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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1
A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024
1,201Chapter 25: Book 2: Desert Swords and Winter Blades
"Yield, Baratheon."
Arthur awaited his opponent's reply. The stormlord towered over him, warhammer raised high overhead, but the Sword of the Morning held his blade taut against his opponent's gorget, poised to pierce his throat. Even with the finest of armors, few men would have risked such a blow, and had Arthur wielded Dawn, Robert Baratheon would have met his end.
None knew this better than the young stag, who glowered at the Dornish knight, his face etched with frustration and fury as Arthur stared back, unmoved.
"Damn your eyes, Dayne," he spat. Baratheon stepped back and lowered his hammer. Arthur likewise withdrew, finding the insult had been more courtesy than he had expected from his foe.
Without exchanging further pleasantries, the antlered lord stomped off the field. His defeat afforded Arthur a moment to reflect on the duel as his breathing steadied and body eased. The heir of Storm's End had proven himself worthy of his Durrandon and Targaryen blood. Despite sustaining injuries against Greatjon Umber, he had pressed Arthur like few men he could recall, leaving the Dornish knight uncertain of victory.
But for all his battle lust and bluster, the young stag had attacked Arthur with the intent to humble rather than harm, proof that he knew nothing of Rhaegar's visit to his betrothed. The Sword of the Morning was unsurprised: Eddard Stark would not have confided in his foster brother, not when his words endangered Lady Lyanna's prospects and honor. Rhaegar had left House Stark with little recourse, and though their silence served his prince's cause, Arthur was glad Lady Lyanna had been spared further indignity.
Selfishly, his thoughts turned to Ashara, whose own match had been imperiled by Rhaegar's actions. Having played his part in their troubles, Arthur knew the Starks were far less inclined to see Eddard and Ashara wed. But the wolves of Winterfell could not be seen abandoning so public a courtship, not without incurring scrutiny that they could ill afford.
The Starks would doubtlessly bleed House Dayne dry when it came time to discuss the dowry, but Arthur could not bring himself to care. Marriage to the Wolf Knight would free Ashara from the snakepit that was King's Landing, the dangers that lurked within, and the consequences of his own failings.
Duty was a burden the Daynes knew well, bound to service by oaths if not by chains. The Sword of the Morning would at least see his sister freed from hers with honor intact.
As the melee devolved into a series of duels, Arthur pressed onward. One by one, famed knights challenged him, only to be found wanting. Forty men turned to twenty, then twenty became ten.
Soon, only five men remained, falling to four after Tytos Blackwood bested Tygett Lannister.
The lion's defeat came as some surprise, but the young riverlord had distinguished himself during the melee. Bullying his way to the front of the Crownlands contingent, the Lord of Raventree Hall had led the charge against his fellow rivermen and unseated his rival, Jonos Bracken. Afoot, Tytos had proved himself no less formidable, but faced with the great warriors who remained afield, his qualities fell short.
The young Lord of Raventree Hall found himself outmatched, but he approached Arthur all the same, refusing to turn heel in the face of certain defeat. The Sword of the Morning honored his courage by raising his blade.
The duel ended quickly: a deft parry broke the momentum of Tytos' advance, a swift strike opened his guard, and a second forced the sword from his hand. Saluting the young riverman, Arthur turned in time to see Brandon Stark overwhelm Yohn Royce with brutal, hammering blows. The veteran knight weathered the assault as best he could, until a vicious kick drove the air from his lungs, sending Bronze Yohn staggering into the dirt.
The Lord of Runestone fell on his back, struggling for breath while his opponent held a blade over his eyes.
"I yield," the valeman gasped, and Arthur appreciated his exhaustion even from afar. He watched as the Northern Blade lowered his sword and helped the bronze lord to his feet.
"Haven't been struck like that since I was a squire," Yohn Royce huffed, lifting his visor to acknowledge the younger man. "Lord Stark must be blessed by the gods to have you and Eddard for sons."
Mirroring the aged warrior, Brandon removed his helm in a show of respect.
"We had the fortune of learning under great men," he replied, voice measured and modest despite his savage display. "Thank you for overseeing my brother's instruction, Lord Royce."
Even in defeat, the Lord of Runestone warmed at the praise. He grasped the northman's shoulder and wished him luck before taking his leave.
The Sword of the Morning and Northern Blade stood alone on the field. Not a voice could be heard as the heir of Winterfell turned to face his enemy.
Arthur stepped forward, ready to salute his opponent, only for Brandon to raise his helm and toss it aside. Cheers arose from the crowd who mistook his actions for showmanship, leaving Arthur no choice but to discard his own.
The Knight of Starfall locked eyes with the heir of Winterfell, who glared back as though Arthur were the source of all the world's ills. No doubt he thought Arthur the lowest of men, believing he had known Rhaegar's intentions when they left the royal apartments days ago and had done nothing to dissuade his prince from their destination upon learning the truth.
There was much he wished to say, but Arthur held his tongue. Instead, he raised his greatsword and accepted the hate that was his due.
Brandon had imagined himself approaching Ebbin Wyl, the coward who had tried to kill his brother. He envisioned himself drawing a rondel dagger and driving it through Ebbin's knee, twisting the blade to pry the joint apart amidst the Dornishman's screams. Brandon saw himself returning the coward to Dorne crippled and lame, granting him the chance to find his courage and venture into the desert like a greybeard into the snow, sparing his kin the burden and indignity of his care.
The heir of Winterfell knew himself capable of such cruelty, of maiming a man and calling it justice. Perhaps that was why he had allowed the Whents to drag Ebbin Wyl away, disgraced but unharmed, destined for Harrenhal's dungeons and the Wall thereafter.
But when Brandon's gaze upon Arthur Dayne, the brutal fantasy returned in force, accompanied by memories equally woeful and bitter. He recalled the wavering smile Lyanna had worn hours ago when she chose to brave the Realm's scrutiny, determined to silence the rumors her brothers had kept at bay. Brandon remembered the look of dejection on Benjen's face as his youngest brother sat alone at night, knees drawn to his chest, old enough to realize his family's plight yet too young to help.
As the scenes played out behind his eyes, Brandon charged the Sword of the Morning. Arthur Dayne did not deserve to know his thoughts, but the fool would learn his pain once Brandon carved it into his flesh.
The Sword of the Morning swept his blade in a great arc, and the Northern Blade struck back with savage grace. Thrice, they clashed, each accompanied by a deafening sound as the impact threatened to warp the blades in their hands. Arthur deflected a blow meant for his head, a deft turn of his wrists locking Brandon's sword in place. Castle-forged steel screeched as the Sword of the Morning and Northern Blade pressed into the bind, shifting leverage and footing as they vied for control.
The reach of Arthur's greatsword proved no advantage as Brandon angled a thrust at his groin, only for the knight to parry the blow and bypass his guard. Turning his sword into a lance, Arthur drove the point into the exposed mail of Brandon's armor, intent on piercing his arm and ending the duel. The Northern Blade made no attempt to evade as he pivoted into the attack, forcing Arthur's greatsword to glance off his cuirass and his opponent to overreach. Instincts alone saved Arthur's life as Brandon slashed across his face, the blade drawing near enough to cast a shadow over his eyes.
