A Týrable Idea 2 (Still need an actual title!) (Patreon)

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“But Týr!” Sansa was still protesting even now that they were walking to the caverns, “Mother and Septa Mordane both say that this isn’t something I should be learning.” Point in fact, the Septa was losing her mind at having Sansa pulled from her lessons for combat lessons. Sansa herself was still unsure about it too. She had never in her life worn pants the way her brothers and father always did. She always wore her dresses and several layers. She felt almost naked if she were honest. “The men are supposed to protect their ladies.”

“And of those two, I only care about your mother’s opinion.” Týr said softly, making her frown. “And father overruled her. Remember Sansa, this is not a kind world, and your Septa has filled your head with overly glorified ideas of it. The world isn’t like your songs and stories, Sansa. War is not kind, and war always comes. Even just in the three hundred years or so years of the Targaryen Dynasty, a great number of those years saw one battle or another. The men aren’t always home to defend you…” He sighed, “And sometimes it is the men you need defense from. Not all men are good.”

“He’s right, little sister.” Robb said, patting her on the shoulder, “I wasn’t too enthused about you joining us either. I know what mother and Septa Mordane claim. But all Týr had to do to convince me was to ask me of the fate of Elia Martell and her children.”

Sansa flinched. They had tried to keep that from her due to her age, but recent history was important, and she liked reading. She didn’t know specifics… but she knew her father didn’t even want to put details to paper. “So, you want me to be able to defend myself?”

“Exactly.” Týr said, “Not to worry. We do not plan to turn you into a muscled behemoth.” He teased her, and Sansa let out a startled laugh, gently slapping his arm.

“You’ll still be our beautiful little sister.” Robb put an arm around her shoulder, “You’ll just be capable of far more than you could ever believe, or anyone will ever believe.”

“Okay.” Sansa smiled up at him, and then they entered the cavern. “Oh, it’s so warm.” She smiled, “And hot springs!”

“That’s right.” Robb grinned, “Relaxing in them after a hard day of training feels amazing.” She smiled, looking forward to it.

She continued to look around, “But… how will we practice with no weapons? And how can we see? How can daylight from outside come this deep?” She frowned, not seeing any arms as she had expected.

“Well, we haven’t been entirely truthful, little sister.” Robb mussed her hair, making her look at him in confusion, “True, you’ll be learning to fight, but you’ll be learning far more than that.” He pointed at Týr, and she gasped, backing away so quickly that Robb had to keep her from falling over.

“M-Magic!” She squeaked out, her face a rictus of fear as she witnessed Týr summon his spear. “B-but magic is evil!” Septa Mordane had the most access to her of all of the Stark children, and unfortunately, Sansa was naturally susceptible to the woman’s whisperings. She was a romantic at heart, and loved the Southern tales her mother and Septa shared, and therefore, listened more closely about the Faith than her brothers and sister did. She had been quite surprised (and confused) the first time she saw her mother pat Týr on the shoulder and tell her not to tell Septa Mordane. Prior to that day, Sansa could even remember her mother ever even smiling at Týr.

“Am I evil, Sansa?” Týr asked her, smiling gently. “Did you think I was evil before seeing magic?”

Sansa stopped and started, “W-well, no. But…”

“And me?” Robb asked, and she gasped as he summoned a training blade of his own.

“Of course not!” Sansa said, looking at her two brothers, “But Septa Mordane…”

“Is wrong.” Týr kneeled, “Remember Sansa, everything you hear comes from a person’s own perspectives, their own experiences. Septa Mordane is a woman who was raised to live and breathe her faith. That doesn’t make what she teaches the absolute truth. Almost every religion in this world regards itself as the one true faith, and most consider all others to be nothing more than heathen lies. What makes the Seven so special?”

Sansa stopped to think, “But it’s the most widespread.” She said slowly, “All of the lands except ours follow it. At least here in Westeros… right?”

“But how did the Seven spread?” Týr asked her, still smiling gently.

Sansa frowned, “…At the points of the Andal’s swords…”

“That’s right.” Robb said, “The Andals brought steel, where the First Men had only bronze. Despite our superior numbers, their weapons were superior, and so they were able to conquer every land, but Dorne, until they broke upon the North.”

Sansa sniffed, “D-Does that mean mother and Septa Mordane lied to me?”

Týr smiled, “Sansa, your mother and Septa truly believe their lessons. The question is… what do you believe in? Who do you want to be? What do you want to learn?”

She paused as she spent some time thinking, “Does magic hurt?” She asked innocently.

“It certainly can.” Týr chuckled, “But it can also not. Robb.” He looked at the Stark heir, who opened his tunic to show Sansa his chest.

She gasped, “Is that a tattoo?! Oh Robb, mother is going to kill you if she ever sees it!” A small ring of Runes was inked over his heart.  

“Don’t remind me, little sister.” Robb grumbled, hiding it away, “And yes, this hurt to get, but this small tattoo contains magic that will warn me if I’m ever about to eat or drink something that is poisoned or fouled.” Sansa gasped again, this time in wonder, “It will grow uncomfortably warm, and that way I’ll know I’m in danger.” Sansa looked starry-eyed at the thought. She knew well how dangerous poison was. She’d heard stories of it from her history lessons and readings, and knew that even a former King had died from poison. And one of the first things she could remember learning was to never accept food from someone she didn’t know unless she chose it herself (such as at a market) or she could see other people eating it with no issues.

Týr smiled, “As Robb said, it hurt to get, but the benefit is great. Just as everything in this world, the answer is not so clear cut. Magic can be used for great evil, but it can also be used to help many and make their lives better.”

“Then I want to help!” Sansa said firmly.

“Good girl.” He stood and towered over them again, “And I already think I know where to start you. Your brother’s primary affinity is the magic of the Æsir. I have a feeling yours will be the Vanir.”

“Æsir? Vanir?” Sansa frowned, “I don’t remember hearing or reading anything about them in my lessons. Have mother and Septa Mordane not gotten to them yet?”

Týr chuckled, “Not quite. I’m afraid I still have some secrets I must keep until you’re older, Sansa. One day, I’ll share it with you both.”

So even Robb didn’t know? She looked at her brother, who was frowning slightly, before looking back at Týr. “Okay.” She smiled up at him, “Teach me!” She said, eager to begin now that her fear had been assuaged. The smiles on her brothers’ faces told her that was the right thing to say.

