of mind that King’s landing is in your and Lord Stark’s well suited hands.”
His father seemed to choke on the next words, swallowing them down, indecision, pride and concern all warring within him.
Dimitri didn’t like… manipulating his father. It always felt cruel, knowing he was possibly the only one who could. But right now, he needed to go. And he couldn’t have His Father heading North as a giant black haired… distraction.
“You cannot mean to send him!” Cersei balked.
“He’s a man grown!” Robert snapped glaring at her before turning his eyes back towards Dimitri. “Fighting is what Men do.” The great Baratheon King stalked forward, almost looming over Dimitri. “This is what you want? To go up there? Without your father gettin in the way of the glory?” His smile was present, but false, his eyes searching for the answer as to why Dimitri had asked him to stay behind.
“My own Mercenaries will go.” Jeralt said before looking to the gathered crowd around them. Speaking louder, so that all might hear. “Robb Stark, is going. The Manderly’s too will send their men for their daughter. What about you? Who’ll volunteer to go with the Prince, for rescue… or vengeance?”
Before even a second had gone by his Uncle Jamie stepped forward, standing beside him as he usually did.
Dimitri looked to his uncle, who smiled in that devil may care way of his. “You have my sword. Now and always.”
“I’ll go.”
The voice made the prince look, finding none other than Lord’s stark Baseborn, clad in black, features grave. “I was always meant for the Wall. Maybe this is fate.” He said, smirking towards his father.
“Father.” For the first time, Felix, who’s been standing quietly beside Brandon and Sansa stepped forward, nodding towards the grave faced Stark patriarch.
“I’m your squire my Prince.” Ashe called, stepping forward. “My bow is ready.”
“I could never let you ride off into danger alone, cousin; My Father would never let me call myself a Baratheon again.” Lorenz too stepped forward with a smile.
“I will answer the call.” Another man stepped forward.
“As will I.”
“We stormlanders will not shirk from a fight with wildlings.”
And then another; and another. Baratheon, Lannister, Stark. All of them stepped forward, vowing to follow the Prince into the cold North.
“Clegane!” Cersei barked rounding on the hound who had been stalking nearby. “You will go with my son and my brother.
Dimitri barely heard them. Barely recognized it all. He couldn’t taste the inside of his mouth, his blood pounded between his temples.
Bernadetta. Marianne. Kidnapped… raped… dead…
He would kill every last one of them.
—
Jamie Lannister.
As the camp began to finally disperse and the men saw to their tasks Jamie turned to see to his own duties. They would leave at first light. He would need to change horses, the one he’d ridden down from Winterfell would be too tired for a hard ride north again tomorrow.
But then, a hand clasped around his shoulder, and Jamie was pulled, forced to turn around. He was about to tell off whoever dared lay a hand on him, only to choke down the words as he found himself staring at Robert Baratheon.
“Your Grac-” He trailed off.
He’d never seen this kind of look on Robert’s face.
It sent a very real, very cold chill crawling up Jamie’s spine.
“You make sure my son returns.” Robert’s voice was gravel, stone scraping against stone, It barely even sounded human and in that moment, Jamie felt for the first time in his life, as though he beheld just the barest glimpse of the man that truly was the Demon of the Trident.
“Piss on all your other oaths but you keep that one.” Robert’s features darkened… malformed. Becoming grotesque and genuinely monstrous in the dying shadow of the twilight hour.
“If you dont… I will kill you.”
Jamie did not believe in Robert’s word, he was a drunk and a fool every hour of every day.
But he did believe this one.
And for once he held very little confidence that he’d actually win against the Baratheon King.
Robert’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And if not you… I’ll kill her.”
Jamie’s entire body went still as stone.
And in the dark, look in Robert’s blue eyes.
The man meant it.
He absolutely would do it.
Jamie’s mind flashed, suddenly remembering where he’d seen this look before, where he beheld such darkness.
Aerys.
The Phantom of the Mad King stared back at him through Robert’s eyes, a passing shade that told him that this was not Robert. This was not the normal buffoon and drunk.
And Jamie needed to tread very, very carefully.
Without another word; the Black haired Monster that slew Rhaegar and brought down the Targaryen Dynasty turned and marched away, and Jamie felt he could breathe again.