The Sword of the Morning withdrew while the Northern Blade stood his ground. Spectators roared from the battlements, voices alight with every emotion from excitement to horror. Their cries went unheeded as Arthur steadied his breathing and heart.
His hands ached for Dawn, for Brandon Stark was near as strong as Robert Baratheon and twice as fast. Faced with such a foe, Arthur fully understood how the Starks of old had brought the North to heel. Not since facing Barristan Selmy had the Dornish knight needed his family's blade to secure victory.
The Northern Blade lived up to his name, and the thought brought Arthur little comfort, for while Eddard Stark had shown himself a true knight–his conduct during the melee proving his character beyond reproach–Brandon Stark was not his brother.
Where Eddard stood as steadfast as the Wall at the edge of the Realm, the heir of Winterfell struck like a baleful squall. Without a lance, he had unhorsed the likes of Jon Connington and Garth Hightower with worrying ease; on foot, he had brutalized men of the Crownlands and Dorne with a fervor bordering zeal.
Yet, for all that he breathed violence, the heir of Winterfell had deferred to the Lord of Runestone with startling humility and had handled his brother's would-be killer with astonishing restraint, betraying a discipline more dangerous than the sum of his skill. That alone made Arthur wary.
Few would believe it, but the Sword of the Morning had improved markedly since joining the Kingsguard, benefiting from Barristan Selmy's personal instruction. Time and again, the legendary knight had forced Arthur to confront the rare mistakes in his bladework, errors lesser men had been unable to exploit. Under Barristan's guidance, the Sword of the Morning had polished his skills to their zenith, and as Arthur fought the Northern Blade, he recognized the same refinement in Brandon's savage form.
Pieces fell into place as Arthur uncovered the answer to a question he had never asked. The Sword of the Morning could no longer deny the truth before his eyes: there was a hidden master in the North, one who rivaled Ser Barriston in skill, if not in deed.
The revelation accompanied a startling lack of surprise, for the winterlands were the largest and most insular of the Seven Kingdoms, a desolate and barren waste where even the most exceptional of talents could languish in obscurity amidst decades of peace.
But that was not what mattered now. The prince must be informed. Whoever taught the Northern Blade must be found and brought into the fold, for while Arthur and his sworn brothers were prepared to lay down their lives, they needed allies to defend the Realm from the trials ahead.
The barest tremor ran down Arthur's blade as he recalled Rhaegar's words when he confided his dreams of song and prophecy. Of the coming night and the promised prince. Of salt and smoke, ice and fire.
Arthur dearly wished his prince was mistaken, yet within his heart, Rhaegar's words rung terrible and true. History has shown the perils of dismissing a dragon's dreams: Mighty Valyria had mocked Daenys the Dreamer when she foresaw the Doom. Now, the Freehold was no more. Arthur would not allow the same fate to befall the Seven Kingdoms.
As the Northern Blade drew near, the Dornish knight thought back to his prince–the same prince who had given him hope after Arthur pledged himself to a king, only to service a monster. Even now, here in Harrenhal, Arthur would close his eyes and find himself standing guard outside the royal bedchamber, listening as the king laughed and queen screamed, unable to intervene without blackening his name and marking his family for death. Rhaegar Targaryen had promised him–promised them all–an end to the nightmares.
The Sword of the Morning remembered his prince, recalled his oath as a Kingsguard knight, and willed his weary body forward.
From the battlements of the greatest castle Westeros had ever known, a summer knight clad in gleaming armor battled a winter warrior cloaked in shadows. The figures moved as though in a dance, reciting a routine only they could follow, and the Realm bore witness to a duel unlike any in all its history.
The knight moved with the swiftness of windswept sand, every strike flowing seamlessly into the next. With every twist and turn, his blade traced the elegant lines of his form, carving graceful arcs through the warm, southern air. His opponent struck back like an icy tempest, every blow abrupt, brutal, and deliberate, embodying the harsh beauty of a barren land where life defied the world's every attempt to lay it low.
The warriors exchanged killing blows as though they were words, standing like figures from a bygone age when the great houses were yet unnamed and the world still young.
Time lost meaning as the two men gained and lost ground with every exchange. In another life, history would have remembered the summer knight as the greatest legend to wield a blade, his memory lingering in the minds of men long after his lifeblood watered the sands of Dorne. Even now, he proved himself the preeminent swordsman of his time, fighting with flawless technique and form.
But his opponent answered with a strength without limit or end, honed by a teacher capable of that and more. Against such a force, even the knight faltered and fell.
The heir of Winterfell pinned Arthur to the ground. His blade pressed against Arthur's neck, the blunted edge barely held in place by the guard of the knight's sword. Not to be denied his prey, the northman leaned against the hilt of his blade, forming a wedge that forced Arthur's own sword into his chest. Even in the face of death, the knight refused to yield,
But just as his strength wavered, the Northern Blade withdrew.
Brandon rose to his feet, leaving his sword where it lay. He looked down at Arthur, daring the Dornish knight to stand. The provocation proved needless, for the victor was never in doubt.
The Sword of the Morning lifted himself from the dirt only to kneel, and the melee of Harrenhal came to an end.
Brandon half-listened as the Whents proclaimed his victory. The thrum of his heart drowned out the roar of the crowd and his hands still itched for a blade. He had been prepared to maim Arthur Dayne–kill him, even–and the ensuing scorn would have fallen from him like rain. The thought of Lord Fairchild's disapproval and fear for Ned's happiness had stayed his hand, but even now, his blood simmered with lingering regret.
Casting all thoughts of the Dornishman aside, the heir of Winterfell approached the battlements and knelt before the royal box. Raising his head to regard the king, Brandon thought it a cruel joke that seven kingdoms owed allegiance to a crown-wearing fool.
Aerys Targaryen was a gaunt specter of a man, his skeletal frame dwarfed by his high-backed throne. Curtains of oily, matted hair fell past his shoulders, pooling in his lap in utter disarray. Scabs and near-healed cuts marred every patch of pallid skin visible beneath his satin robes. Long, yellowed nails adorned his hands like talons, desperately clawing at his throne as though clinging to any proof of his power and claim.
The Targaryen king was the very image of a vagrant wrapped in royal garb, a wretched creature whose ever-shifting eyes betrayed unending fear and cruelty. And yet, none dared to speak when the king rose from his throne.
"Well fought, well fought!"
Amidst the suffocating silence, Brandon heard the king's every word, his tone amused yet laced with anger, reminding Brandon of a boy whose toy had been damaged, caring little for his possessions, only that they were his.
"Yes, yes, well done indeed!"
Aerys raised his hands, long nails raking together as he clapped in applause. The surrounding lords hurried to follow his example.
"You fought well, Stark!" the king praised again, the words quickly losing worth as they were dispensed like coins, "Or, at the very least, you fought better."
