The Lion and the Rose: The North
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Junior Chimp
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« Reply #50 on: July 27, 2015, 11:49:57 PM »


Bran
Part II

He wasn't in the Wolfswood. Far off to the east he could hear the faint crash of the northern end of the White Knife, but he was seeing an open field. In the middle of it was a great stone stained with centuries of men's blood. The wind howled, and Bran could almost here his half brother once more. "Don't look away," the wind whispered, "father will know."

He was racing through the winds now, down a hill toward the edge of the Wolfswood. Show me the man, Bran thought hesitantly. Nothing happened. The forest was deathly quiet; it was as if the invasion of the Sidhe had wiped color and sound from the world. Bran jumped from tree to tree. He saw a brook, a famished raccoon desperately eating snow, a bridge- Bran's heart jumped.

Just as he had seen the bridge, he could have sworn, sworn, he felt fur brush against his naked leg. Summer? he thought, calling out to his direwolf. The bridge seemed to shine in the winter light, and Bran moved over it. His heart was pounding in his ears, but through the trees it sounded like someone knocking on the inside of the bark as if trying to get out. Past the bridge he came to a familiar hillside, sloping sharply downward toward the brook. The memory came flooding back and so did Bran, hurtling himself back in time.

Suddenly he stood before himself: younger, with shorter hair, and whole. He stood. There was Robb, holding Grey Wind and Lady in his arms. Bran was clutching Summer tight, while Jon held Nymeria and Shaggydog. "Lord Stark," Jon said. Bran felt a tear stream down his cheek back in the weirwood cave. "There are five pups, one for each of the Stark children. Your family were meant to have them."

Bran had loved Jon immensely in that moment, but never realized till now how sad his own face had looked as he'd processed what Jon had done. He had also never seen the sad amazement on his lord father's face at the time, but saw it now. Then, looking as if he had made up his mind for the final time, Eddard Stark nodded curtly to his bastard son.

The figures melted away; Theon Greyjoy's mocking smile faded last, and there at the bottom of the hill kneeling at the brook for a drink was his uncle.

Brandon Stark's heart leapt with joy and amazement as he looked upon his uncle Benjen through the eyes of an old gnarled weirwood. "Uncle!" he said, and a gust of wind carried his voice to his uncle's ears.

Benjen Stark looked up, and his eyes widened when he looked into the weirwood face...Bran's face. "Who...what...who are you?" he asked. His voice was hoarse: the water was clearly a welcome thing for him, and he was much thinner than he had been when Bran saw him at Winterfell years ago.

"It's me...Bran. Your nephew." The word felt strange in Bran's mouth, as if family relations were ideas from a distant structured life he'd nearly forgotten. "I'm north of the Wall, or what used to be the Wall, with the Children of the Forest."

To his credit Benjen Stark did not ask the obvious questions. Perhaps he too felt they had limited time before the final sunset in Westeros. He nodded, and took a great gulp of water, standing to fully face the tree.

"What happened to you, Uncle?" Bran asked. Uncle Benjen looked tired, like he'd been asked this a thousand times now, but patiently he said, "Lord Commander Mormont sent me on a ranging to find out what happened to Ser Waymar Royce. Ser Waymar was a vain knight who joined the Night's Watch within two months of coming of age, the third son of one of the oldest houses in the Vale. Lord Royce already had two sons, there would be scarce glory for a third, but as a knight and a highborn with a maester's education Ser Waymar likely would have risen high in the Night's Watch...had he listened to his brothers.

"Ser Waymar was sent out with two seasoned men to track wildling raiders who had been spotted climbing the wall west of Castle Black. When they never returned, but one of my brothers mysteriously appeared near Winterfell, we knew something strange might have happened. Myself and two of my brothers tracked them into the forest, but when we reached a place that looked like it might have held their battle we were attacked..." his voice cracked here.

"It was Walkers. A big one, with a great ice sword, took two of my brothers. Somehow, through some miracle I got away. I wasn't too far from a wildling village when the sun came up. So for the last few years I hid myself among hundreds of thousands of wildlings who came down behind Mance Raydar. When Stannis defeated Mance, I was with the refugees who fled to Hardhome. There I saw the work of the Sidhe for the first time in true: thousands of dead men and women fell off cliffs, only to get up, kill everyone they met, and make them get up and kill too. I made it to a boat and have travelled on foot from near Karhold to the Wolfswood." Benjen looked around. "It seems the forest repels them...somewhat."

"It's Stark land," Bran said boldly. His Uncle Benjen smiled. "So it is."

"I learned through the trees...I learned, Uncle, that the leader of the Sidhe calls himself the King in the North."

Benjen's eyes hardened. "There is only one King in the North, nephew. You."

"I know, Uncle," the King said. "The Nights Watch is ended, and I relieve you of your vows."

Benjen Stark knelt before the gnarled weirwood tree.

"I need a champion, Ser Benjen," said the King in the North. "I believe I have had an idea."
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« Reply #51 on: August 03, 2015, 11:48:54 PM »
« Edited: August 04, 2015, 04:25:51 PM by Winter has come »

The Night’s Queen (Part I of II)

“The Mountain...Theon Greyjoy...Ser Meryn...Raff the Sweetling...Dunsen...Ser Ilyn...The Red Woman.  Valar Morghulis,” whispered Beltaine as she left the room and began making her way to Winterfell’s great hall.  Someday a wolf will hunt them down and kill every last one of them.  On that day, I will taste their blood, smell their fear, and savor their pain.  But I can’t forget their names!  If I do, then how will I ever remember to kill them?    

It had been getting harder and harder for Beltaine to remember the names or what they had even done to earn a place in her prayer.  She’d tried repeating it more often to keep the names in her head, but even that didn’t help anymore.  Maybe I don’t need to remember all of the names.  Maybe if I just remove Ser Meryn from my prayer, I’ll be able to remember all the others.  He doesn’t need to die just because he killed some dancing master who probably thought Sansa was perfect just like everyone else in King’s Landing.  Who cares about stupid dancing lessons anyway?  Mother probably forced me to take them because she wanted me to act boring and ladylike the way Sansa always did.  

Beltaine had never gotten along with her sister and even thought she hated her once, before she had known true hatred.  The hatred she felt for those in her prayer to The Great Other.  Now though, she would’ve given anything to be re-united with her sister.  She’d even do her best to behave like a proper highborn lady if it meant she could see Sansa one last time.  No, that’s stupid!  Sidhe women were expected to be fierce warriors; it was one of the few things Beltaine liked about them.  Besides, Sansa was dead.  Sansa...the last member my pack...gone.  The Night’s King told her that the rivers ran red with Tully blood during the Sack of Riverrun.  He also said the Tyrells put Sansa’s head on a spike when they found her in the city.  Beltaine wanted to add the Tyrells to her prayer, but he wouldn’t tell her which ones ordered the attack.  Some day, I’ll find out their names and then I will kill them all, she thought as her face grew hard as stone.

It’d gotten harder to remember other things too.  When the Night’s King tore down Winterfell’s godswood, Beltaine couldn’t understand why the sight of dead weirwood trees pleased her so much.  Maybe Arya Stark had always hated weirwood trees, but if that was it then what had she hated about them?  Stupid trees.  Beltaine wondered if she had ever prayed to any Gods besides The Great Other.  There must have been other ones before him; Arya Stark of Winterfell would not have prayed to The Great Other.  She was wrong though; there were no old Gods and there were no new Gods.  There was only one God and his name was The Great Other.  

There were even a few horrible days when it was hard for Beltaine to remember that she’d once been Arya Stark of Winterfell.  Arya Stark will never be my name again, she decided, I am Beltaine.  But “Arya Stark” would always be a special name...a wolf name.  If any of the Sidhe ever mocked it again, the wolf would hunt them down during the darkest hours of The Long Night and rip them to pieces.  Even the Night’s King had already learned not to say that name.  He is not a wolf and has no right to speak to me of wolf names.  No one does.  I am the last of the wolves.