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Týr had been right. The magic of the Vanir was wonderful. Sansa loved it from the moment he started showing it to her. She loved being able to grow and control plants. Even now, a bare few months after beginning her tutelage, she had already made the glass gardens more wondrous. She had even been able to grow the Heart Tree a bit!

Though she had done that at night, under Týr’s careful eyes. She had first allowed a branch of the great Weirwood to twist and gnarl upon itself, until it dropped from the tree into her hands as a bow. It was stronger proportionally to any of the bows in Winterfell, and she would be able to grow it as she grew too. And she had surprised herself with how good of an archer she was becoming. After only a few months, Týr had laughed, telling her that maybe one day, she would be able to show up the jumped-up knights of the South with her skills. After creating her bow, she had grown the heart tree until it towered over the others. Tyr had stopped her long before it reached double the size it had been, but it was bigger, nonetheless.

She practically glowed in pleasure from his confidence and approval. Something that would have been strange to her before her fifth nameday. She and Týr had never been too close before that, and she felt ashamed of having allowed Septa Mordane’s lies about Týr to infect her. They were much closer now, and Sansa was all the happier for it. She could scarcely understand why she had taken the Faith so seriously before, when now she had begun to disdain her lessons due to their teachings about her bastard half-brother.

Another thing she loved was her new affinity with animals. There wasn’t a beast inside or outside of Winterfell that she couldn’t make friends with, and she had even begun to be able to enter their minds and bodies: a magic that surprised Týr. He cautioned her to be very careful with it, as it was not a magic he knew himself, and so he did not know of its dangers. Sansa had immediately stopped trying it, up until Týr had found whispers in the books about Warging and the dangers inherent in it. She had been much more cautious after that.

But the absolute most amazing thing Týr had taught her of the Vanir had instantly become her favorite, and made her forget about Warging altogether. What good was Warging when she could shapeshift? Even Týr had been surprised at her affinity with Vanir magic, and shapeshifting was one magic even he had never been able to perform even if he had been taught the lessons. Flying in the sky as an eagle or falcon was the most wonderful thing Sansa had ever experienced.

Sansa even came to enjoy the martial aspects of her studies, something she thought she would disdain despite her acquiescence to learning. She favored two smaller blades rather than the larger one Robb used.

She didn’t know it, but Týr cackled sometimes when he was alone at the fact that Sansa could have been Freya’s daughter for all her skill and affinity to Vanir sorcery and choices in weapons.

Despite her fears when this all had begun, she was far happier now than she had been when her only lessons were in playing with needles. She still enjoyed that, true. On her days of rest, she would often take up her sewing lessons again, and was growing more and more skilled with it. But it was secondary to her other pursuits now, much to her mother and Septa’s displeasure.

And they were certainly displeased. Neither liked the path that had been chosen for Sansa, and Mordane had ranted for weeks as Sansa’s Faith diminished. Cat had been devastated when Sansa began joining the rest of her family in the Godswood whenever she felt she needed guidance, rather than the small Sept Ned had built for her.

And then in 293 AC, a moon after her seventh nameday, everything changed again.

“Lord Stark!” Sansa looked up from her food, startled as Maester Luwin practically ran into the room and interrupted their private family dinner, “Lord Stark!”

“What is the meaning of this, Maester Luwin?” Catelyn gasped at the impropriety.

“Take a deep breath, Maester. Tell me what’s wrong.” Ned said commandingly.

“King Robert has sent a letter!” Ned and Cat froze in horror as Maester Luwin handed Ned the correspondence.

Ned stared at the seal as if it were poison, before hesitantly opening it as Cat looked on, her heart caught in her throat. Much to her children’s confusion, she was pale and looked like she was about to start to tremble. Only Týr knew why, and it was the fear that they’d been discovered somehow.

Ned’s sigh of disgust as he slammed the letter on their dining table at least assuaged that fear a little. “Gods damned Greyjoys.” He cursed.

Cat let out a sigh of both relief and frustration, knowing immediately what this likely meant. She looked sadly at him, “I take it this means war, my love?”

“Yes.” Arya and Sansa both began to sniffle, with even the younger daughter realizing this meant their father would leave their home, possibly to never return. “Maester Luwin, send the ravens and call the banners. I would spend time with my family.” They both got out of their seats and climbed into their father’s lap, silently crying.

“Yes, my Lord.” Maester Luwin bowed, and hurried out.

“What happened, father?” Robb asked, looking like he wanted permission to read the letter. He was the heir of Winterfell, after all.

“Balon Greyjoy,” Ned spat the name like it was poison, “In his illustrious wisdom has declared himself the King of Iron Islands. He has rebelled against the Crown with an attack on Lannisport. He caught the fleet there by surprise and managed to burn it, before sacking the city itself.” Sansa flinched, having advanced in her studies enough to know what that likely meant. She had never been gladder to have begun martial training of her own.

“Gods…” Catelyn rubbed her eyes, “How soon will you leave?”

“As soon as is feasible.” Ned said, before looking at Robb and Týr, “But we have time. You’re a bit young, my son, but it’s time you take your first step as the Stark in Winterfell.” Robb swallowed, “Do not worry. You will have your mother and brother to help you.”

“Yes, father.” Robb said softly, wondering if he was truly ready for this, and lamenting that it likely meant cutting into his training time. He could only hope he wouldn’t grow too rusty…

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“Father.” Rodrik Greyjoy was Balon’s oldest son. He was a mean-looking man, larger than his father by a good amount, with scars on his face and a large, bushy beard. “You were wrong.”

Balon glared at his son, “What was that?” He snapped.

“You said Robert was weak.” His mad brother Euron came in as well and immediately sat in one of the chairs, leaning it back and lounging with a boot on top of the table, “Victarion warned you that you were a fool. The oaf has called his banners and thus far, has gotten responses from everyone but Dorne and the Vale.”

Balon ground his teeth as his other son Maron growled, “Of course the Stag’s pet Wolf would come to play.” He spat to the side.

Rodrik spoke next, “We’ve won a great victory, yes. We burned the Lannister whores and sank their precious fleet.”

“And got ourselves some nice gaggles of salt wives.” Euron cackled madly. Oh, how he loved the looks of fear and agony on the women when he took them.

“But the Crown’s strength is greater than predicted.” Rodrik said sharply, ignoring his uncle.

“And what do you plan to do about it?” Balon glared at his son, refusing to believe he had made a mistake. “Well? You, Euron? It was your plan that gave us our success at Lannisport.”