The king's eyes swept over him, landing on Dayne several steps away. As he studied his knight, Aerys' amusement shifted to disdain, but that too turned quickly to disinterest, and Brandon found himself again suffering the king's attention.
"That Dornishman who struck your brother's horse," Aerys drawled, savoring every word with a levity that pricked at Brandon's ears and anger, "I had thought to see him burn, but I chose to see what you might do with him."
Aery's eyes narrowed, a sneer thinning his lips as all humor fell from his face.
"You've disappointed me in that regard, Stark."
The Targaryen king demanded an answer. In another life, Brandon might have wavered under Aery's gaze. But the heir of Winterfell had spent years under the tutelage of a man with starlit eyes, a force of nature who even now made Brandon feel like a child playing at knighthood. When compared to the Hunter, Aerys Targaryen fell painfully short, and no number of crowns or kingdoms could make up the difference.
The Northern Blade held the king's graze.
"He was unworthy prey, Your Grace."
For a moment, Aerys stood still, stunned the northman had dared express anything save regret. His eyes darted wildly as he weighed Brandon's words, deciding whether they warranted punishment. Then, as the silence grew unbearable, Aerys threw his head back and laughed.
"Yes, yes! You may be right in that regard, yes!" Delight danced in Aerys' eyes, and it was clear that the king was speaking for his own amusement. "Yes, it seems Rickard has reared a fierce beast indeed!"
The Targaryen curled an outstretched hand into a fist, grasping an unseen chain.
"And who better than I to hold its leash?"
None were prepared when Aerys unfurled his hand, directing a gnarled finger at Brandon.
"Kneel, Brandon Stark!" he shouted as though the young warrior were not already on one knee. "You have proven yourself the finest blade in the Realm! Better, yes, than my own Kingsguard. But I would see that changed! Kneel, Brandon Stark! Swear to me, and I will see you honored with a white cloak!"
The lords and ladies of the Realm stood stunned by his declaration. Brandon watched, almost amused as many struggled to mask their shock, whispering to their fellows while the men of the North roared in outrage, the massive form of Greatjon Umber prominent amongst the riled lords. Their protests fell on deaf ears as Aerys awaited an answer, uncaring that Brandon was no knight, that his induction would add an eighth blade to the seven-manned order and rob the Warden of the North of his presumed heir.
The eldest scion of Winterfell bit back a laugh.
"I accept," he proclaimed, his answer sapping the fight from his fellow northmen. "I only implore your benevolence, Your Grace."
Aerys' maddening smile slipped the moment Brandon made his request.
"Speak," the king dared, his voice echoing both challenge and command.
Brandon made a show of bowing his head lower still. "Allow me a year to prepare my brother for his duties." The Northern Blade steeled his resolve, resisting the urge to look for his brother, thus shielding him from Aerys' gaze. "House Stark has kept faith with House Targaryen since the days of the Conquest. Not once have we wavered. Let me ensure Eddard serves you just the same."
The king studied his newest Kingsguard with wide, violet eyes, searching for any sign of deception. A gnarled hand rose to stroke his beard as the scabbed king made sense of his thoughts.
"Yes," he rasped at last, yellowed nails catching on the knots of his matted hair. He glanced at his Lord Hand, who had lost his own heir to the Kingsguard days ago, and smiled cruelly. "Yes, it would be my pleasure to grant so small a favor to so loyal a servant."
The kings stepped forward, issuing a decree for all to hear.
"Speak your vows now, Brandon Stark, and I grant you this boon."
Brandon bowed his head as though in ascent. He mimed the words Jaime Lannister had uttered days before, words House Targaryen had plundered from the ancient oaths of the Night's Watch. He recited the words, feigning a solemn dignity so the crowd would think him sincere.
"I swear to ward the king with all my strength, to give my blood for his.
I swear to obey His commands and keep His secrets.
I swear to defend His honor and serve at His pleasure.
I will never flee, nor falter in my duty.
I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.
I pledge to His Grace my life and honor, until the day that I die."
Brandon made his way back to the Stark apartments. None dared to congratulate him on his victory, and the rare servant scurried past with unnatural haste, fearing his anger. All the while, the Northern Blade fought back the smile that tugged at his lips and the laughter that welled in his throat, a difficult task when Aerys Targaryen seemed adamant on aiding House Stark in its designs against the Crown.
With the king's decree, Brandon could now leave the North without suspicion. Aerys had even spared him the inconvenience of a formal abdication. Instead, Ned would take his rightful place as Father's heir while marrying for love.
Brandon knew Father would be cross with them both: the future Lord of Winterfell had better prospects than a stony Dornishwoman, however storied her house or close her ties to the future queen. But Ashara Dayne had been a fine match when Ned was a second son, and the North knew Eddard would not stoop so low as to abandon her now that he was Father's heir.
The Northern houses would protest, but Father had bought enough goodwill to last several lifetimes. When the lords grumbled, they would do so in silence.
Hoster Tully would have no choice but to follow suit, for he could not be seen feuding with House Stark over the crime of abiding their king. The Lord of Riverrun was already wroth with Father after the warden delayed discussions of Brandon's betrothal years ago, citing the needs of his people amidst the long winter. Perhaps Father had hoped to avoid Hoster's scrutiny once Brandon left Westeros. Perhaps, he thought with a flare of guilt, the Warden of the North simply had not wanted to face the inevitable exile of his eldest son.
The former heir had every faith that Ned would make amends: the union between Riverrun and Winterfell would be postponed a generation, nothing more.
This was a victory for their family and the North. Brandon needed only to convince his brother of that fact.
Not bothering to knock, he barged into Ned's room. Having long removed his armor, the younger Stark sprung to his feet in an instant.
"You can't do this, Brandon!"
"Good evening to you as well, Ned," Brandon replied, settling comfortably on the desk beside his brother's bed. The concern in Ned's voice sparked a familiar mix of fondness and guilt. "That was a fine fight against the Red Viper."
Ned frowned at his poor attempt at humor.
"You have to talk to the king. Seek an audience," he insisted, speaking faster than his mind could follow, "Tell him you've changed your mind–"
"Changed my mind?" Brandon questioned, resisting the urge to arch his brow while repeating the words for emphasis. "I wasn't aware oaths could be so easily reversed."
Ned opened his mouth, desperate to argue, searching for a rebuttal he would never find.
"You can't join the Kingsguard, Brandon. You can't."
There was a shift in his bearing and a defeat in his voice that reminded Brandon of a child offering a prayer into the night, believing it would come true if he uttered it often enough. The sight weighed heavily on Brandon's heart.
"I don't intend to," he assured, voice growing stern when Ned looked to him in askance. "I did not suffer Lord Fairchild's instructions just to serve that fool of a king, never mind the prince who tried to ruin our sister."
Feeling his blood warm at the mere mention of the Targaryens, the Northern Blade stared out at the evening sky, waiting for his temper to settle and the bite of his words to subside.
"I'll follow our teacher when he returns to Yharnam," he said at last. "Have Father claim I was lost at sea. He wouldn't even have to lie."