You were wrong father, Beltaine thought sadly, only the lone wolf survived.  She could still remember the names of her dead pack.  Ned, Catelyn, Jon, Robb, Sansa, Bran, and...and...  No!  I can’t forget him!  R...Rick...Rickard. Beltaine was certain that if she ever forgot Rickard Stark’s name then she’d soon forget about him completely and wouldn’t even know who he was if she ever saw him again...which she wouldn’t.  The only way that the dead can rise is as Wights and even they’re not alive...not really.  She bit her lip as she wondered if it even mattered whether her pack was dead or alive.  My family wouldn’t want me now even if they recognized me.  They’d hate me or think I’m not a wolf anymore...just some monster.  They’d probably run away or maybe even try to kill me.  Beltaine slumped down onto the floor and felt cold, bitter tears roll down her cheeks...tears that turned into tiny specks of ice the moment they touched the ground.  The Night’s King could nearby, she realized.  He will not see me cry, Beltaine decided as she wiped her eyes and forced herself stand up.  Never!

The Night’s King couldn’t be in her prayer to The Great Other because he wouldn’t tell her whether his real name was Culrikhan or Ramsay Snow.  Still...surviving him had been much easier than Beltaine expected.  The Night’s King treated everything like a game and you were safe as long as you knew the rules.  You had to know that no matter what he threatened to do, no matter how cruel the things he said were, he’d never actually lay a hand on you unless he thought you were afraid of him, but if he smelled even a hint of fear then he would never stop hurting you.  You had to know that he’d deny any request you ever made in the cruelest way possible unless you tricked him into thinking that you were going to let him watch you hurt someone.  Even if it was just a Wight, the important thing was that he thought there that you might enjoy hurting people as much as he did.  It wasn’t easy, but if you could trick him that way for even a moment then you could make him do almost anything you wanted until he realized you were lying.  He only let me keep Needle because I asked about it right after I told him that I didn’t want him to kill Big Walder because killing him would put an end to his torture and Freys didn’t deserve the mercy of quick deaths, Beltaine remembered.  They shouldn’t have killed my mother!  If Walder Frey hadn’t killed her at the Red Wedding, I’d have given the boy mercy.

At least I will dream of wolves tonight.  Every night, Beltaine dreamt that she was a direwolf, roaming the Riverlands and leading a pack of her own.  Last night, she and some of her little cousins had feasted upon a Tyrell soldier who had ventured outside the gates of Riverrun.  The wolf dreams were the only thing she knew the Night’s King could never steal from her.  They were the only time that she was truly free.  “The Mountain...Theon Greyjoy...Ser Ilyn...Raff the Sweetling...the Red Woman,” Beltaine whispered as she approached Winterfell’s great hall.  No!  There was another name.  Was it Ryman?  Aemon?  Damon?  Damon!  Damon was one of the Mountain’s men, she remembered, breathing a sigh of relief.  “The Mountain...Theon Greyjoy...Ser Ilyn...Raff the Sweetling...Damon...the Red Woman.  Valar Morghulis.”
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« Reply #52 on: August 03, 2015, 11:50:04 PM »

The Night’s Queen (Part II of II)
 
Beltaine stared at the door to Winterfell’s great hall and chewed her lip nervously.  She had to pass through the room in order to go outside and practice her needlework, but the Night’s King could be in there.  She could hear Sidhe voices coming from inside the room.  He’s in there.  At least there are many others in there with him.  Maybe he won’t even notice me. 

As soon as Beltaine opened the door, she saw the Night’s King seated high up on his throne of skulls.  Theon was cowering next to him and it was packed with more Sidhe than Beltaine would’ve believed could fit a single room...even one as large as Winterfell’s great hall.  No one heard me come in, not even any of the other Sidhe.  They would’ve told him if they had.  Beltaine often overheard the Sidhe talking of how he’d killed the previous Night’s King, brought down The Wall, taken Winterfell, and conquered the North.  But even if they hadn’t liked him, the Sidhe hated her and would’ve told him for that reason alone.  They were always whispering that she was too weak to ever be a true Sidhe.  Although for some reason they never said anything bad about her in the Night’s King’s presence.

As Beltaine carefully made her way through the mob of Sidhe, she noticed that the Night’s King was trying to get two young children to fight to the death.  He promised to spare the winner’s life, but all they did was cry for their mothers.  Does he actually think anyone would ever believe word he says?  Stupid bastard.  She had made it to the door on the other end of the room without anyone noticing.  Quiet as a shadow.  She opened the door and it made a loud creaking sound.  The room grew silent and Night’s King slowly turned his head in her direction.  He shouted in an almost cheerful voice “Ah, what do we has...have...has?  Yes, have...have it is!  What do we have here?  Is it?  Yes, I do believe it is my sweet wife.  Join us, won’t you?”  The Night’s King was clearly very drunk.  That was good because it meant he’d be stupid.  But he had still caught her trying to sneak past him before anyone noticed she was there and that was bad.

“Why?  So I can watch you drink until you wet yourself?  No, I don’t think I will join you.  Although it smells like you’ve already soiled yourself a few times,” said Beltaine, hoping she sounded as bored as she thought she did.  It was good to insult him.  You always had to make sure that he thought you weren’t afraid of him.  Otherwise, you’d end up like Big Walder or Theon. 

“It wasn’t a question,” he replied calmly although his face had begun to twitch.  Beltaine realized that she had never talked back to the Night’s King in front of other Sidhe and wondered whether he’d try to hurt her to save face, especially since he was plainly too drunk to speak properly.  He’ll probably embarrass himself no matter what he does.  Stupid bastard.  He almost looks frightened.  Probably afraid that I’ll make him look weak in front of the other Sidhe, not that it’d matter. 

“I will let slide...that one slide if,” he burped, “if you do as you're bid and help me get these two sh!ts to start fighting each other.  Can’t remember father so they must needs be punished.  But you must be a good little wolf and come near...here...come here now!  Then you will sit like a good and,” another burp, “a good and obedient dog.”  For once, Beltaine really wasn’t afraid of him.  This wasn’t the Night’s King...it was just...she didn’t know what it was.  Whatever was wrong with him, none of the other Sidhe seemed to notice or if they did, were still too afraid of him to say anything.  He can’t remember his father anymore, Beltaine realized.  Is he drinking so much because he’s sad?  No, this has to be another of his games. 

“I’m not your stupid dog,” snapped Beltaine. 
“S-Stay!  Roll over!” the Night’s King bellowed. 
“I said I’m not a dog!  And your father was Roose Bolton.  But you weren’t a Bolton.  You’re a Snow.  Don’t you, remember?”
“What...what did you say?” asked the Night’s King.
“I said you’re a stupid, drunken, crippled bastard and that’s all you’ll ever be!”

The Night’s King’s face darkened with rage and for a moment he simply stared at her silently.  That was when Beltaine knew she had made a mistake.  He was drunk which meant the game would have different rules.  “Do you know what you do with a dog that won’t behave?” asked the Night’s King.  Beltaine dodged the wineskin that he threw at her.  “You sim-simply cut the dumb b!tch’s throat.  Here...let me show you,” he said unsheathing his ice sword with his left hand as he stood up and began to stagger towards her. He’ll find me if I run and where would I even go?  The North is his and Winterfell is my home.  I won’t leave again.  Never! 

“Now are you going to...going to behave like a good little wolf...dog...a good wolf?  No more fighting or biting or b!tching?  Well...perhaps biting is still allowed.” 

“Biting it is then,” Beltaine replied, and bit down on her right shoulder as hard as she could on the exact spot where the stump of what had once been Night’s King’s sword arm ended.  Beltaine forced herself to ignore the pain as she thought about everything the Night’s King had stolen from her.  The Night’s King yelped in pain and lost his balance, dropping his sword and falling backward.  Beltaine ran to where he had fallen and grabbed his sword before he could react.  Quick as a snake.  She pointed the blade at the Night’s King’s throat and spat blood in his face.  The Night’s King did not move an inch, but he was practically baring his teeth at her.  Beltaine noticed that the fall had re-opened the wound on his stump. 