“I think we need to draw some of their attention away.” Rodrik said, smirking, “It’s not the Ironborn way, but I had an idea. The Northern whores will make up a large part of the fighting strength of the Greenlanders. If we can distract them and demotivate them, then we will have an easier time breaking them.”

“And what is this distraction you’re thinking of nephew?” Euron still looked darkly amused.

“It’s simple.” Rodrik looked eagerly at his father, “While our captains attack at sea, I will take a force over land and sack Winterfell.”

Euron sputtered visibly, spraying the air with spittle, before howling with laughter, “Sack Winterfell?” He cackled, “And they call me mad!”

“You’re a fool, Rodrik.” Balon spat at the floor between them, “Our strength is on the waves. On the water. And you want to go and sack a castle? One of the most defensible castles around at that?” He shook his head, “And even if you manage it, there’s no way you’ll hold it when the North comes roaring back.”

“You’re right.” Rodrik agreed, “But we don’t need to hold it. The fool Eddard Stark is emptying his lands of fighting men. His children are young. Too young to lead properly. His castle will be poorly defended. We invade and patiently make our way through the North. We attack nothing because we look to a much sweeter prize. We get inside and steal away his wife and daughters. We kill his heir. We burn his home. And then when word reaches the rest of Westeros that he lost his ancestral seat and that his wife and daughters are our salt wives, he will be weakened and full of grief, as will the honorable fools who follow him.”

“Hmmm…” Euron had a smile on his face that even his bushy, black beard couldn’t conceal, “That’s not a bad plan. Much better than I expected. A stealth attack, much like our reaving of Lannisport.”

“It could work.” Maron grinned, “How old are his daughters again?” He licked his lips, “I do like them young.”

“Yes.” Balon smirked, eying the map, “By the Drowned God, you might even succeed in pulling the entirety of the Northern Host back if you stay just long enough to make it look like you intend on holding Winterfell.” He smiled viciously, “I suppose you are my son after all. Go with your brother. You may take up to four thousand men with you.”

“As you command, father.” The two sons swept from the room, eager for their own successful reaving.

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Robb couldn’t believe how jealous he felt of Sansa at the moment. It had been seven months since his father had left for war, and in that time, Robb felt like he had been able to get no training done at all. The life of a Lord wasn’t what he had expected. He was just so busy! Even with his mother’s aid and experience, he spent most of the time taking care of duties that he really didn’t want to do. All the while, his siblings were able to train down in the cave. It was only the pouting Arya stuck doing her sewing that kept his head on straight, since she wasn’t old enough to begin her training, much to her whining.

His two sisters couldn’t have been more different if they tried. Sansa had the Tully look like him, while Arya was all Stark. Sansa had to be talked into training, while Arya was literally counting the days until she could begin.

Their mother was none too pleased, Robb well knew. She had wanted to ‘set things right’ immediately upon their father leaving. She was quite insistent on Sansa resuming her lessons in the womanly arts. Luckily, their father had given explicit instructions countermanding her, otherwise Sansa would have had her first ever fight with their mother.

How much Sansa now enjoyed what she had once feared and disliked brought a smile to his face.

But still, that left Robb feeling restless. His time was too constrained to take daily trips into their cavern. He was lucky if he could get two bloody days a week down there. Instead, he was left looking at documents with his mother and Maester. At least there was something to be excited about. The ice trade had gotten off to a positively explosive start, though it had taken some time to get off the ground.

They had chosen Long Lake, as it was far enough North that there was ice on the surface fairly consistently, especially near the northern half of the lake. It snowed often enough on the nearby mountains that the lake was consistently fed more water. Using iron saws with teeth sharpened on both ends, they broke the ice sheets into smaller ones, sending them down the White Knife towards White Harbor, where the ice had been cut smaller yet, and loaded onto a ship with a specially designed storage compartment that had been packed with sawdust. According to Týr, it was supposed to help keep the cold in and slow the melt of the ice. The ship, after quite some time of planning, building, and executing, had set sail on her maiden voyage. Ned and Lord Manderly honestly hadn’t thought overmuch about their chances of success. It was just too radical of an idea.

But the results of all of it had shocked all of them. Their first ship, a new design by Týr that had been built in White Harbor had landed in Sunspear. The Dornish had been quite confused, and through sheer chance, Prince Oberyn had been in the markets with his daughters. The merchants had done a good job of selling the idea, especially by telling them that they would be able to make food last longer. The second they had (albeit cautiously) tried out a drink with some ice in it as a ‘free sample’, the Prince had bought the whole load in one go, and had offered far more for it than the merchants had been instructed to ask for.

One of his daughters had also asked when they could expect the next shipment.

Robb smirked just thinking about it. Before their new vessel left, laden with gold, spices, and other foodstuffs that would keep for the voyage, the Dornish had been well underway constructing the underground ‘Ice Houses,’ that Týr had designed in order to store the ice long-term. Robb still had no idea where these ideas of Týr’s came from, but he was so glad for them. Even with the losses from the melt, and paying the sailors and merchants, they had made enough of a profit that Lord Manderly had made back the entirety of the money invested into building the first ship and then some. Even splitting the profit fifty-fifty between White Harbor and Winterfell, they still had more than enough to add quite a sum to their coffers. The Manderlys had immediately commissioned more ships, and quickly emptied out the first one so that they could load it with more ice.

Týr’s idea had seemed queer to all of them, but if that first expedition was any indication, it had been a brilliant one. It was a shame his father had already left for war by the time the first profits arrived. Robb and his mother were sitting inside Ned’s solar wondering how to invest that money when their attention was immediately taken by something they had never expected to hear.

The ringing of a solid bronze bell. For a moment, he and his mother stared at one another in incomprehension, unable to believe what they were hearing. And then Robb was on his feet, running out of the solar with his mother on his heels. They raced from the keep and onto the inner castle wall, running up the steps more than a hundred feet so that they could see over the walls. By the time they got up there, Cat was panting and gasping for air. The two gaped in horror. All around Winterfell, the smallfolk who still lived in Wintertown were panicking and flooding into the castle through all of the open gates.

And beyond, still quite far away on the side of the hunter’s gate, was something that had Cat almost sinking to her knees in horror. “Ironborn.” Robb rasped. A sea of men bearing the banners of the Kraken were marching on Winterfell.

“How are they HERE?!” Catelyn almost screamed in panic, “We-we don’t have the manpower to defend the castle! Most of the men are at war!”