Ned stared at him, his expression increasingly resigned.
"Winterfell is your seat," he insisted, clinging to the fundamental truths which had shaped his world–truths that had come undone over the course of a day.
Brandon resisted the urge to leave the room. He had stated his plans and spoken his mind. Were he to walk away, Ned would not follow. But he would be leaving Ned alone with his thoughts, believing that he had stolen his brother's seat. That was a prospect Brandon refused to entertain.
"I've broken guest rights."
He confessed the crime without pause or preamble. Ned stilled as though struck, and Brandon looked to the floor, unable to meet his brother's eyes.
"I've broken guest rights," he repeated, articulating each word with care, leaving no room for doubt. "The first time Lord Fairchild visited Winterfell, I thought him no different than any southron lord, there to mock Father by way of his wealth and courtesy." Once more, Ned gave no answer, too stunned to respond, and Brandon pressed on.
"I goaded him into a duel, even insulted Lady Evetta for good measure." Even now, Brandon wondered how he had survived that singular act of stupidity. "I fared as well as you might expect and, upon defeat, tried to stab him through the back. Didn't even manage to succeed."
His voice wavered, and the rest of the tale died in his throat. Brandon struggled to continue, finding little else to say. No words would lessen the weight of his crimes nor the magnitude of what Lord Fairchild had forgiven.
"Winterfell hasn't been mine for a long time."
The room fell to silence, deafening in the wake of his confession. The former heir endured the stillness without complaint, his mind and limbs tense with apprehension, well aware Ned could wound him in ways Dayne's blade never could.
The sound of shuffling forced Brandon to look up. He found Ned leaning against the opposing wall, his expression pensive and downcast. A hand lay against his chest, as though attempting to assuage an old, imagined wound. The younger Stark met his brother's gaze without rage or censure.
"I had promised myself, that when we returned to the Workshop, I would speak to Lord Fairchild," he offered. "I had meant to volunteer myself and become a Hunter in your stead."
Ned's words were not what Brandon had expected, and he felt compelled to speak his mind.
"Was this before you laid eyes on Ashara?"
The question, absurd as it was, caught both brothers by surprise. Brandon failed to suppress a snort when Ned's cheeks colored, and a flash of embarrassment passed his brother's eyes. Then, the laughter began in earnest. Ned's voice joined his own, a weak and weary sound, but one that Brandon clung to all the same.
TBC
Chapter Summary:
Blahhh! got off his ass and started writing again.
Author's Note:
It's been a while, everyone. There's been a lot of (good) changes happening in RL that have been keeping me busy, but things are finally settling down.
It didn't help that I was dreading this chapter for a while (not nearly as much as what I have coming down the pipeline, but still). After the Ned vs Oberyn fight, I wanted to make sure the climax of the melee was worth everyone's time.
Part of that meant painting the scene and understanding the characters/motivations at play, hence the Arthur Dayne POV. This is, of course, my interpretation of the Sword of the Morning. While I'm sure we have opinions regarding Rhaegar and co., my goal was to explore the characters and try to reconcile the well-regarded knight who brought an end to the Kingswood Brotherhood and the hot garbage that went down at the Tower of Joy. I tried to write a character that could be true to both.
As for Brandon, I wanted to show the fruits of his training, for good or ill. This chapter was a good reminder remind that a Hunter is not a knight, and the qualities that make for a good Hunter might be cause for some concern.
As described by a veteran:
"...You are a skilled hunter. Adept, merciless, half-cut with blood. As the best hunters are." - Djura, the Powder Keg Hunter
With that, I wanted to show that while Cyril's lessons have made Brandon more restrained, they have also made him more lethal. I wanted to duel between him and Arthur to reflect that element of danger. He may not be receiving magical blood transfusions, but Brandon is taking to standard Hunter's doctrine like a fish to water. Small wonder why he caught Cyril's eye.
We also see some of the ramifications of Brandon's spectacular display. By proving himself stronger than Arthur (and therefore the Kingsguard at large), Brandon painted himself as a threat. Like most despots (the paranoid schizophrenia probably isn't helping matters), Aerys' natural response was to press Brandon into service or see him permanently removed. Make no mistake, the Mad King was going to forced Brandon into the Kingsguard or execute him…for the crime of not joining the Kingsguard.
Additionally, Aerys agreeing to Brandon's temporary leave of absence might seem strange until you realize it's a direct insult to Tywin, whose own heir wasn't even been allowed to participate in the tourney. It's the little things that count.
Lastly, the discussion between Ned and Brandon was a long time coming. Hope I did it justice. We have Ashara's POV coming up.
As always, many thanks to KnightStar for his edits and feedback.
References:
1. Robert's "Damn your eyes, [Dayne]" curse was inspired by TheWiseTomato's A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros, whose Robert says the same thing in a similar context. Had a nice ring to it.
2. Unable to find a primary source for the Kingsguard oath, though we know Visenya Targaryen modeled the oath after those of the Night's Watch. Closest I came to the oath itself was a post on proboards(?), which I'm pretty sure is fanmade. Just citing my sources.
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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1
A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024
1,201Chapter 26: Book 2: Fair-Weather Friends
Ashara Dayne held her head high as she strolled past the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. The sharp sound of her steps echoed against the slated tiles, announcing her destination and intent.
Women watched as she passed, trailing her with envious eyes. Men looked on, believing they had lost a prize they had never won. All the while, rumors and gossip swirled around her, whispered by fools who fancied themselves clever.
The conclusion of the melee was all anyone cared to discuss. The bravery of innumerable knights, their displays of martial skill, and even House Wyl's unprecedented treachery had been overshadowed by Aerys Targaryen's disastrous decree. Many believed the victor had not been Brandon Stark but rather his brother, who had been unhorsed much earlier during the contest. Some even suggested that the true winner had been the Dornishwoman who had ensnared the Wolf Knight days ago.
Ashara ignored the whispers, leaving the hall at an unhurried pace. Years within the Red Keep had robbed such words of their bite.
She navigated the maze of hallways that led to the base of the Northmen's tower. With purposeful, unwavering strides, Ashara began the slow ascent towards the Starks' apartments.
Ashara had loved Elia.
As young girls, they would spend hours wading through the shallow pools of the Water Gardens, hiding from their caretakers amongst the lily pads. Growing bolder over the years, they would venture out from the Winding Walls to explore the bazaars of the Shadowed City. Once Elia received her first sand steed, the two would leave Sunspear altogether, traversing the vast dunes of Dorne to visit Planky Town and make pilgrimage to the mouth of the Greenblood.
The eldest daughter of Starfall had been Elia's ever-present companion, and when the Princess of Dorne left for King's Landing, Ashara had been at her side. Though she was no knight, no Sword of the Morning, Ashara had vowed to protect her beloved friend.