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.  “I am Beltaine.  You might be the Night’s King, but I am the Night’s Queen and if you ever threaten me again, I’ll kill you.  Do you understand, bastard?  I can’t hear you,” she shouted so that all of the other Sidhe would hear.

“I under...yes,” the Night’s King answered quietly. 
“Good, because if I ever have to point a weapon at you again...”

“Get...out...NOW!  GO!” the Night’s King yelled.

I can’t practice my needlework tonight, Beltaine thought as she carefully backed away from the Night’s King.  If I do, then I’ll have to pass through the great hall again once I’m done and he might still be in here. As she turned towards the door on the other end of the hall, Beltaine saw all of the other Sidhe silently staring at her and wondered what they were going to do.  One by one, they all moved to the side so that Beltaine had a clear path to the door.  Some of them even looked at her with what might’ve been pride or approval.  Beltaine smiled to herself when she heard the Night’s King mutter “Disloyal c***s never cleared a path for me.”

I am Beltaine of Winterfell, thought the Night’s Queen as she walked toward the door, and the lone wolf has found her pack.  My true pack. She dropped the Night’s King’s sword in front of the door and left the great hall.  They are wolves too, real wolves like me...even...even the Night’s King.  The Long Night will be a time for wolves and I am the night wolf.  Beltaine’s eyes grew wide with fear.  No!  I have to remember who I am or I’ll end up just like him.  I will not forget Arya Stark of Winterfell!  The Sidhe can’t be my pack.  They can never be wolves.  But if I’m a Sidhe, doesn’t that mean...  Beltaine began to chew her lip.  The Sidhe are my pack, she decided, but they cannot be wolves.  They will not speak to me of wolves.  There are no other wolves left.  Only me.

Beltaine barred the door to her bedchamber so that the Night’s King would not be able to enter...if he could even make it there before he passed out.  Stupid bastard.  She whispered her evening prayer to The Great Other.  “The Mountain...Theon Greyjoy.  Valar Morghulis.”  No, that is wrong.  “The Mountain...Theon...Theon...Theon...Theon Greyjoy!”  Beltaine realized that she couldn’t remember any of the other names in her prayer.  What did he do?  What’s happening?  I can’t forget them...I...I...  Beltaine tried to say her prayer over and over again between sobs as she struggled to remember just one of the missing names, but none of them ever returned to her.  For the first time that she could remember, Beltaine eventually fell asleep without saying her prayer to The Great Other.  There were no wolf dreams that night...only nightmares.
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« Reply #53 on: August 31, 2015, 07:54:20 PM »
« Edited: August 31, 2015, 08:41:23 PM by Winter has come »

And so begins...what...the 50th Battle of Winterfell Tongue

The King in the North

How the f*** could this happen, wondered Culrikhan as he washed down the last piece of sausage with a goblet of wine.  There was no one left to challenge me except that Southron whore and her dragons.  I broke the Westrosi at Winterfell and again at the Twins!  The so-called great houses are little more than hollow shells of their former selves.  And yet somehow the little sh!ts managed to steal half of my f***ing kingdom from me.  I brought down the Wall!  I had the army!  The North...the Riverlands...mine all of it!  The Great Other has cursed me.  No!  I am the Great Other.  The sooner those blue-eyed c**ts realize that, the better!  


There will be no Night’s King after me, Culrikhan decided.  The  Army of Winter shall attack the dragon whore head-on.  If we are victorious then there will be no one else left who is strong enough to oppose me and if she burns them all...well...it serves those traitors right.  Let the dumb b!tch kill them all.  If the blue-eyed sh!ts can’t win a battle, what use are they?  Once they’ve all paid for their treasons, I will return to the Land of Always Winter.  The battle is ultimately incidental.  Win or lose, I shall live on forever!  I am a God and one does not kill a God.

The other Sidhe are all traitors, that much is certain.  They’ve been plotting treasons ever since the night that wolf c*** had threatened to kill me in the great hall.  “The f***ing Stark boys escaped from Skagos.  How am I supposed to control the b!tch now?” he screamed at Reek.
“M-Master?”
“Shut up!”
“Yes, master.  For-Forgive me, master.”

Reek was plainly too stupid to plot betrayal and yet Culrikhan wondered if even his pet could still be trusted.  The Night’s King ripped large chunk of meat off one of the half-eaten dishes sitting before him.  He is a loyal Reek, most like.  But that ungrateful little sh!t must needs be brought to heel.  I was merciful.  I made her a place of honor in my new world and she spat in my face.  Besides, if she needed someone to blame, the fault lay with the Bastard of Winterfell.  Well...I suppose that false King and his red whore also deserve some of the blame.  If they’d won the Battle of Winterfell, I never would’ve been able to do anything to her.  Not that it matters how the c**t feels about any of this.

The Night’s King glanced at the wound on his right shoulder.  She can hurt me without feeling a thing and I still can’t harm her.  It’s only a matter of time before she figures it out.  Whatever else the dumb b!tch may be, she’s not stupid.  She is not a wolf anymore; I have made her one of us.  Culrikhan did not know what exactly that meant, but all the same, the thought filled him with pride...until he remembered how much she hated him.  She threatened to unman me...called me a bastard...threatens to kill me every other day...attacked me in public.  Her treasons will not go unpunished!  She cannot continue to make me appear weak in the eyes of my servants.  Useless as they may be, they are still a threat.  If even one of them tries to challenge me, I’m hardly in a position to fight back.  No!  They can’t challenge me.  I am the Night’s King!  Even so, the c**t must die, Culrikhan decided.  If I give her a painless death, then surely I will be safe.  Shame I can’t make an example of her.

At least I can help myself to some decent meat.  The Freys were never good for anything in life, but in death...well...I dare say Big Walder is the finest meal I’ve ever known.  As he chewed on a piece of the boy’s liver, the Night’s King wondered whether there might be a fatter Frey for him to dine on somewhere in Westeros.  Shame the boy was so small.  Not much meat on him, to be sure.  Culrikhan’s face darkened with rage when he remembered that the way the other Sidhe had looked at him when he began his meal.  They are unworthy of such a feast, he decided, throwing a rib at Reek in frustration.  It is a meal fit for a King and a King alone.  No!  Not a King...a God!  By what right do slaves judge their master?  I will punish them!  In time, I will punish them all!  

Suddenly, the Night's King heard a roar so loud that all of Winterfell seemed to tremble.  Glass shattered.  Goblets fell to the ground.  There was a second roar and then a third.  And somehow Culrikhan knew...dragons!  They are already here.  A vile stench filled the room.  A stench so foul that, whatever else the Westerosi might say about the Boltons, no man would ever claim that they shat gold.

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« Reply #54 on: September 04, 2015, 11:32:32 PM »


Benjen

The sky was slate gray and the wind had a murderous bite to its chill. There in that clearing in the Wolfswood, Benjen Stark stood before the weirwood trees and focused all his might on the dry kindling at the base of the tree. He clenched his fist, and with startling speed felt a rush of heat burst from his arm. Across the clearing the tinder erupted in flames. This fire is the oldest magic, Benjen thought, staring thoughtfully at his hand.

"Good," came his nephew's voice from the tree. “You’re getting much better, uncle.” Benjen looked into the eyes filled with blood red sap. For weeks now Benjen had lived in the wood, eating and sleeping at its feet, and training daily for the battle to come. His nephew had learned deeper and more ancient secrets than any Stark ever had, and slowly but surely some of those secrets had helped Benjen to prepare.

His senses were heightened in a way that allowed him to hear and see better, and his reflexes were faster than any man he'd ever seen. Then Bran had told his uncle to place his bare hand on the weirwood one morning, the same as always, but when he did the wood was boiling to the touch. "Do not move your hand," Bran had said. Benjen obeyed, and despite the pain saw that his hand was unscathed when he eventually pulled it away.