“Hate to say ‘I told you so’ but…” Robb mumbled under his breath. He then shouted, “TO ARMS! TO ARMS! DEFEND THE CASTLE!” He roared out as loudly as he could, “GET THOSE GATES CLOSED AND THE DRAWBRIDGES DRAWN UP!” A roar rang out from the remaining garrison as they ran around doing their jobs. The smallfolk were pouring into the ward where the main keep sat.

“What’s going on?!” Arya ran up the stairs, panting as well. Her little legs were not a match for her fierce spirit.

“Arya!” Catelyn grabbed her daughter into her arms, which put her head above the walls.

She gasped, “Are we under attack? Those don’t look like father’s men!”

“Y-yes.” Catelyn let a tear leak out, feeling constrained despite all the space around her. Those evil men could NOT get their hands on her daughter! Gods, they had barely two-hundred men who could fight in the entire keep! Already, she could see Ser Rodrik getting the men together to man the walls, but there were just too many enemies! It was a SEA of men out there!

“MY LORD!” Someone drew Robb’s attention from down below, “THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH THE HUNTER’S GATE! WE MANAGED TO CLOSE THE INNER GATE, BUT THE DRAWBRIDGE WON’T RISE AND THE OUTER GATE WON’T CLOSE! TWO OF OUR MEN WERE FOUND DEAD!”

Gods, he was ten namedays old. Fucking Ironborn. He had been taught well by his father, Týr, and Ser Rodrik, but this was way too soon to be getting tested like this!  “FUCK!” Robb cursed, and it was a testament to how terrified she was that his mother said nothing. “They must have gotten men in to sabotage it!” Catelyn let out a cry of dismay at the news. He wondered what he should do. He knew his brother was strong, and if they got him up here they would have a much better chance of surviving. Unlike Ned, Robb had no true idea of just how strong Týr was. He was also young, so he had no real idea of how long Winterfell could survive with this few men. Without that knowledge, he decided their best option was a staged retreat where they would kill as many Ironborn as they possibly could, before holing up in the inner keep. Funnel them into the slaughter. “There’s too many of them to hold the gates.” His eyes blazed, “MAN THE OUTER WALLS BUT PREPARE TO RETREAT THE SECOND THEY GET A FEW WHACKS WITH A BATTERING RAM AT THE INNER GATE! WE’LL FIGHT ON THE INTERIOR OF THE CASTLE AFTER KILLING AS MANY AS WE CAN FIRST! COLLAPSE ALL BUT THE WESTERN BRIDGES TO THE SECOND WALL! BRING DOWN ALL THE INNER GATES AND BARRICADE THEM! ”

His mother was hyperventilating, and the only reason Robb wasn’t panicking looking at the overwhelming odds was because he knew they had their secret weapon. “Arya.” He said, pulling her from Cat’s arms and carrying her down the stairs, “I have a very important job for you.”

“Job?! She needs to get to safety!” Catelyn snapped out of it and protested.

“There is no safety, mother! There’s nowhere to run.” Robb speared her with a look. “And nowhere to hide. Not forever. Not even in the crypts. We’d run out of food.” He sighed as they reached the ground and he put his sister on her feet, “Arya, I need you to go into the crypts and find Týr. He has no idea this is happening.” He said, kneeling before her and grasping her shoulders, “Do you understand? We NEED his help.”

“Týr is one boy!” Catelyn said in frustration, “Strong, yes, but still only one!”

Robb ignored her, “Do you understand?” Arya nodded rapidly, and Robb hugged her, and surreptitiously summoned a bit of Bifröst in her hand and closed her fist, “Open your hand when you’re in the crypts.” He whispered into her ear, before kissing her cheek. “Go, Arya, now!” Arya took off running, disappearing from view as she raced for the crypts.

He then took off, looking to find some protection and weapons of his own. “Where are you going? Robb?”

“I’m getting my weapons and armor, of course.” Robb replied.

“That’s- Robb, you’re too-!”

Robb turned and glared, “What, too young?” He pointed at the gates, “Do you think they’ll care? Those are Ironborn out there! If they get in here they’ll kill us all and take all the women for themselves.” He continued walking away, “And for the record mother, THIS is why we’re training Sansa and are going to be training Arya. If we survive this, you can be damn sure we’re going to start training anyone and everyone who wants to learn.” Catelyn could no longer contain her tears as she realized he was right.

He grabbed Ser Rodrik, “Get volunteers from the smallfolk. They don’t need to be accurate. We just need bolts in the air to suppress them.”

“Well, the good news is we have plenty of crossbows and plenty of bolts, my Lord.” Rodrik snarked, before calling out, “ANYONE WHO WANTS TO DEFEND OUR LIVES RATHER THAN COWERING, TO ME. MEN, WOMEN, IT MATTERS NOT! COME TO THE ARMORY!”

Catelyn drew a shuddering breath, “Ser Rodrik, get me one of those crossbows.” She said, her tone defeated. She wished she had more time, because she would dearly have loved to enter her Sept to pray.

…

It was only minutes later that they were on the outer walls, as prepared as they could be for the fight of their lives. Robb almost fell over when he saw his mother wearing chainmail and leather and looking like she wanted to be anywhere else but there, but he gave her a smile, nonetheless. “Mother, get on the walls of the inner keep.” He commanded, and Catelyn nodded jerkily and went to go join the rest of the volunteers. They had managed to get about two hundred men armed for battle, with an extra six hundred volunteers joining them. They were unskilled and were on the walls of the inner keep, waiting. The inner walls of the castle itself were currently empty. Another two hundred were barricading the gate of the inner keep, as well as the bridge leading into the heart of Winterfell from the library tower. There were other bridges too, but those were on the other side of Winterfell, all protected by the locked gates and walls and raised drawbridges at their entrances.

Robb had joined the garrison on the outer wall, and cursed the fact that he wasn’t anywhere near the archer Sansa was. He was a decent shot, but hadn’t really focused on it the way Sansa had. He gave himself fair odds at close range especially with the surprises Týr had taught him. That had been his focus, after all. Their secret was going to get out for sure, but it wouldn’t be because of ranged runic attacks from his bow. The first sword that Týr had made for him certainly had some surprises for the Ironborn scum, but not many ranged ones that would be useful here.