She had kept her word, shielding Elia from courtly ladies who mocked the princess' dusky complexion and fragile health behind false smiles and callous eyes. She had fettered out and dismissed faithless servants who betrayed their princess' trust for a fistful of coins. The young lady-in-waiting had held Elia's hand when Aerys forced the princess to watch as he burned men and women alive, daring his good-daughter to look away and risk his ire.
For years, Ashara had protected her dearest friend. She had done all she could, given all she had, and the burden had left her worn.
There were mornings when she awoke afraid, limbs locked in the midst of a long-forgotten nightmare. Her heart would race whenever a shadow flickered at the edges of her vision, and dread would pool in her stomach whenever a sip of wine tasted a touch too sweet or a wedge of fruit a trace too bitter. Then there were the nights when she fled to her dreams, only to see the faces of Aerys' victims engulfed in flame, their lips blistered and wet with grease as the wildfire consumed their lives and souls.
Ashara had loved Elia. The certainty of that love left her feeling cowardly and craven as she climbed the tower. But the horrors of the Red Keep had tested her in ways that had left her more weary than strong, and Ashara feared what would become of her–what she would become–if she stayed within its walls.
The young Dornishwoman soon reached the end of the staircase. The household guards allowed her to pass with nary a glance, and Ashara found herself within the Starks' living quarters, staring at Ned's door.
She smiled as she recalled the first night of the tourney, how she had struggled not to laugh when he stumbled before the high table. Ashara had been watching him from afar, as she had other potential suitors. Discussing notable young men had been a favorite pastime of Queen Rhaella's sewing circles, and Arthur–having known his sister's plight–had mentioned those of good repute.
The list had not been long. Had she married a Dornishman, her lord husband would have joined her at court, leveraging her connections to seek favor with both the Targaryens and Martells. Marrying a lord of Crownlands would have likewise confined her to the Red Keep. And though an heir of the Stormlands, Vale, or even the Reach would have served her needs better, Eddard Stark's name had lingered in her thoughts, a curiosity that stood apart from the likes of Elbert Arryn, Baelor Hightower, and Alyn Estermont.
Ashara had heard fantastical tales of Rickard Stark's second son. The Wolf Knight had been the favorite topic of minstrels after his daring venture into the Mountains of the Moon. They sang of how he had broken the strength of the Burned Men, claiming the head of their fiercest war chief in single combat before departing with a score of women once abandoned to an unimaginable fate.
It was a beautiful tale, the sort of story that inflamed the hearts of maidens and grew more exaggerated with each telling, distorting the man underneath. Having met men of supposed legend, having witnessed how Ser Selmy could error and her own brother could falter, Ashara had not expected Eddard Stark to live up to the stories.
He had managed to surprise her.
The second son of Winterfell was a young man just shy of twenty, tall but not towering, strong but not so broad that he resembled Robert Baratheon. He carried himself with a reserve that bordered on bashful and had been so clearly nervous when he asked her to dance. Yet, the moment she took his hand, he had led her onto the dancefloor, moving with the unspoken confidence of a man who had proven his worth through countless, storied deeds. It was a captivating contradiction that had Ashara accepting a second dance and then a third.
In the days that followed, Ashara came to reconcile her quiet dance partner with the noble warrior who had earned his knighthood in the godswood of the Eyrie and the eternal friendship of the Vale. And though he desired her and made his feelings known, Eddard had never approached more than was proper, displaying respect and regard that gave Ashara hope that theirs would be more than a marriage of fleeting passions and selfish ends.
In many ways, Ned reminded Ashara of the men her brothers had hoped to be, back when they were boys dreaming of gallantry and knighthood.
Ashara had accepted his suit, playing her part in convincing Symon of the match. Though the North was farther than she had ever meant to travel, Ashara faced the prospect without fear. Instead, she felt a strange sense of resignation and relief, knowing that escaping the Red Keep meant leaving Starfall even further behind–a fitting penance for deserting her charge.
In truth, Ashara was always meant to leave Elia. As a daughter of Starfall, she was expected to entertain a promising match. And though accepting Eddard's hand was neither a betrayal of her promise nor a desertion of her duty, Ashara recognized her actions as abandonment all the same.
She was running away, and yet, the gnawing guilt was not enough to slow her stride.
Duty was a burden Ashara knew well. It had left her with unseen scars and even now weighed heavily on dear Arthur, who bore dishonor after dishonor, hoping that Rhaegar would prove a better king–a better man–than his father.
Ashara was not so foolish as to think Winterfell would be bereft of intrigue or the schemes of men who believed power their due. But the lords of the North held House Stark with a regard that bordered on reverence, and Rickard Stark was said to be a titan among men.
His sons had proved themselves of equal quality, giving Ashara reason to hope their home was not the den of sycophants and snakes that had thrived under Aerys' madness and neglect.
Ashara had dared to envision herself within Winterfell. Her husband would govern the North at his brother's side. Their family would be given apartments within Winterfell's Great Keep and granted a knight's fee to secure their incomes. She would spend her days with Brandon's lady wife, ensuring the castle's upkeep.
It would have been a simple life, modest by the measures of the south, but one that promised a peace Ashara had longed to see.
But then Brandon Stark had won the melee, and her dreams had come undone. Aerys had laid claim to the Northern Blade, leaving Eddard to assume his brother's mantle and Ashara to marry the future Warden of the North.
To become mistress to one of the great castles of Westeros–to marry one of the most powerful lords in the Realm and know that her son would someday become the same–was a prospect beyond the dreams of most women.
Yet, Ashara struggled to imagine herself as the future Lady of Winterfell, believing herself unworthy of the honor and unprepared for the task. Eddard's ascension had left Ashara unrooted and adrift, afraid that she had fled duty for greater duty.
But for all that she feared the path ahead, she found her feelings for Eddard unchanged. She recalled how her heart had plummeted when he had fallen from his horse, how it had shored when he rose from the dirt and bested the Red Viper like a hero from the old stories.
Though their acquaintance had been brief, Eddard–Ned–was dear to her, and there was room for love to grow. As she reached for the door, Ashara found herself daring to hope.
She found Ned sitting on his bed. He wore only a nightgown, his hair damp from a recent bath. Moonlight filtered through the window overhead, casting a faint glow across the room.
The heir of Winterfell watched as she closed the door behind her. His eyes betrayed fleeting surprise, which turned quickly to understanding.
"Lady Ashara," he greeted, his words a weak attempt at formality, as though it were normal for an unwedded lady to enter a man's room with kohl-lined eyes and lips brushed with fresh rouge.
"Ned," she answered, allowing herself a sad smile as she stepped closer, stopping at the foot of the bed.
He made no attempt to close the distance between them, and Ashara said nothing more, allowing Eddard time to grapple with the choices she had made for them both. A flicker of hope bloomed in her heart when his eyes met hers without anger.
"It's quiet," she offered, knowing Ned would understand.
"Brandon took Lyanna and Benjen to the celebratory feast." He explained, and Ashara understood.
She took another step forward, climbing the bed to occupy the space at his side, not caring for what became of her finest dress.
Her mind raced with a myriad of thoughts. She wished to praise him for his victories over Oberyn and Lewyn Martell, but the words felt wrong to say.