The transfer and training of weirwood magic was only part of it. With the Night's King's return to Winterfell, the plan to destroy him had been undertaken in earnest.

"The Children of the Forest say the Night's King's death will cause the Sidhe to fall," Bran reported again.

"Yes, but why don't they know for sure? Didn't they help the First Men during the Long Night?"

"Of course, but uncle, until just recently the others were thought of as a long lost myth; there was barely a whisper of a memory of them even in the North. If the men of Westeros forgot, how can you expect generations of Children to remember?"

"You will need to get inside Winterfell, through the Army of Winter. Once you've gotten to the godswood, we will speak again."

"Through the army?!" Benjen asked.

"I can guide you in some ways," Bran said.
That night Benjen Stark slept restlessly, for there was nothing but terror that stood before him.

In the morning he gathered his things: his cloak, boots, and sword were all put in place with steady care. The whole time, Benjen Stark's hands trembled.

He was returning to the castle he'd only dreamt for five long years. In the end of Summer, he remembered the merriment of the feast honoring King Robert's visit to Winterfell. It had reminded him of the chaos he'd loved as a child, chasing Brandon and Lyanna through crowds, playing at swords in the godswood, racing their horses across the moors.

The memory of his childhood at Winterfell, when everything had been whole, seemed to warm him and calm his nerves. He remembered his decision to join the Night's Watch after Ned returned from the war. At the time he had hated Ned, hated him for living and coming back with a beautiful wife and son, when father and Brandon and Lyanna all came back as bones. Now he felt at peace with his decision, for the first time in his life. How strange that it was today.

Benjen had learned by now to know when his nephew was warging nearby animals. A scruffy rabbit was guiding him out of the Wolfswood right now, then he switched to a crow that flew from branch to branch, until finally he stood looking at the castle he once called home.

It looked more like a ruin now. And stretched all around in the tens of thousands was the Army of Winter. Benjen pulled his cloak tighter about him, and the hood farther over his head. Slowly and deliberately, he walked into the camp.

To his surprise, nobody seemed to notice him. This army had the looks of a hard and recent defeat. Closer and closer he got to Winterfell, and could tell that Bran was warging the crow flying ahead, guiding him through the camp without coming face to face with a wight. Finally he reached the gates and crouched behind a tent, taking stock of the guard.

There were four men posted at the gate, Benjen had counted, when the crow landed on his arm. “How am I getting in?” he asked the crow. It quorked, and then he heard a shout from yards away. Looking up, he saw a young warrior woman, a sidhe, leaving the castle with an escort of followers. The guards seemed enthralled to meet her, and Benjen seized the opportunity to slip past them in the hubbub of the night woman’s presence.

Inside Winterfell, it was like second nature getting himself to the godswood. First he’d cross through the yard, as he’d dashed across it hundreds of times as a boy. Then he’d pass the great wolf statues that lead to the Stark crypts, where the Kings of Winter still live on their stony thrones. Past that was the next stage in their plan. As he crossed the yard, a noisy flock of crows flew overhead to draw the attention of the sidhe warriors. Past the burned remains of Catleyn Tully’s modest sept he saw the wolf statues, smoked and charred from fires that the castle had weathered. Then he was there, inthe forest of the Winter Kings: the Godswood of Winterfell.

Steam still rose from the pools, but it was a feeble effort now. Decades past he’d have bathed and jumped in the ponds for hours, laughing and splashing and chasing his older sister and brother. Fortunately the place now seemed abandoned, almost as if the Sidhe shunned it but could not destroy it. Benjen clenched his fist together and felt the fire magic tingling in his fingertips. This is the realm of the Old Gods, and the land of the Starks. He stepped lightly and crossed the wood to the great weirwood at the center. In this freezing winter it lacked the crimson leaves, but its face still seeped blood-red sap from the eyes.

As Benjen stepped forward, the weirwood took the features of his nephew. “You made it,” Bran said. He smiled back, too breathless to respond. “Right,” Bran continued, “you need to get to the Night’s King. He will be guarded, of course, and that’s where what I’ve taught you kicks in. He’s in the great hall right now, I saw through a rat that he is eating with his men.”

“How many?” Benjen asked.

“At least a hundred. I’m not sure I can work a diversion to get-”

Bran’s words were cut off by a piercing screach from the sky. The sound was joined quickly by two others, and through the leaves of the godswood Benjen saw dragons flying over his head. Without thinking he drew his sword, and turned to the nearest exit toward the great hall.

“Good luck,” he heard his nephew whisper in the wind.

Ahead the dragons were diving and circling the main part of the castle, raining fire on the shouting Sidhe in the yard and on the walls. A cream colored one broke formation to scorch the perimiter of the walls, while the green one dove into the yard and cast a flame so long and hot that Benjen felt it from his safe vantage point. Hurriedly, he ran up the stairs that led to the walkway over the yard. When he reached the top he was ready to sprint, but came face to face with three sidhe warriors, each with their swords drawn.

Before the wights could even react, Benjen swung his sword through the chest of the first one, and from his fingers flames enveloped the blade and body alike. One turn and ran, while the other lunged for his legs. With the speed of a shadowcat, Benjen swung the flaming sword downward and it caught the Sidhe’s blade with full force, knocking him to the ground. In an instant the second Sidhe’s body was enveloped in flames as well.

Benjen proceeded across the walkway as the monstrous black dragon flew overhead, missing it by inches. He could have sworn he heard the shouts of the woman riding the beast. He ran as fast as his legs would take him, and burst through the doors to the great hall.

Inside was not the home of the Starks. The walls and ceiling were frozen in strong coats of ice. The sword in his hand extinguished, and through the smoke that rose before his face, Benjen Stark found himself face to face with the Night’s King, the woman Sidhe he’d seen at the gates, and a man so tattered and unclean that he positively reeked.
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« Reply #55 on: September 10, 2015, 11:38:52 AM »



MELONY

“You are still its lord,” she urged him, quiet, low, firm, and strangely quite as tranquil as the silent white that lay, deep, unrelenting, all about. “Lord of Winterfell and of the Realm. Under the Lord of Light alone.”

Her companion made small response, save for the low growl of the great white beast, scarce discernible to eyes less vigilant than hers now. The Lady Melisandre was unperturbed. Her warrior had spoken but little since the battle that left his King, her last champion, slain. It mattered naught. She knew, she had seen, in the flames alike as in the flesh, that he could fight, that he would lay waste to this wasteland and prevail over it. The time for colloquies was past.

Ahead of them the curtain wall loomed, so vast and, compared to the pallor of sky and long suffocated moor and fell, so dark; like a jagged remnant of smoke-grey palling to black, leaking shadow and steam about it from the appalling cleanliness. Like dragonglass. Like dragonsteel. Melisandre had never seen the fortress look so formidable, yet not half, either, so penetrable. In the shadow it cast her powers would wax weightily. Had she not seen as much?

“One is upon us,” so lovingly, now, did she murmur. “Draw.” And the slight, almost tentative figure in stained grey at her side drew indeed, with a stiffened and crooked motion, four feet and more of black steel from his side. It did not resemble the last Lightbringer, and that too brought the Lady succour. This time heat of a kind could be felt, the heat of passion and of pain, searing, aching; and the light the blade cast, if it had a colour, looked as if it had long lain girdled by Melisandre’s own flaming hair, by her great dark ruby of glamourie. The colours of the House Targaryen. A strange coincidence. No, nothing is a coincidence. But…a problem for another hour. They come.

The wolf knew his path well, and so did the man, if mere man was still what her new champion could be called; and they were beside a quiet wicket gate. But the enemy, the Last Enemy, were numerous, and they could not so easily be caught unawares. Before they had attained their ingress Melisandre’s crimson glare locked upon the pale sky glint of the Sidhe – and the Shadowbinder laughed.

“Show these, Jon Snow. Show them what you know.”