The Ironborn were almost in range, and it looked like the Wolfswood had disgorged about four thousand men. Four-to-one odds, though with the amount of not-truly-trained smallfolk and women that made up the bulk of their forces, it felt more like twenty-to-one. Robb himself was standing on a small crate, so he could actually shoot between the lower crenelations on the wall. Every dozen feet, there were boiling cauldrons of pitch, just in case they got cute and decided to ignore the relatively unprotected gate and use ladders instead. The Wolfswood had plenty of wood for that, and he rather doubted even the Ironborn would be so inept at sieging.

“Keep an eye out for ladders. With the height of our walls, they’ll be large and obvious.” Robb commanded, and beside him, Ser Rodrik relayed the orders. After a minute, Robb roared once more. “NO QUARTER, FOR THEY’LL GIVE US NONE! ANY ATTEMPT TO PARLEY WILL BE NOTHING MORE THAN AMUSEMENT FOR THEM! AS SOON AS THEY’RE IN RANGE, LET THEM HAVE A VOLLEY!”

Ser Rodrik yelled out, “DRAW!” Everyone drew their first arrows, “NOCK!” They pulled the strings of their longbows taut. Everyone waited, their hearts pounding, up until they could hear the laughter and roaring from the charging Ironborn.

“FOR THE DROWNED GOD!” The roar came, and Ser Rodrik responded.

“LET US SEND YOU TO MEET IT! LOOSE!” Two hundred twangs rang through the air as each man loosed their arrows. The arrows peppered the men below, killing some instantly, but the Ironborn had good armor and shields. They were famous for wearing plate even at sea, the madmen. Some arrows plinked off their shields, some dented their breastplates and cuisses, and a lucky few found holes into warm flesh, killing the men instantly.

“Guess they don’t feel like talking!” Maron Greyjoy cackled. “I wonder why?”

His brother Rodrik smirked, “Let’s split their attention! LADDERS!” The Ironborn roared, moving forward quite slowly with six massive ladders they had been able to construct by tearing apart the Wolfswood. Each was just a bit longer than the wall, with iron grabbers at their tips which would rotate upon impacting the walls to lock the ladders into place. “AND GET THAT BATTERING RAM MOVING! I HAVE A SALT WIFE WITH RED HAIR WAITING FOR ME!” He licked his lips at the thought of what he planned to do to the famously beautiful Catelyn Tully.

Ser Rodrik roared out, “FUCK THE BATTERING RAM! IF THEY GET ON THE WALLS, WE’LL LOSE MOST OF OUR ADVANTAGE AND SAFETY! FOCUS ON THE LADDERS! FIRE ARROWS!” He ignited the tip of his next arrow.

Robb yelled out too, “BURN THOSE LADDERS TO THE GROUND!”

Volley after volley was sent, focusing on the men struggling with the heavy wooden ladders, of which there were many. There was a wall of shields protecting them, which left the men more vulnerable. The Ironborn were aiming up at the walls, but the crenelations protected the defenders. Not one man of Winterfell had fallen yet, while over two hundred Ironborn had already met their ends.

The rain of fire arrows hit more and more targets, splattering them with burning pitch. The shield wall wasn’t perfect, and so droplets started dripping onto the ladders. Eventually, a cheer rang out as the first of the six ladders ignited, the Ironborn roaring as the wood began to burn. They tried to tough it out, but the defenders were lucky. The Ironborn either had not been able to or had not known to soak the wood, and it hadn’t rained or snowed in quite some time. They had also used trees that had already fallen to construct them, since that was far easier than chopping the trees down themselves.

“Keep hammering them, men!” Robb roared out, and the wall roared back as they kept peppering the men and ladders. Another two went up in flames, and at this point, the defenders had managed to kill about eight hundred of the invaders. And they kept killing them, up until the reavers managed to get within twenty feet from the outer wall. The Ironborn roared in exertion as they planted the feet of the ladders on the loose dirt and then started to heave them up. The massive constructions rose unsteadily, as several men injured themselves trying to get them into place. By this point, a few of the defenders had been unlucky, taking stray arrows as they popped between the defensive crenelations.

But, the ladders finally touched, and the Ironborn roared in victory as the clangs of metal on stone rang out, securing the ladders to the outer walls of the castle. “BURN THEM ALL!” Robb and Ser Rodrik roared, unintentionally using the same words the Mad King had uttered before his death. The men started grunting in exertion as they lifted the heavy containers full of boiling pitch and tipped them over the walls.

Screams of agony replaced the triumphant roaring as the climbing men were instantly burned to the bone, while the ladders themselves caught fire and started to burn. Not even the Ironborn were crazy enough to keep trying to climb them. Cheers rang out, but Robb snuffed them, “FOCUS UP AND KEEP SHOOTING! THIS ISN’T OVER BY A LONG SHOT!”

Indeed, with the focus on the ladders, the Ironborn managed to start flooding onto the drawbridge. They were well protected, with shields forming a wall on either side, as well as above. All that was left was to get through the iron gate standing between them and their prize. “POUR IT ON THEM, LADS!” Ser Rodrik yelled out, and that was where things went wrong.

The shield wall broke temporarily, and archers fired up at the completely undefended backside of the outer walls. The arrows found their marks, killing two carriers of boiling pitch instantly, allowing the heavy cauldrons to land and sending the burning liquid everywhere. With that one act, the Starks lost thirty of the remaining a-hundred-and-ninety men.

“RETREAT TO THE INNER WALL! KEEP FIRING AND COVER YOUR BROTHERS!” Robb yelled out, his arrow punching right through a shield and killing one of the Ironborn behind it. Gods, he loved the enhanced strength Týr’s runes had brought him. The men instantly obeyed, flowing up the walkways as the rest provided cover fire. Thankfully, the smaller bridges were far enough away from the drawbridge that the Ironborn didn’t even realize they were collapsible. The retreat was quick with so few men, and they collapsed the bridges behind them once they were done crossing. Once up on the inner walls, they continued firing, though only Robb had any luck actually punching through their armor and shields. A few got lucky shots, slipping through gaps, and a few even were pushed off from the bridge by mistake as the battering ram did its work. Each time a man fell into the moat below, dead, a new reaver would take his place.

The loud crashes and clangs from the battering ram hitting the gate filled the air, and Robb could already see the metal bulging. “Keep an eye on that gate!” He yelled as he resumed firing, each arrow taking out a reaver no matter how well-defended he was. Already, he could hear cheers for the “Young Wolf,” the men around him awed at his strength.