"I'm glad you're safe," she whispered instead, tone simple and sincere. "I had feared the worst when you fell."
"It was not an attack I had expected," he replied, no doubt trying to make light of his injuries. "I'm simply grateful it was a lesson I'll live to learn from."
He offered her a strained smile, and a quiet fell between them as the heir of Winterfell and the lady of Starfall considered their next words, their worlds reduced to a lonely room.
Ashara was the first to break the silence.
"I'm sorry," she said at last, offering condolences to a man who would someday inherit a kingdom, recognizing the words as ones he needed to hear.
Ned sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"So much has gone wrong," his voice carried the weight of a confession. "This was meant to be a tourney, nothing more."
Ashara nodded, fixing her gaze to the ceiling. She was not blind to the tensions brewing between the Northmen and the Crown, nor the anger Brandon and Eddard had directed towards Arthur.
"I imagine it's enough for you to wish you never traveled south."
"Nearly," came the reply, and the warmth of a hand on her own had Ashara meeting Ned's eyes with burgeoning joy and guilt.
"I've written to my father," he continued. "The message will arrive at Winterfell by week's end."
The eldest daughter of Starfall nodded, understanding all he implied.
"I should go," she answered back, even as she made no attempt to leave.
Her betrothed inclined his head, a gesture others might have mistook for assent.
"I would ask you to stay." There was a softness to his gaze reminiscent of morning fog. His voice carried the certainty of tempered steel, and Ashara fought to keep her own steady.
"I didn't want to seduce you." She voiced a regret that had not deterred her from approaching him or drawing closer still.
He offered her a smile, even now a touch forlorn.
"You've bewitched me all the same."
The future Lady of Winterfell returned to her own apartment in the early hours of the dawn.
TBC
Chapter Summary:
Ashara performs the time-honored tradition of 'locking that shit down.'
Author's Notes:
We had some action in the last chapter, so now it's back to the drama…with a nod to Pride & Prejudice (I'm not a romance writer, but we try).
When approaching this chapter, I realized that given how little I've described Ned and Ashara's courtship and how little we know about the character from canon, people might be under the impression that theirs was a perfect case of true love…
Naturally, something had to be done.
The title of this chapter is a little tongue-in-cheek, but I wanted to explore a more dynamic relationship and 'flush out' a character that canon had left a pretty blank slate. Furthermore, this was a great opportunity to explore what an absolutely terrible place the Red Keep was to live in at this time (not that it was ever great), and the struggles of navigating such a dangerous environment from a vulnerable position.
Imagine living with a friend whose father-in-law burned people alive, and you couldn't leave...Plus, you're stuck protecting your friend from everyone else in the house. I suspect doing this every day for a one, two, or three years would wear on anyone.
In many ways, I wanted Ashara's POV to echo Arthur's from the previous chapter, showing the burdens that come from an unenviable duty. But where Arthur is sworn for life, Ashara is not. However, that doesn't alleviate her feelings of guilt.
As a lady-in-waiting, Ashara was expected to marry, and her courtship with Ned was entirely appropriate. But the fact that she's pursuing him because she desperately wants to leave the Red Keep is where things get complicated (good deeds with bad intentions or bad deeds with good intentions, take your pick). Furthermore, that guilt isn't enough to compel her to stay, and while she does care for Ned, I thought this underlying motivation adds some complexity to their relationship.
As always, many thanks to KnightStar for his edits and feedback.
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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1
A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024
1,201Chapter 27: Book 2: Courage
Ever since she was a young girl, Lyanna had loved winter roses, captivated by the vibrant colors they lent to her snow-covered home.
During the long winter, on the rare days when her violin sat untouched on the mantle, Lyanna would help Lady Evetta prune the small, thorny shrubs that adorned the glass garden beside the Workshop.
The young lady of Winterfell remembered the day when the pale buds bloomed into brilliant blue roses. She recalled how stunning the flowers had appeared nestled in Lady Evetta's bonnet and how lovely they had looked woven into her own hair.
So why did the roses in her hands seem so ugly?
Rhaegar Targaryen had won the joust to thunderous applause. The crowd had cheered his name, their voices shaking the very ground like charging cavalry, and even Lyanna had found herself swept up in the excitement.
But then the prince had laid the flowered crown in her lap, and the cheers had died. Smiles fell from the faces of lords and smallfolk alike, and pandemonium followed. The Dornish and Northmen shouted in outrage, each side decrying the other, threatening violence. Benjen had held her tightly, trying to shield her from the crowd's attention, while Ned struggled to keep Brandon from drawing his blade. Nearby, Ser Lewyn wrested a dagger from his nephew's hands, and Princess Ellia watched as her husband rode past, her eyes hollow and downcast.
All the while, the king's mad cackle echoed in Lyanna's ears as she asked herself why. Why had the prince given her the flowers? Why had he crowned her the queen of love and beauty when his wife sat mere steps away?
Lyanna recalled the night Rhaegar had visited her chambers, confiding the troubles that plagued his family. Did he fear Princess Elia would not survive the birth of their second child? Did he dread the prospect of another daughter?
A sickly sensation coiled in Lyanna's gut as she thought of her music teacher. The Lord Hunter and his wife only had one child, and Lady Evetta had implied she was unable to bear more. And yet, the Hunter had loved her all the same. Lyanna had seen how Lord Fairchild regarded his wife with eyes ready to exchange the world for her happiness, and she knew such love was not dependent on the birth of a daughter or son.
The memory made the roses seem uglier still.
A newfound resolve settled in Lyanna's heart as she rose from her seat. Amidst the ceaseless shouting and the king's terrible laughter, she waded through the onlookers until she reached the royal box, where the Dornish princess sat beside her brother and uncle.
"Forgive my intrusion, Princess Elia." The young lady of Winterfell bowed, and the crowd grew silent. Lyanna felt the weight of a thousand eyes upon her as she presented the crown, "I believe Prince Rhaegar meant these for you."
She ignored the shock on Ser Lewyn's face and the unreadable light in Prince Oberyn's eyes as Elia accepted the flowers with trembling hands. The princess offered quiet words of gratitude. Bowing once more, Lyanna returned to the Starks' box, doing her best to appear strong and sure even as her arms trembled and her legs threatened to give out. She refused to acknowledge the silent prince or listen to the mad king's laughter, which had only grown louder after all she had done. After what seemed like an eternity, Lyanna found herself again in Benjen's arms.
"We need to leave."
Ned spoke the words into his goblet, just loud enough for Brandon to hear. The brothers sat some distance from the high table, overlooking the final feast of the tourney, which felt conspicuously lacking in revelry despite the abundance of food, wine, and music. Lyanna sat nearby, and as much as Ned wished to hide her away, their sister was safer at their side.
Brandon drained his own cup.
"I've made arrangements with Tytos Blackwood."
Ned nodded in approval. Though they owed allegiance to the Tullys, House Blackwood had maintained strong ties with the North. Two daughters of Raventree Hall had wedded the Lords of Winterfell since the Dance, and Blackwood Vale was a short ride from Seagard, where a ship could ensure safe passage to the North.