The grey figure asked no more, nor the bone-white shadow beside him. Ghost would not be left, for all that his strength would be of small aid here, and in truth Melisandre was glad of it; she still suspected something was left to be reaped from the familiar’s mind, scent, very tread. Carefully she called it, still snarling, back towards her, as the six Sidhe advanced, three ahead, one to the right fank, two, somehow, behind. And the grey stranger with his blood-black blade of evelight span. Two of the sentinels were winnowed at once, their own ice-blades seeming to meld with the piercing array dripping from each ledge and surface. Those who had thought to surround them Melisandre herself did not so much destroy as dismiss, breathing them to stray shards as the heat and denseness of the air about her bucked and swelled. The last guard on a sudden made as if to kneel. Her champion had no time for kneelers now. Down came Lightbringer upon its wan skull, so that the pommel slid and shimmered in the air, a white wolf still, whatever betided at its blade.

“Swift. To the Great Hall. To this latest and last of your Usurpers,” she urged, and the wolf let out a long, low thrill of melancholy relish. Through bailey and court they slipped and skidded and sprinted. The Lady could be tireless and rapid when she cared to show it, and there was no power anymore that she troubled to hide. Only her creation was her equal, aye, and more. The very wolf lagged and whined as they passed.

And then they heard it, the sound she had heard so often in rumours and in dreams, the dragonsong that filled the night. The three overhanging dooms that, as Melisandre had been first told by Lady Selyse so very long ago, had come to deliver judgment on Black Harren’s line. All at Winterfell had lain under silver shrouds. Now the night blazed red and clear, and the very Sidhe began to scream, a queer, shimmering music that spoke of pain and sorrow as unconnected, incomprehensible beauties.

“It is our hour,” the Red Woman gasped, and knew then she was addressing herself. The Great Hall was scarce a cloister ahead, and the court was packed as an elegant grove, a tamed forest of silver birchs, …of them. Only they began to fire like tallow now, and as they melted, so even more they thronged. Then Ghost hissed, drew himself back, and howled bright – yes, it was a bright sound, as Lightbringer had rang out when she unsheathed it anew. And, amidst their torment and their chaos, the Sidhe were all aware of them.

Contemplation was a luxury, a disorder, a weakness. There were only the flames, now, and they poured from the Lady below as from the monsters above. She had brought a dark lamp from Asshai in her hands of might, a lamp that would cast open the way for her warrior. For the first time the grey swordsman looked to her as if in full consciousness, humaneness, almost curiosity. “Go,” she bade him, “go and find him, the lesser bastard, the flayed child who has been named Culrikhan. The worthless and false heir of Brandon Stark. These are as nothing to you. Lay them down, and put him to Lightbringer!” The warrior nodded, for a moment that seemed slow, yet must have been over near instantly, as he swung to dispatch two more Sidhe in as many motions.

She must not waste energy in coddling the last strong man left. Melisandre breathed, and she was fell, and the demonlings weak as the water that must once have congealed them. She laughed harsher and harder, tore the black the red from her very back. Ghost was nowhere in sight, and no matter of hers. Forth she hurtled, to gaze in delight at the marvels of the infinite gradations of flames, their sources now revealed, cream glimmering to rose in the conflagaration, darkening green, black, so very black. Naked to the very bone, she felt herself deep as she might, spread herself about as the star of victory, abandoned herself to the joy, the surge, the raiment of fair dissemination, red, red, flowing soft and warm and gelling to dark spikes, leaping yellow phantasms of mocking affection…They were fleeing her now, as well they might, routed before her as much as by any dragon, the Army of Winter, the rabble gone awry…she was willing, thrilling to chase them, to use her every ember upon each of them…

Then she saw Selyse, staring doleful, lost, in a crevice of the Nightfort, abandoned somewhere folded in the flames the green dragon left in its wake. Davos Seaworth she saw, on a far sea with his arms about the last of Stannis’s House; his own legacy was long gone; she had seen Devan lost in the battle, Lady Seaworth and her babes had long perished by flamelight. Why these thoughts now, of such small moment? A severed arm, twitching and flailing. Blue eyes of Baratheon, not just gold death, on a tall lost form with its fingers peeled back almost to naught. The chilliest little girl, almost a maid, she had ever seen or even thought of, spinning an obsidian dagger. Was that almost real, or spewed from the cream dragon’s retorts? Both were immanent now. The silver queen on her mount in truth, and re-echoed in queer refraction below as the black dragon belched…

I vouched all for Snow, she could have wailed as she veered between bliss and despair, but who better than I to know it is nothing to flames? Where was he? There was but one way to see, a clear way. She needed fleetness now, not beauty, and it was a crone, another living corpse in all but thought and spirit, a flotsam of the centuries, who soared up, croaking sere as any crow, to the broken stronghold’s highest redoubt. Where is the wolf? Where is the Prince that was Promised?

Until then the dragons themselves had seemed to avoid her almost as much as the Sidhe, but then the green one, the one in whose spume she had seen her first, lost, betrayed Queen, gracefully attained her own height, or as near as was no matter. There was something playful in his gaze; for her part she was crying, she could not have sworn how or why. Surely she had erred twice. What was this sight if not a curse? Was Daenerys then Azor Azai, as in truth she had briefly wondered?

“I do not know,” Melony confessed to the beast in a voice no human would any longer be able to follow, craning and wheezing as she stretched towards its maw. And as its sigh dispersed her frail remnant, she felt her exasperation and loss blur into the relief of sleep far too long detained.


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« Reply #56 on: September 20, 2015, 02:12:34 AM »

Theon III:


He had never truly liked Benjen Stark.

All those years of being a ward, or a slave, inside the walls of Winterfell – for Theon could hardly repress his memories now, even while the battle of the castle was being fought – Benjen had been amongst the ones that treated him with most contempt, not even acknowledging his very presence in all those family reunions Lord Stark was so fond of. But even disliking Benjen Theon could not help but to feel somewhat sorry for him, because for all his new found strength, all of that new magic of fire he somehow had learnt to perform, he did not stood a chance. For all the memories that continued to haunt him every time he started to A… the Queen and remembered the painful, painful past, he knew it could not be done. Stannis Baratheon, tough as he was, had gotten close, yet even he had gone down to the King. Surely a half dead Stark would not even give a single scratch to the lord of winter that he still served, but not willing

Shhh, Reek, shhhhh… Theon or Reek, you must push it away… The King, y-you mustn’t betray feelings to the King… or betray the King? Shhhh… Theon… Shhhh… Reek…

-Here we stand then, monster.-
-You will watch your tongue as you address me, scum. – The King would have none of it – And you will show some manners, lest I have my men teach it you.-
-They are gone, MONSTER! – Benjen was angrier now – Wherever those dragons came from, they are melting you precious army to pieces. I myself have had little trouble melting your pitiful little snow soldiers.-
-YOU WILL SHOW RESPECT, YOU BASTARD! – Culrikhan roared – You’re no one! –
-I am Benjen Stark. And you’re sitting on my nephew’s place.-

The King’s face turned into a blank expression, the Queen suffering a small shock as her expression turned colder still. Now smiling and even laughing, Culrikhan stepped down from the skull throne, more content that he had been in months. Using his sole arm to draw his sword, Benjen made a gesture of pointing to the frozen stump and then laughing as rudely as possible, his sword drawn to.