He wondered how long they would keep that up once the magic started flying. He knew his mother was going to have a conniption for sure. This wasn’t how they wanted to ease her into the idea. “My Lord, the gate can’t take more than a few more hits!” A guardsman cried out, and Robb chanced a look.

The man was right, “FULL RETREAT!” He yelled, “ABANDON THE INNER WALL! WE FIGHT AT THE INNER KEEP!” Robb was the last one through the tower, having kept on firing until every other man had successfully retreated before joining them. He saw his mother in the crowd on the walls immediately. She looked pale and drawn. “Steady, mother. Keep behind the crenelations until you’re ready to loose. We have the height advantage here, and it will take them some time to get through the first of the inner gates.” She nodded jerkily.

“I-” She choked out, “I’m so proud of you, son. Only ten namedays and I can already tell you’ll be the best Lord of Winterfell in an age.” She told him.

Ser Rodrik chuckled, “I suppose we’ll never be able to call you a summer knight, young Robb.”

Robb’s chuckle was cut off by the loud SKRANG that heralded the fall of the hunter’s gate. “Here they come.” He said grimly. “Tell the men at the library tower to be prepared to burn it if they can’t hold. We CANNOT allow them a backdoor into the main keep!”

Catelyn gasped, despite knowing logically that it was a sound decision. That would be centuries of wisdom and knowledge lost! Ser Rodrik was grim as he relayed the order, hating the necessity of it.

At the gate, Rodrik Greyjoy was spitting mad. He had planned this raid perfectly! Winterfell hadn’t been weaker in decades! And yet, despite his perfect planning, their sabotage, their patience, and their surprise attack, HE HAD STILL LOST A FULL FUCKING FOURTH OF HIS STRENGTH BEFORE EVEN GETTING THROUGH THE GATE! “WHERE ARE THEY?!” He roared, looking around. Winterfell was a massive castle. Just the Godswood itself was three whole acres. “I’m going to gut that fucking lordling brat and fuck his mother while he dies!”

“These fucking buildings are all empty!” Maron snarled, “They must be hiding inside the keep!”

“Get that fucking battering ram to the next gate!” Rodrik snarled, “And kill as many of these cunts as you can get your arrows on! Shield wall advance! Protect the archers!” They rounded the corner and instantly, a much more concentrated burst of arrows and bolts from the defenders rained on them. “Shit!” Rodrik cursed as he saw a dozen men felled just from that one volley. But then he realized that the arrows and bolts were coming much slower. He chanced a look around the corner, and barked out a laugh, “Ha!” He laughed, “They’ve got maids and sacrifices to the Drowned God manning the walls! They’re untrained and can’t load those crossbows quick enough! Get that fucking gate down! We have salt wives with some fire waiting for us!”

Indeed, Robb had fired five shots to the one his mother had before she managed to get her crossbow reloaded. The Ironborn started returning fire with their archers, and Robb groaned as he realized they were starting to lose volunteers. The fools weren’t shielding themselves behind the crenelations well enough. “GET BEHIND THE WALLS! WE CAN’T AFFORD TO LOSE DEFENDERS!” He roared out, “Mandatory military training.” He groaned, killing another three Ironborn while his mother finished her second reload, “Once this is over, everyone is getting at least enough training to man the walls in an emergency.”

Ser Rodrik chuckled grimly, “I like your optimism, young lord.” Their backs were up against the wall, and they knew it. “FOCUS THE ARCHERS!” he roared out to the defenders, getting another roar in return.

“Have any of you identified a commander yet?” He asked.

“I have. Two of them. They have that weaselly Greyjoy look to them, wearing finer armor than the rest. I saw them before the first retreat.”

Robb grinned, and used his height to his advantage, “Hold the gate, Ser Rodrik. I’m getting me a squid!” He raced off down the wall, back over to the Inner Wall.

“Robb, no-” Catelyn tried to race after him, but Rodrik grabbed her arm.

“No, don’t! Trust the young lord! He hasn’t led us astray yet.” He told her, getting an unhappy snarl in return. She reloaded and fired a bolt, cursing as she saw it skitter across a shield and do nothing.

Robb snuck down the unoccupied wall as the main force kept the Ironborn occupied. He chanced a look, and grinned as he saw his target.

Rodrik Greyjoy snarled as he saw his men beating the battering ram on the metal gate dividing the current ward. They were getting through, but too slowly for his liking. The defenders were throwing large rocks down the battlements, and even with their shields, he knew more men were dying. They were giving as good as they got, and he knew they had managed to kill more defenders, but it was still going too slowly. “Maron, take a hundred men and try-” He turned to look at his brother, and had the perfect angle to see his brother’s head burst open and splatter his face with blood. “AMBUSH!” He roared, raising his shield, and falling back into cover as his brother fell. “GODS DAMN YOU!” He howled in rage. He had never been particularly close to any of his family, but family was family. “KILL THEM ALL!” At this point, he didn’t even care about the potential salt wives he could see on the walls. He just wanted them dead.

Every archer turned and fired up at Robb, who ducked behind the crenelations and rested for a moment, letting out a morbidly amused chuckle, “I think they’re mad.” He shook his arm and hand out. He had great strength, but he was starting to get tired, and his arms were starting to ache. Age was, unfortunately, not just a number. He quickly made his way back towards the rest of the defenders, chancing a peek over the battlements to see how banged up the gate was.

He then cursed whoever had decided to make the main gate of the main keep out of wood. He doubted it would last as long as these metal ones. They were already bent back slightly, so it was only a matter of time. “Start filling out the towers at the main gate! Go, go!” He yelled, before shooting an arrow that killed the leading Ironborn on the right of the battering ram instantly. Before he could even fall, his fellows caught his body with the battering ram and squished him up against the gate.

Robb grimaced, and he heard several of the womenfolk who were retreating and had seen it retching. Still, he kept firing whenever possible, hoping they were all still alive for him to actually have night terrors about this day in the future. There were still two thousand Ironborn to contend with, and they had already lost two-hundred-and-fifty of their one-thousand defenders. They were killing the Ironborn faster than they were killing them, but this was it. There was only one retreat left, and if they broke down the main gate of the main keep, their limited numbers would turn against them once they had to watch their backs and fronts at the same time. At least the drawbridge would provide some protection into the keep, but there were other ways in besides that.