"We should leave tonight."
The elder Stark shook his head.
"Lyanna, Benjen, and I will leave in the morning," Brandon corrected, giving Ned no chance to interrupt. "Lord Arryn has invited you and Robert back to the Vale."
The Northern Blade held his brother's attention with hard, frigid eyes that demanded attention.
"They need to be informed."
His words brooked no argument, and Ned found himself unable to protest. Jon had indeed called both of his former wards to the Eyrie. Ned had meant for Ashara to accompany him, but she had chosen to stay with Princess Elia until the birth of her second child. Any hope of dissuading her had died after Rhaegar's latest insult, one that made it all the more pressing that Jon and Robert learned the true depths of the prince's transgressions.
The Lord of the Eyrie and the heir of Storm's End must know that this madness would not end with Aerys, only take on a different form. Whatever lay ahead, House Stark would need its allies well-informed and well-prepared in the coming days, and loath though he was to admit it, Ned acknowledged no one else suitable for the task.
"Take Brent, Donal, and Crey," he said instead, listing off their father's best men, "And whoever else you need."
"You're the future Lord of Winterfell," Brandon remarked, though his brother needed no reminder. "Do not discount your own safety."
"I'll manage," Ned insisted, leaving no room for discussion as he set his goblet aside and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Look after them, Brandon. And keep yourself safe."
The Northern Blade nodded, and nothing more was said.
TBC
Chapter Summary:
Nothing to see here. Move along.
Author's Note:
Wrapping up the Harrenhal arc. We're skipping over the joust because for three reasons:
That's a lot of work The Stark children (and focus of this arc) aren't participating, so what's the point? Refer to reason #1
In all seriousness, I challenged myself to see how much trouble I could stir up in ~1K words.
I don't see any of the ripples made by the Fairchilds so far changing the outcome of the melee or Rhaegar's actions thereafter (Brandon and Ned's actions would likely have deterred most men, but Targaryens are a certain type of special).
What I can see changing is Lyanna's response to Rhaegar's actions. I want to remain faithful to what little we know from canon, that she is audacious and willful, but a lot has happened in Winterfell over the past five-odd years.
"Lyanna had wanted to jump from her chair, fling a bread roll at Lord Baratheon, and storm out of the Great Hall. But Lady Evetta had taught her that being loud was not the same as being brave and that shouting was not the same as being heard." - Better Days, Part 3 of 3
I wanted to echo back to the above quote from the 'Better Days' arc, reinforcing the notion that actions do not need to be bombastic or even violent to be immensely profound. I'd wager there are few things more profound than a public rejection of the crown prince.
Meanwhile, Aeyrs is having himself a grand old time.
Note: As Knightstar asked, there is no Knight of the Laughing Tree in this story. After Brandon puts Arthur in the dirt only to 'lose' his inheritance, everyone assumes he's in 'give me a reason' mode and everyone is giving the Northerners some distance. So Howland Reeds hasn't entered Ned's circle just yet.
As always, many thanks to KnightStar for his edits, feedback, and support.
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Thy Good Neighbor by blahhh-1
A Song of Ice and Fire & Bloodborne Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure & Fantasy, [The Hunter, Plain Doll] Eddard S./Ned, Rickard S., Words: 104k+, Favs: 4k+, Follows: 4k+, Published: Dec 24, 2022 Updated: Dec 4, 2024
1,201Chapter 28: Interlude: All Love Will Wrought Part 2
They sensed its approach.
The snow had not halted its advance. Neither had the dead. Even the old magics had failed to slow its stride.
From atop a lonely hill within the sunless realm, the wraiths had gathered–hundreds strong–led by warriors able to recall a world before the race of Men. United in grim purpose, they had beseeched the Dark Mother for salvation and succor.
She had answered.
The Heart of Winter had pulsed with a terrible power, and sorcery meant to beckon a second Long Night coalesced within the Lands of Always Winter. Towering curtains of ice arose from the earth, blurring the horizon and obscuring the sky. The air filled with frost, turning every breath into a poison that sapped warmth and life from the living, and silence blanketed the land, stilled by a cold that froze time itself in place.
The wraiths imbibed the blessing of the Dark Mother. Power coursed through their pale, pulseless limbs, and translucent blades formed in their hands, forged from the suspended frost.
Standing in silence, they awaited the enemy.
They did not wait long.
A figure took shape against the darkness, heralded by the sound of crunching ice and measured steps. The trespasser wore the guise of a man, traversing the snow at an unhurried pace. In one hand, it held a canvased sword; in the other, a strange weapon of twisted timber and steel.
With quiet disregard, the trespasser passed into the realm of the Dark Mother and stood within the beating Heart of Winter. It studied the wraiths with bright, curious eyes, offering wordless challenge.
The warriors met its gaze and surged forth, compelled by a primal, animal fear. They assailed the enemy from every direction, descending the hill like wind-swept ships atop a calm sea.
The trespasser awaited their approach.
At the head of the vanguard, a warrior overtook the rest, intent on driving its blade and body through the enemy.
A clothed sword met the tip of a spear, and a shrill cry sundered the silence.
Ice blessed by the Dark Mother grated against the trespasser's blade, pouring forth an unearthly cold meant to shatter steel. But the canvased blade weathered the onslaught with frightful ease, rending the spear as if it were silk, and the wraith fell, cleaved in two. It did not shatter, as though vanquished by obsidian or fire, instead dying as a man would, its eyes dimmed and body stilled.
The trespasser denied the warrior its rest, kicking its severed torso into its kin. The wraith struck by the impact managed to recover, only for the enemy to raise its strange weapon and fire a searing bolt through the air, piercing the corpse to produce another.
With a sound like thunder, more bolts flew from the weapon, staggering the surrounding wraiths. The trespasser swept its blade once more, and the vanguard fell.
Surrounded by a ring of bodies, the trespasser at last broke its stride. Though waist-deep in snow, warring against the land itself in the midst of battle, the monster outpaced its prey.
Four warriors were needed to contend with its speed, thrice more to match its strength. The trespasser moved without tiring, never allowing its enemies to bring their numbers to bear. It forced the wraiths to give chase, and more fell with each exchange.
Spears of ice rained down from the sky as more warriors joined the fray. Yet, every attempt to catch the trespasser unaware proved fruitless as it evaded every spear and lance, seemingly knowing where they would fall.
Finally, a spear struck and shattered the trespasser's strange weapon. A wraith, believing it disarmed–vulnerable–charged forth. The monster answered by conjuring a mass of steel within its hand and forming a fist.
The wraith fell to the ground, headless.
The battle raged on like a dark dance, and more wraiths were lost. All the while, the trespasser remained unscathed, promising a defeat slow but certain.
Then a warrior, ancient even by the measure of its people, drove the enemy back. It battled the trespasser, evading and deflecting the canvased blade with speed and skill beyond the measure of mortal man. Even then, it was not the monster's equal.