—
Marianne Manderly:
The ropes bit tight around her wrists. The blood had cooled already along the skirt of her dress and sleeves, it was clammy, and the dull brown of it didn’t even look like blood anymore.
The cold snow seeped up through her clothes where she sat, her breath fogged even as she tried to slow her heart and breathing.
The guards were dead, their bodies laying across the ground, only her and Bernadetta were alive and Bernadetta was near hyperventilating where she sat next to Marianne.
It was cold, and the grey expanse stretched out from horizon to horizon. Cold and empty.
No help would be coming.
She needed to get her out of this,
And as the ropes bit and chafed at her wrists, she came upon an idea.
The wildlings were looting the bodies, busying themselves. Taking armor, weapons, coin.anything. They would take everything that wasn’t nailed down.
“Come on.” One of the Wildling men hissed. “We’ve got to get back. Two of em got away! We need to beat feet back to Mance with this Kneeler princess and if we stay we’ll be caught.
“We’ll leave soon.” A woman, red-headed, answered back, fiddling with a steel axe and shield she’d taken. The shield was painted in Manderly colors.
Marianne watched them, even as she grasped Bernadetta’s shaking hands, thumbs brushing across her knuckles to try and console her.
There were four of them. There’d been almost thirty of them before. Neither her nor Bernadetta’s guards had allowed themselves to go quietly
But eight men against thirty were long odds even when it was armor against fur and cloth.
Finally after nearly an hour, the Wildling girl stepped closer, two of the remaining wildings beside her. “Alright.” She scoffed. “Lets get movin ya kneeler girls.” She held her spear tip down, pointing it at them as Bernadetta whimpered. “Dont give us any trouble, we’ve lost a lot of men fer you and I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
One of the men knelt down reaching to grasp either herself or Bernadetta and haul them to their feet-
She saw the knife, and knew it was her one chance.
Marianne lunged, quick as a snake, the man startled, trying to shove her away but she was already grasping the knife hilt, pulling it free-
She didn’t slash at him, didn’t attack any of them.
Instead, she placed the edge of that curved bone knife, to her own throat, hard enough that she could feel the warm trickle of her own blood dripping down her fingers.
“What the fu-”
“My name-” Marianne said in a voice that was far firmer than it had any right to be. “Is Sansa Stark of Winterfell.” She pressed the knife just a bit closer to her neck for emphasis. “You will release my handmaid, or whatever prize you wish to get with my ransom, will be spilt in red across the snow right here and now. I swear on the old Gods and the New.”
“You’re bluffin.” One of the men snarled, moving to reach for her as she backed away.She cut not too deep, not too hard, but enough so that the trickle became a steady flow, Bernadetta screamed- and the wildlings stopped dead in their tracks.
“Do you think I'm so attached to this wretched existence?” She declared.
She turned her eyes towards Bernadetta who trembled on the floor, staring wide eyed and in utter disbelief.
“Run.” She said. “Run for Winterfell.” She turned back to the wildlings. “As soon as she’s beyond sight on the horizon, I will go with you. But I will not let you hurt her.”
The red headed wildling girl stared at her, her jaw working like she was chewing on something unpleasant.
Bernadetta moved to get up, her legs shaking, she was clearly terrified, and tears flowed down her cheeks in cold rivulets.
One of the Wildlings thrust his spear forward, using the shaft to block the girl's path as he turned to the woman. “The hell do we do? We can't just let her go.”
The red headed girl ground her teeth. “Let me think, just let me think!”
“You don't have much time for that.” Marianne goaded. “As your man said. You need to get to Mance. He wants his princess.” She shook her head. “I promise you, he’ll have no northern princess if I die.”
“Bitch” The red headed wildling sneered, hands clenched tight over the haft of her spear. She snarled as she turned to Bernadetta. “Go! Fore I change my fuckin mind!”
The Arryn girl hesitated, looking to Marianne clearly conflicted between fleeing and leaving Marianne alone.
Marianne was never good at giving smiles. But she tried to offer one now.
Bernadetta cried, closing her eyes as she sprinted west, in the direction of Winterfell.
It would be a hard road…
But better it than the wildlings.
“You sure about this Leonie?” One of the Wildling men demanded.
“No.” The girl- Leonie - shrugged. “But fuck it; we’re doin it anyway.”(X)(X)(X)Sorry for the slight delay on this one, reworked some scenes at the last minute.