SKRANG

The sound he had been anticipating in dread rang out, the second to last gate collapsing. Robb kept firing, even as half of their men ran to the other side of the wall and started shooting at the Ironborn’s backs, joining with the men and women firing crossbows from the towers surrounding the gate. The pincer attack worked wonders, with Ironborn falling in droves before they managed to reestablish their shield wall to protect the battering ram.

“You fucking idiot!” Robb smirked as he heard someone call out the other Greyjoy below, “Two thousand men dead and we haven’t even sniffed a cunt! You can’t lead shit! We’re barely going to have a thousand men left before we get into that fucking keep!” He chanced a look, and saw the Greyjoy defend against an attack from another reaver. “We should have raided Seagard like we planned, you fucking fool! Like proper Ironborn!” Rodrik snarled, got into a blade lock with the man, and then used his superior strength to lever the blades out of the way. He headbutted the reaver, breaking his nose, and then cut off the man’s head with a swing of his sword.

Rodrik roared, “GET THAT FUCKING GATE DOWN. I’M NOT LEAVING HERE WITHOUT THAT STARK CUNT’S HEAD ON A SPIKE AND THAT BITCH CATELYN TULLY IMPREGNATED!”

Roars of fury and indignation rang out from the defenders, even as they redoubled their efforts. Catelyn was so horrified by the shout she actually fumbled with her crossbow as she was trying to reload it. Robb’s eyes were blazing as he contemplated leaping down just to kill that Greyjoy with his bare hands. But he controlled himself, and just kept on firing, though even he would admit his arms were on fire now.

“BRING IT DOWN!” The Ironborn roared as they made a charge at the gate, ramming it hard with their siege equipment. Behind it, the men and women guarding the gate were forced back, before bracing once more and slamming it shut.

“Gods damn it, why didn’t we have any pitch here?!” One of the Stark guardsmen asked angrily.

“The gate is wood, fool! Even if we destroyed the battering ram, we’d be ruining the gate too!” Another shot back. “GRAHH!” He groaned as another hard impact from the battering ram knocked a few people bracing it onto their asses. They raced to their feet and braced once more, but the damage was starting to overcome the gate. The wood had already cracked in several places.

Another furious blow almost broke the gate down. Only one more blow would do it. In the melee, no one saw a stone hit the door and stick. The Ironborn roared in victory, knowing the end was nigh and that this would be the final smash before they got to the inner keep. They continued roaring as they charged forward with the battering ram.

And then the gate started to glow a bluish-white and runes started to appear over it. The battering ram hit, and the barrier flashed ominously before the Ironborn flew backwards, screaming. The battering ram had cracked in two and got flung in separate directions. They crashed onto the ground, groaning in pain, as everything just stopped. The attackers stopped attacking, the defenders stopped defending, and Robb let out a sigh of relief as he dropped to a seat and leaned back against the wall.

No one noticed him, with everyone being too busy gawking at the inexplicable defense that had popped up to defend the main keep. Everyone was looking at one another, with Cat feeling a juxtaposition of emotions that didn’t belong together as she stared at what could only be magic. Relief, hope, disbelief… fear.

And then she saw him, walking calmly as if there wasn’t a battle and over a thousand Ironborn inside his home. The Ironborn saw him too. At nearly eleven namedays, Týr was somehow already over six feet tall. He wore a decorated cuirass Catelyn had never seen before, blue with golden wolves facing each other. That was the only piece of armor he wore, the rest being just regular attire. He didn’t even have a helmet, and yet he was walking as if he were in no danger at all.

The shocked and confused reavers didn’t attack, unable to explain what had just happened. Týr stopped ten feet from them, and despite his slow walk, he had an uncharacteristic look of anger in his eyes. “I’ll say this once. Lay down your arms.” A round shield flashed into existence on his left arm. Gasps and shrieks rang through the air from the Winterfell defenders, and the Ironborn backed away, crushing up against the men behind them as they failed to move quickly enough. Týr held his arm out and his spear formed in his hand, “Or die.”

Up above, Catelyn slumped and had to use the wall to hold herself up. Her legs felt like jelly as her crossbow clattered to the floor, forgotten.

One of the leading reavers ground his teeth, “He’s only one boy, no matter his magic! KILL HI-”

Týr appeared to vanish from his spot and appear in another. His spear punched straight through the speaking man and four others behind him, “So be it.” He said softly as he lifted his macabre meat skewer, the dying men crying out as best they could. He swung the instrument of death like a club, smashing another wave of men and flinging them like sacks of flour. He blocked an attack from a great axe with his shield, before stepping into it and bashing the man so hard with the shield that there was a visible cloud of sweat that exploded from him as he crashed into his fellows.

Týr then leapt into the air over three times his own height, much to the growing shock and awe of the defenders. He threw his spear and the golden glow surrounding it made it look like a falling star. It impacted with an explosion, and a ‘V’ of golden energy seared through twenty men, killing them instantly.

The Ironborn’s resolve shattered like glass. “RUN!”

Robb laughed, “WHAT ARE YOU ALL WAITING FOR?! GET THEM!” He sprang into action once more, firing his bow at the backs of the fleeing cowards.

Catelyn’s mouth was dry and her hand too shaky for her to be of any use as she witnessed one of the greatest fears of any worshipper of the Seven be used in their defense. She was perhaps in the perfect position to have her attention drawn by an oddly red eagle flying by, shrieking.

And then the eagle landed on the roof, transforming into her daughter as she did so. Catelyn’s brain felt fuzzy as she watched her darling daughter pull an arrow from her quiver and loose it at a fleeing Ironborn. The arrow hit, flinging the man forward as if he had been hit by a club, howling. Her daughter should not have had the strength for that. And that wasn’t the end of it. The arrow glowed gold, before six howling wolves that looked to be made of lightning itself started attacking the other reavers.

Cat’s world grew dark as she fell. “Mother!” Robb gasped, having known the sight of Sansa would have shocked her into a stupor. He caught her before she smashed her head. “You two!” He yelled at two of the guardsmen, “Get my mother to safety.”

“Yes, my lord.” They too sounded shaky from what they had just seen.

Meanwhile, Sansa had gotten fired at by the panicking archers, and she dodge-rolled on the roof and leapt into the air, transforming back into an eagle. As she did so, she saw that the Ironborn were fleeing towards the hunter’s gate. She had seen all the good men and women that were dead when she had flown in. She had seen her mother, and had known that it was only luck that had kept her mother from becoming one of them. She knew all the stories of the Ironborn. What they did. What they did to the women they captured. Her mother would have shielded her from that knowledge. Týr and Robb did not.