-Is this the power of the King of Winter? – He jested – I would find no use in my nephew’s spells, my sword would be enough to kill a cripple.-
-You will be silent. – Culrikhan did not take kindly to being called a cripple – And you will bow before my throne! –

Both men locked swords as fiercely as possible, hatred glowing between their eyes as each of them knew winning was not a commodity, it was what would ensure the future of their causes. Benjen was inspired to win, Theon knew, but so was Culrikhan. Surely he would show no weaknesses, a hand less or not…

-You’re slow, bastard! –
-Do not call me bastard, Stark! –
-Only a bastard would dare sit on that throne without permission! –

But it was Benjen who was clearly better at swordplay, as his senses were stronger than any man Theon had ever seen. He clearly was not the same, yet he looked normal enough to further confuse him as he withdrew to the back of the room, still shivering from the sheer cold. It was then that Benjen made what looked like an impossible fast forward movement, putting enough strength on his blow to make a cut across the King’s chest to sending to the floor. Benjen moved forward to put his foot atop the wound as the King cursed, and the Queen remained emotionless as ever. Benjen had… won… had he? A surge of courage almost got out of his heart before being ruthlessly killed, as Theon saw that the skull throne was starting to move. Benjen did not know about that… almost no one did. Yet in lack of a better seat, King Culrikhan had an undead throne… skeletons still alive as mindless wights, moving their bodies to create a firm seat for their King… and defend him should the need arise. Theon felt true sadness as the skeletons rose from the floor, all almost flying towards the challenger.

-Die! –
-Oh, gods! –

Again he showed skill by using fire spells to shot down the barrage of corpses raised towards him, yet they were too many… dagger by dagger, wound by wound, a swarm of slaves stabbed Benjen Stark and left him for dead as blood flooded the area. Culrikhan stood up again, weakened by the blow and breathing too quickly… is he wounded? Could he ever lose? No… no…

-U-Un-Uncle… B… B-Benjen.-

That voice… he knew that voice… but he was dead.

-UNCLE BENJEN! –

His scream roared across the frozen room as Culrikhan and the warriors looked at him, Beltaine starting to shake as her face began to contort. It was Jon… or something resembling Jon, who looked almost grey and emotionless before giving that powerful shout.

-Well, well, well… Jon SNOW. – The King smiled again –

Jon fell to his knees as he put his hands on his head, clearly in pain. The room even started to heat as it seemed Snow would be on fire at any time, the pain so intense Theon thought he might drop dead given his expression. Yet all he did was shout, in anger and frustration as he stood up and charged the wights and Sidhe warriors with an expression that showed he was out of his mind. Whatever force controlled him – for Theon saw with surprise a bit of himself on Jon – was gone, leaving one raw… emotion.

-Culrikhan! You bastard! You killed them all! You killed Val, you killed Arya! –

One by one, Longclaw swung killing the Sidhe with single blows, the wights going down as well even as they tried to group and go for the kill. Endless wounds he sustained by fighting, yet he would not stop, he would kill and the King even looked surprised and… afraid? Could he be afraid? Could he realize he is… mortal? NO! NO, THEON! REEK! NO! Do not… do not tempt… do not think, do not… do not… But Jon killed them all, even as his wounds grew deeper and pieces of something black fell from his coat, he made sure every single one of them was dead. Except for the King, who waited his moment to strike.

-SNOW! – The King shouted, stabbing Jon in the back with an ice knife picked from the floor –

As Beltaine started to shake more and move her head in denial, Jon let out a scream of pain and fell to the floor, his force abandoning him on account of his grievous wounds… He can’t fight anymore, he can’t… no one can win fighting up front, as they all tried. The King was right, you can only win by surprising them, by striking where they won’t expect… No… no… Please, go away, do not tempt me. I can’t… it may be my last chance, but I can’t… please… No!

-It’s over, Snow. You have no idea how long did I wait for his moment… and how much I will enjoy turning you into one of my wights. – The King’s smile almost looked out of place on his grotesque expression –

He is going to… he will put an end to… he will win… will he?

-After you become my servant, I will put an end to this. I will change the weather from the skies if I need to and bring the bitch dragon queen down, and then I will march with the army myself down south. AND I WILL KILL EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM! ALL OF THEM! -

Now… now? Is now the time? Reek, not Theon… Theon, not Reek… Reek… Theon… Reek… Theon… Reek…

-THEON! – He shouted for the first time in what seemed like eternity – MY NAME IS THEON GREYJOY! -

One of those pieces of what looked like dragonglass was on his hand, having picked it up while submerged on his own dilemma. Seeing Culrikhan raising his sword to give the final blow, he rushed, he ran towards Culrikhan and screaming to the top of his lungs with all the pain and cold of years of slavery he rammed the knife into his back, drawing an even louder scream from Culrikhan.  Shaking as the knife got stuck in the back of the King, Theon fell to the floor.

And Culrikhan fell too.
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« Reply #57 on: September 20, 2015, 07:33:00 AM »
« Edited: September 20, 2015, 07:54:06 AM by Winter has come »

The Night's Queen (Arya V): Part 1 of 2



The Night’s King did not shatter like the Sidhe she’d seen him stab with dragonglass...he simply fell to the ground...dead.  Beltaine knew she should be happy, but his death brought her no joy.  The bastard was mine to kill!  Theon stole him from me, she thought bitterly.  And yet...as Beltaine stared at the Night’s King’s dead body, sprawled across the floor, her anger gave way to a strange sort of grief.  No matter how much I hated him, he was still part of my pack.  Beltaine chewed her lip as she wondered whether Arya Stark had a pack of her own once.  If I could find them somehow, maybe they’d think I was still Arya...maybe they’d still want me even if I wasn’t...maybe...what a stupid thought.  It wouldn’t matter anyway.  I am Beltaine of Winterfell and I belong with the Sidhe...with my brothers and sisters.  I cannot lose them!  Not again!  Beltaine continued to stare at the corpse of the creature who had caused her so much pain and felt a pang of guilt for having wished him dead so often.  I hated him, but I never actually would’ve killed him, she decided.  I never wanted to see him die...not really.  I just...wanted to hurt him a little is all.  He was a monster, but he was part of the only family I’ll ever have...the only one that would ever want me.  And even they may not want me anymore now that he’s dead.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Theon’s deranged cries of joy.  For a moment Beltaine simply stared at the pathetic, half-mad creature that was running around the room screaming “Theon!  Theon!  Theon!  My name is Theon!  Do you hear me, bastard?  Theon!  Not Reek!  He’s dead!  HE’S DEAD!  I killed the bastard!”  

Beltaine whispered a new prayer to the Great Other.  “The Dragon Queen.  Theon Greyjoy.  Valar Morguhlis.”  But before she could unsheathe Needle and cross Theon off her list, she heard a voice that instantly silenced the Turncloak.  

“So this is how you’d repay my generosity?  I’m so very disappointed in you.  You’ve been a very bad Reek.  I’m going to have to punish you now...”

That’s why he never shattered!  It wasn’t dragonglass.  Stupid turncloak.  Beltaine felt something as the Night’s King slowly rose from the ground, but whether it was relief or disappointment, she could not say.  She decided that even though she would always hate him, she was glad that he was still alive.

“No!  Th-that’s not possible!  Y-You can’t b-b-be alive.  I...I k-killed you.  Seven Hells, I...I attacked him...stabbed you...I...I mean I...” Theon babbled as a yellow stream ran down his right leg.
 
 “What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.  Don’t worry, I won’t kill you, we’ll just start all over again.  We’ll get you right this time!” Culrikhan continued.

“Please...m-m-mercy...I am...I am...no...I am Theon!  My name is Theon!  You have to know your name!  And your name is bastard.”

For a moment, the Night’s King simply stared at the Turncloak, his face twitching in anger.  “You don’t want to be Reek anymore?  It doesn’t matter.  I don’t need you.  Theon will die, but Reek...Reek will live on.  Reek will never die.  I’ll just make another one out of our new friend.  Perhaps I’ll make him eat you, one piece at a time.  Would you like that?  I think I’ll carve you up myself?  Yes, I’d say you’re a meal fit for a Reek,” said the Night’s King, flaying knife in hand.

The wounded man who had been lying unconscious near the doors moaned and began to stir although neither the Night’s King or the Turncloak seemed to notice.  I should kill him now before he recovers.  Culrikhan can handle Theon Turncloak on his own, Beltaine thought to herself as she approached the wounded man.  She decided that the man had a villain’s face.  He isn’t even worthy of becoming a Wight.  But the wounded man’s face didn’t look very evil up close and despite everything he had done to her pack...or tried to do...Beltaine found that she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.  He doesn’t deserve to become another Reek, she decided.  I will give him mercy.  The Night’s Queen unsheathed Needle, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t bring herself to kill him.  Suddenly, the man opened his eyes and a look of recognition appeared upon his face.  The wounded man simply stared at her for what felt like an eternity before saying one word...a name.  “Arya?”