The trespasser severed the warrior's arm. As others rushed to its defense, the ancient being feigned retreat, and with its remaining hand, drove its spear through its own kin, burying the blade within the side of its foe.
The old warrior died for its efforts, but its spear remained embedded within the trespasser, and those who remained watched transfixed as paleblood pulsed from the wound, hissing as it landed upon the snow.
The tide turned. The warriors renewed their efforts, and though they continued to die, none faltered or fled. The wraiths fought on, clinging and grasping at the trespasser even as they fell, sacrificing their eternal lives so that others might strike down the enemy.
Slowly, swords bit into flesh and spears found their marks. A myriad of wounds marred the trespasser, a bloody tapestry bought with the lives of brave, desperate souls. Even then, it fought on, heedless of its wounds.
Then, at last, a sword driven through its knee forced the monster to stagger. In that single moment, the survivors cried out to the Dark Mother. As if hearing their call, the land itself shifted. A torrent of ice surged forth, crashing into the trespasser like a wall of stone, piercing its frame and lifting it aloft. The ice continued to rise, forming a glacial spire that assailed the sky.
A new mountain arose from the Lands of Always Winter. The trespasser–unlike any being within the Dark Mother's domain, who has threatened her children like no other–hung impaled and motionless upon its jagged peak.
Silence reclaimed the land. The remaining warriors–less than half of the gathered host–fell to their knees, beset by an exhaustion that should not have ailed bodies that required neither sleep nor rest. Victory had been achieved, though at an immeasurable cost. Wordless prayers were offered to the Dark Mother–prayers that were disrupted by a terrible sound.
As one, the wraiths raised their heads, and faces incapable of horror beheld a hand rising against the darkness. A fist fell upon the spire, and a deafening crack split the air, shaking the ground below. The fist rose again, and the terrible sound rang out again and again until the lance shattered.
The monster fell.
It crashed gracelessly upon the snow, a tangled mass of blood and broken limbs. Yet the trespasser rose, right arm severed at the elbow, the left dangling from strands of sinew. Its chest had been reduced to a gaping hole, pierced by the great spire. What little remained displayed the base of an exposed rib, where scraps of a lung drifted like a tattered rag.
There was not enough left of its body to raise a wight. Yet the trespasser stood all the same. And when it lifted the severed stump of its arm and remaining hand, a clap sounded through the air.
"Impressive."
Though the monster's face lay in ruin, the wraiths heard its words, carved into their minds like glyphs, branded upon their still-beating hearts.
"Strength to match a Pthumerian descendant. Arcana to rival an elder," the trespasser mused again, its words ponderous and bordering praise, "It seems I was right to come here."
A wraith, the one nearest the monster, sensed the shift in the air. Driven by instinct, it rose and charged, blade raised in desperate defiance of the inevitable.
It was not given the chance to approach.
The trespasser raised what remained of its arm, and a gaping fissure formed in place of its hand, sundering the fabric of the Waking World. Dark, writhing tendrils spewed forth from the ether, striking the wraith with a force that reduced it to dust.
The warrior died, and the tendrils withdrew, but the fissure remained. Reality buckled under the strain and the very air shattered, forming spider-like cracks that distorted the monster's visage. The wraiths could only watch as the innumerable wounds that marred its body fractured, splintered, and fell from its form like shards of glass.
Piece by piece, reason, causality, and the underpinnings of natural law fell at the feet of the trespasser, replaced by a reality fashioned from its whims and will. It stood unharmed and whole, as though never wounded. Its weapons rested in its hands, and a tall figure in the shape of a woman stood at its side.
A new presence, vacuous yet suffocating, pervaded the land. Against the great curtains of frost that blotted out the sky, a blood-tinged moon formed behind the Hunter, hovering just overhead, eclipsing the sunless realm in its boundless shadow.
In that moment, the children of the Dark Mother, who had never known the mind of mortal men, learned of hope through its absence. Doom reflected in the starlight eyes of a being beyond their reach, one who saw them only as prey.
Swords and spears fell from their hands, and the trespasser– the Hunter –stepped forth, heedless of their despair.
"Come, let us continue," it urged as cloth unfurled from its blade, and the sword gleamed with an ethereal glow, "The Night is still yet young."
TBC
Chapter Summary:
White Walker #1: D-did we do it? Did we beat the Moon Presence?
White Walker #2: My guy…that's the tutorial boss.
Author's Notes:
Heard some of you were missing our favorite cuttlefish.
I confess I've taken a lot every artistic liberty with this chapter. The books don't give us too much to go on regarding the Others/White Walkers. Not what their society looks like, nevermind their social structure. What we know is that they're weak to dragonglass/obsidian and accept human sacrifices (i.e. Craster's infant sons). Not the best look.
Regardless, I highly doubt they would call themselves 'the Others' anymore than they'd call their patron god 'the Great Other,' hence the references to 'warriors,' 'wraiths,' and 'the Dark Mother.' I am partial to the depiction of the Others by Marc Simonetti, that of beautiful, otherworldly, and alien beings, which are inherently hostile and incompatible with warm-blooded lifeforms.
Therefore, in Cyril's eyes, they gotta go.
Admittedly, I took some liberties on the Bloodborne side of things as well. Here, I wanted to illustrate a clash beyond anything canonically seen in ASOIAF. The purpose of this little interlude was to 'horrify the horror,' and show the sheer futility of fighting a fully-realized Hunter, nevermind one that has ascended to eldritch godhood, able to turn dreams into reality with only a thought.
Lastly, I also wanted the scene to also be somewhat grounded and restrained despite the momentous implications of the battle. Case in point, Cyril demonstrated only ONE of his many arcane hunter's tools with the tendrils. He also isn't exploiting his enemies' natural weakness to fire with the Boom Hammer. Why? Because he simply doesn't need the advantage. Even with the Holy Moonlight Sword, which likely has the same affinity as the Other's ice weapons, he knows the power gap is one they could never hope to bridge.
Listed some of the Hunter's arsenal used in this chapter below.
Fist of Gratia:
"A chunk of iron fitted with finger holes. The hulking hunter woman Simple Gratia, ever hopeless when handling hunter firearms, preferred to knock the lights out of beasts with this hunk of iron, which incidentally caused heavy stagger. Gratia was a fearsome hunter, and to onlookers, her unrelenting pummelling appeared oddly heroic. No wonder this weapon later assumed her name."
Augur of Ebrietas:
"Remnant of the eldritch Truth encountered at Byrgenwerth. Use phantasms, the invertebrates known to be the augurs of the Great Ones, to partially summon abandoned Ebrietas. The initial encounter marked the start of an inquiry into the cosmos from within the old labyrinth, and led to the establishment of the Choir."
Cyril also alludes to the Pthumerians, an ancient race of humanoids that succeeded the Great Ones but preceded humanity, to whom Luca might be vaguely related (as in he's their prince).
Final Notes: Getting busy again. Wanted to get this out for you guys. Writing when I can.
As always, many thanks to KnightStar.
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