That is not my name.  I am Beltaine of Winterfell.  Besides, Arya Stark is a wolf name and he has no right to speak to me of wolf names.  No one does.  Beltaine glanced at Needle and saw the reflection of a memory, forgotten long ago.  A memory of a man giving his younger sister a sword...a sword she named Needle.  A memory of a time when it seemed as though the summer would never end.  A memory of a time when a girl was happy.  For a moment, it was as though they were standing right in front of her.  Suddenly, the memory began to fade away and as it did, the man and his sister turned and began to walk away from Beltaine.  She wanted to run after them...to beg the man and his sister to take her with them.  “Wait!  Don’t go!  Come back!” she tried to shout, but the words stuck in her throat and she felt cold tears roll down her cheeks as the man and his sister faded away into nothingness.  Don’t...don’t leave me...please...  Beltaine did not know where the name came from, why she said it, or how she knew that it was the man’s name.  All she knew was that something buried deep inside of her answered the wounded man with another name.  “J-Jon?” Arya whispered.

Is this some sort of trick?  What’s happening?  Beltaine chewed her lip nervously.  I have to kill him now...before it‘s too late.  She was about to plunge Needle into Jon’s chest when he began to speak to her.  “Arya...I...I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I wasn’t able to save you.  I’m sorry for everything.  If I’d gotten you out of Winterfell...  I know you’re still in there somewhere.  You knew my name.  Remember your name.  Remember...who you are.  You are my sister and you are a Stark of Winterfell.  Remember who you are.”  

“No!  I am not Arya!  My name is...Beltaine.  Please...I...I have to...I’m sorry...I...”

Jon looked at her not with hatred or anger or even fear.  The look on his face was one of compassion and pity.  “I wish I could have protected you from whatever that monster did to you.  You don’t have to do this.  I know you don’t want to kill me. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone.  You’re not a monster like him.  You are Arya of House Stark.”  Suddenly, Needle began to glow and its handle grew warm in Beltaine’s hand.  I have to do it!  There is no other way.  He must die!
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« Reply #58 on: September 20, 2015, 07:47:23 AM »
« Edited: September 20, 2015, 07:54:28 AM by Winter has come »

The Night's Queen (Arya V): Part 2 of 2



The Night’s King had finally finished mutilating the nearly unrecognizable body of what had once been Theon Greyjoy.  The Turncloak’s body continued to twitch for a moment as Culrikhan licked Theon’s blood off each of his fingers, one by one.  The moment the Night’s King turned around, Beltaine drove her sword through his heart.  Needle...or whatever it was now...grew so hot that Beltaine had to let go of it as soon as she stuck Culrikhan with the pointy end.  Once the sword was lodged inside of him, its blade turned into a flame as bright as dragon fire.  



The Night’s King fell to his knees, howling in pain, before collapsing to the ground.  He did not shatter this time either...or even burn.  Instead, his whole body began to shake uncontrollably.  “What...what did you do?  Pull it out!  It...it burns!  Please make it stop!  Pull the sword out now, you...you f-f***ing c**t,” shouted Culrikhan as he tried to grab her left foot.  Beltaine kicked his hand away and simply stared at him as her face grew hard as stone.  He could never be one of us.  He is not a Sidhe, just some...thing.  My brothers and sisters will never be safe with him leading the pack.  He doesn’t care if he gets us all killed.

Beltaine noticed that the Night’s King’s body was slowly disintegrating.  Culrikhan noticed it too.  “I...I can’t feel my legs.  Please, m-m-mercy,” he moaned as his eyes grew wide with fear...true fear.  The kind of fear she’d seen in Theon Turncloak’s eyes when he realized that he hadn’t really killed the Night’s King.  She continued to stare at him with her cold, blue eyes.  “Wait...I...I...I can make you Arya again!  I promise!  Just pull the sword out and I’ll...it burns...p-please...help me,” he begged in a voice that seemed to age a thousand years with every word.  

“I’m not Arya.  I never was Arya.  I have always been Beltaine of Winterfell.”
“But...but...if I die...you won’t know...my name...your list...you can’t...”

“I don’t care about your stupid name.  It doesn’t matter anymore.  Do you know who you are?  You’re not a Sidhe.  You’re not the Night’s King.  You’re not even the Bastard of Bolton.  You’re no one.  And soon, you will be nothing.”  The monster disintegrated into a pile of ash and the sword’s light grew dimmer and dimmer until it looked like Needle again.  

Will it kill me too if I pick it up?  It is still Needle, Beltaine decided.  She picked up the sword and found that its handle grown as cold as winter.  Beltaine turned around and saw that Jon had managed to force himself off the floor...although he could only stand by leaning against the wall and was still losing blood.  
“Arya...”
“Don’t call me that again,” she snapped.  “That...That is not my name.”  


“I don’t care.  Whatever you want to call yourself...whatever that monster did to you or made you do...I don’t care.  You’re still my sister.  You will always be my sister.  And whether you remember it or not, you are still a Stark of Winterfell.  And you still have a family.  Sansa and Rickon are alive.  Bran might be alive too.  Do you remember them?”

“I...I think so...Sansa...I remember that name, but the other ones...”  

“Please...you have to trust me.  No matter what the Others did to you, you’re not one of them.  You’ll never be one of them.  The Red Woman may know of some way to undo whatever they’ve done to you, but even if she doesn’t, I promise that somehow I will find a way to...”  


“NO!” she shouted, pointing Needle at Jon.  He wants to force me to abandon my pack.  I won’t leave them!  Not again!  Never again!  He can’t take them away from me!  I won’t let him!  “Stay away...I...I’ll kill you...please don’t...they’ll hate me if...promise you won’t...promise me,” Beltaine pleaded.

For a moment, Jon simply stared at her.  “You...you don’t want...very well.  If that is the only way then I...I promise,” he replied sadly.  “But we have to go now, before it is too late...before the dragons burn Winterfell to the ground!”  I forgot about the the dragons, Beltaine realized.  She silently cursed Culrikhan for sending so many of her little cousins to their deaths.  I have to save them...somehow.  I killed the Night’s King, that means they will listen to me now.  I am the Night’s Queen.  I will lead them somewhere safe.  Somewhere far North of here where there are no dragons to fear or names to hate.  I will lead my pack back to the Land of Always Winter.

“We have to leave now!” Jon shouted.  “Come with me...if not to save yourself than for the sake of your family...please!”  
Beltaine looked at him and shook her head sadly.  “I already have a family...my real family.  The only one I ever want to have.”  Jon opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, he passed out and fell to the ground in a pool of blood.  

Beltaine didn’t know where it came from, but a voice called out to her.  “The Godswood.  The Godswood.  The Godswood.”  
“Who are you?  Where are you?” she shouted.  
“The Godswood.  The Godswood.  The Godswood.”  
“I hate those stupid weirwood trees!” snapped Beltaine.  
“Take...him...the Godswood,” the voice moaned.  

Somehow, Beltaine knew that the voice was trying to tell her that Jon would be safe if she took him to the weirwood trees.  It didn’t seem to matter anymore where the voice was coming from or whose it was or even that she hated weirwood trees.  Culrikhan had already torn down most of the them, but there were still a few trees left.  Beltaine carefully dragged Jon’s body all the way to what used to be the Godswood and gently laid it down next to a weirwood tree.  You’ll be safe here.

Beltaine did not know how they knew, it didn’t matter, her brothers and sisters all seemed to sense that she had killed the Night’s King.  The moment she decided to lead them back to the Land of Always Winter, they began to retreat en masse.  She summoned a snow storm so strong that the dragons could not pursue them and were forced to turn back as ice rained down from the sky.  Beltaine silently thanked the Great Other when she saw that most of her pack was still alive as they began to make their way north.

Her brothers and sisters did not hate her for killing the Night’s King.  If anything, they seemed to almost admire her for it.  They hated him as much as I did, she realized.  They only followed him because they feared him.  They did not seem to fear her and yet her little cousins followed her all the same.  Eventually, they reached the ruins of what had once been the Wall.  The lone wolf has found her pack, the Night’s Queen thought with a smile.  She knew that she would never lose them again.  She was finally going home and for the first time that she could remember, Beltaine was happy.
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Lumine
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« Reply #59 on: October 24, 2015, 12:24:24 PM »
« Edited: October 24, 2015, 09:27:21 PM by Lumine »

Bran II:


-To think it would be you... who found me...- Jon said, breathing with difficulty -
-It's been years since you left. - Bran said, more accusatory than he would have wished to be -
-Probably... not my brightest choice. I should have stayed with Robb.-
-You would have died with him.-
-Aye.-

Silence set in as the storm quieted down the fires still burning in Winterfell, and Bran saw with utter amazement the three dragons circling upwards to leave the area. To think they could be real... Whereas it was dragons that left Westeros in ruins once, they had played a key role in defeating the Sidhe. The songs would sing of the Dragon Queen, but Jon and Bran knew the true victor to be Queen Beltaine... their sister. It hurt to realize just what sort of hell she had to go through, only for her to reject what was her family, both brothers deeply disturbed over the end of the most bitter of struggles for their ancient home. Rickon and Sansa were still out there, lost, uncle Benjen was dead, and both knew Arya... or Beltaine, would never return.

It hurt.

-I hoped... I really hoped she would come down with us. Sidhe or not, she is my sister.-
-You mustn't talk, Jon. I need to find a way to get you help.-
-Help... as if help would do any good.-
-Don't talk like that, Jon! - Bran snapped - Your wounds are not that deep.-
-Wounds? Wounds are not only left for the flesh, brother. My life has been a long one...-
-But the Sidhe are gone. There's still a future ahead of us.-
-There is a future for all of you, Bran. For Sansa, for Rickon, for you. I... I lost so much.-
-And you still have much to recover.-
-Not Arya. She's lost, and I could see her in her eyes despite the hesitation. She's not coming back... Val's not coming back either, nor are the rest. All gone.-
-Jon... - Bran was beginning to sob - Don't. Please, don't! -
-We all have a time to go, Bran... and you must play your part, as I have played mine.-
-No... No. You still have much to fight for! You have a watch that is not over! -
-My watch... my watch has ended, Bran. My watch is... is over.-

Jon closed his eyes, and died. Not of his wounds, as Bran could sense with all the bitterness in the world. No, Jon Stark died of a broken heart.

...

It took a while for Bran to even tolerate the sound of Meera and Leaf's voices, asking him to return. He was far, far gone in the middle of his memories, looking again and again at the moments he had learned to master. The fights and games of Winterfell, the finding of the direwolves, the last days of enjoyment before his family was forced to march South... and then the pain. The pain of his fall, the pain of his brief rule as Prince, the pain of Theon's betrayal, the pain and ruin of House Stark in the South, the pain of his long march North, the pain of becoming one with the tree... The pain of his father and mother, the pain of Arya and Jon, of Ser Rodrick and Master Luwin, of Robb, of all the souls lost in the immensity of horror their beloved North had become.

The pain of emptiness, which was all he could feel.

He spoke no word until the Sidhe hordes passed near the cave, bringing their wights with them and ending the siege they had barely survived for months and even years. It was the knowledge of her sister passing near him for the last time on his life that finally forced him to snap. That, and Meera tearfully asking him to end it for once. Much as they all had lost someone, she said, it was left for them to look ahead. Each of them still had family to return to.

But even as some of the bitterness melted away, Bran had larger fears to tend to.

-I can't move, Meera. Bloodraven made me one with the tree. This... I think, is my place to stay.-
-You know that isn't true, Bran! You never asked for that power! You don't belong here! -
-What can I do... I cannot move my body.-
-You can.- Leaf said, a hint of immense sadness on her eyes -
-What...? What are you talking about? -

And Leaf confessed. Eternal as the predicament of Bloodraven had been, it was just a choice. It was Bloodraven himself who had taken his new existence as a punishment for everything he had done when he was still one of the Targaryen Princes, punishment prolonged in the future once he had realized he could not return to his old life. But even a man as tough as the one who had struck the fear of the Gods on the Westerosi Lords had found his breaking point, for Bloodraven had not felt capable of taking it anymore. Unwilling to fight anymore, weary of life, he had found the perfect replacement on Bran, who would stay on his place out of a true sense of duty, not to fulfill the ideas of pain and punishment held by a soul too old to care anymore.

-You were meant to take his place, Bran. You truly were. But not forever.-

For the first time in a long time, a brief glimmer of hope passed before the boy's eyes.

...

The days, weeks and months went ahead, Bran going through the slow, and painful process of reducing his connection with the tree so he could restore his body again. The test was long and harsh, but this time he was unwilling to give in, not after all he had went through. If there was a chance... slim as it was... And sure enough, his arms came to move first. His chest and head soon became separated too, and then his legs became unattached. Not even the weirwood could restore his legs to move again, but he was free at last. Leaf, her own sadness aside, assured him Bloodraven's throne was safe empty for now that the Sidhe had returned home, but that she hoped Bran would do his best to restore the balance of the ravaged North. It was him, she assured Bran, the only one who could really do it.

It was a tearful goodbye, that of Bran and his companions and Leaf, having lived in the cave for such a long time. But they all agreed it was necessary. Bran rode Hodor once again as Meera grabbed her bow and arrows, and taking a good last look at Bloodraven's cave they began to walk North.

-I missed being able to watch the skies. - Meera said, taking a good look at the vast immensity of the snow -
-Hodor? -
-That too, Hodor. - She laughed -
-It is going to be strange to go through the Wall... or what used to be the Wall.-
-Much will be different, Bran. - She said - But we will still find things we can recognize... and bond with.-
-True. I can't wait to see Sansa and Rickon... if they are still alive.-
-They are. Don't ask me why, but I know they are.-
-You're not turning into a greenseer now, are you? -
-Gods, no! That was Jojen's task. A brave task, but not the right kind for me.-

They stopped talking for a moment, admiring the bright rays of the sun that illuminated the wide landscape of the North.

-Where now, Bran? -
-Winterfell, I think. - He said, only to shake his head - No. We're going home.-

She returned his smile as they began to move again, knowing the road ahead to still be a hard one to walk.

It was the middle of winter, and the thirteen year of Bran's life.
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Lumine
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« Reply #60 on: October 24, 2015, 12:25:20 PM »

I'm sorry it took this long, but I hereby close the Battle of Winterfell. I'll in the middle of writing the Epilogue as well.
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Chancellor Tanterterg
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« Reply #61 on: April 29, 2019, 11:42:18 AM »

Bumped in light of last night’s GoT (which makes the way this storyline ended hilarious in hindsight)
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Lumine
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« Reply #62 on: May 07, 2019, 02:26:53 PM »

Bumped in light of last night’s GoT (which makes the way this storyline ended hilarious in hindsight)

I did little else but complain all the way while I hosted, but this was a damn good game and a damn good storyline. If I had time and energy to host anything again I would be even tempted to revisit this and start it again (or another ASOIAF scenario).
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Garlan Gunter
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« Reply #63 on: May 11, 2019, 04:27:51 AM »

HBO owes you two royalties...they must have had a spy on this board among their scriptwriters!!!
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Chancellor Tanterterg
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« Reply #64 on: August 13, 2019, 09:34:30 PM »

HBO owes you two royalties...they must have had a spy on this board among their scriptwriters!!!

I mean, D&D are notoriously awful at original writing and that was the last great episode of the series Tongue
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