She shrieked again as she flew towards the gate. She landed on the drawbridge and glared at the fleeing reavers. “No.” She put her hands on the dirt, and a wall of thorny roots ripped through, forming an impenetrable wall the panicking Ironborn smashed into, trapping them in Winterfell.

Týr had continued his rampage, leaping into the air, and then smashing down in a mass of Ironborn men. A golden aura surrounded him ten feet in every direction as he planted his spear in the dirt. There was an explosion, killing many and flinging more away as he lifted his spear. He took a step and threw it, and it pierced through ten men before stopping on a stone wall. He simply dispersed it and let the dead men with liquified innards slump like bags of meat to the ground, summoning it back to his hand.

Sansa had flown up on top of the battlements and was now firing arrows down at the trapped reavers. Every once in a while, her runic wolves would make an appearance as the rune on her bow recharged its magical energy. Týr had also thrown his spear straight into the air, and a veritable rain of identical blades rained from the sky, impaling men to the floor and killing them instantly.

Robb couldn’t believe how one man had been able to turn the battle instantly. He had known Týr was strong, that he was possibly the greatest warrior in the entire world right now. But he had no idea how powerful he was, just from their training. He was still too young for them to go as hard as they would be able to years from now. He had never had a real inkling of his brother’s true strength.

And as he watched (while firing. He wasn’t lazy.), he began to understand. Týr was killing multiple men, sometimes even dozens with every attack. Sansa helped too (and wasn’t that a shocker) but Týr was doing the lion’s share of the work. Robb wouldn’t be surprised if his brother ended up with the highest number of personal kills despite only being a part of the battle for a few minutes.

Very few Ironborn were left now, and several had simply dropped to their knees, begging either for mercy from the defenders or for the Drowned God to aid them. But there was only one God in Winterfell, and he was not on their side, and the defenders certainly weren’t going to be giving them mercy.

Finally, only Rodrik Greyjoy was left, and he had a crazed, feral look in his eyes, “Th-This isn’t possible.”

“I offered surrender.” Týr replied. Not that he had offered very hard. Ironborn were one of the few people in this world that truly disgusted him. An entire culture based on rape and plunder should not exist.

Rodrik grit his teeth, “WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!” He roared, rushing forward with his greatsword aiming to cleave Týr in two.

Týr dodged it with a sigh and grabbed the man by the face. He slammed him down, killing him instantly as his skull splintered.

Cheers started to sound from the defensive walls, “THE WOLVES OF THE NORTH! THE WOLVES OF THE NORTH! THE WOLVES OF THE NORTH!” One of the guardsmen even put a tired Robb on his shoulders as they cheered and celebrated.

Týr rose to his feet, feeling melancholic as Sansa landed next to him. Now that the battle was over, and they were safe once more, she was coming to terms with everything she had done. She was now a blooded warrior. She had even consciously trapped the men in Winterfell to prevent them from escaping. And now that she was coming down from her high, that realization made her start to cry. She ran into Týr’s arms for comfort as she sobbed.

-]|[-

“Ha!” Robert Baratheon let out a laugh as he slumped into a chair inside his tent, dropping his warhammer and grabbing his favorite drink. Around him, trusted men and Ned were being given wineskins of their own, “It won’t be long now. Gods, this is the most fun I’ve had in years!” He drank down a whole glass of wine in one pull, belching and calling for more.

“Aye, all that’s left is Pyke.” Ned agreed, “What got into that fool’s head, I’ll never know.” Ned sighed, “And his father was one of the first good Greyjoys in decades. What a shame all of his progeny were so… Ironborn.”

“Aye, shame old Quellon didn’t have a few more centuries in him.” Robert guffawed, “Who knows, he might have succeeded in reforming the cunts.” He looked at Jaime Lannister, “Kingslayer-” Jaime’s eyes narrowed the slightest amount, his jaw tensing the tiniest bit, “Which of these cunts have we captured or killed at this point? That fool had four children and three brothers left, right?”

“That’s right, your grace.” Jaime nodded, “Your brother smashed Victarion Greyjoy during the battle off Fair Isle and captured Aeron Greyjoy. He is awaiting his punishment, though Victarion got away as far as I know. His other brother Euron is in the wind. Two of his children are too young to be participating.” He shrugged his shoulders, “Strangely, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of his older children. They should have been sighted by now.”

“Ha! I’m sure that will have Balon rolling in his grave once we put him in one.” Robert snorted, “Four children and two cowards apparently.”

Ned opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a shout as the flaps of the tent were flung open, “Lord Stark!”

Robert growled, “What is the meaning of this?”

Ned had stood, eying the Northman before him, “Take a breath, son. Why have you interrupted us?”

The runner breathed deep, before shakily offering him a letter, “A letter from Winterfell, my lord.” His face was pale and drawn, “It was sent to Riverrun.”

Ned’s eyes narrowed, as did Robert’s. “Seven Hells, what now?” The King asked, “Finding an army is no easy task. What could be so important that they would try to reach us out here.”

“…Winterfell was attacked, your grace.” The man whimpered as the King stood so fast that he overturned his table.

“WHAT?!” Ned took the letter and broke the seal. “Hell’s bells Ned, what does it say?” Robert snarled after a moment.

Ned closed his eyes, “It appears you were wrong, Robert.” His fists clenched, strangling the letter in anger, “Balon’s sons were not cowards. In fact, they were busy taking four thousand men north to Winterfell in an attempt to capture it at its weakest.”

You could have heard a pin fall for a moment, and Jaime gave Ned a look of pity. He may have hated the man, but no one deserved to hear that Ironborn had invaded their lands. He had little doubt that Eddard’s family was… not well at the moment, to say the least. Jaime wouldn’t wish that even on Ned Stark. And his standing as the Warden of the North would no doubt take a hit. The man who had lost Winterfell.

Robert was pale, “Seven Hells Ned.” He growled, “These sons of bitches are going to pay! The cowards wouldn’t dare attack while you were home.” He started to pace, “If you need to leave early, do it. We can handle Pyke on our own.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Robert.” Jaime and Robert were dumbfounded to see a smirk grow on Ned’s face, “Winterfell was attacked, aye. No one said anything about them succeeding.”

“…What?” Jaime finally got out.

“I’m afraid that our dear Ironborn learned the hard way that what is dead can indeed still die.” He continued smirking as he held the letter over a flame. Inwardly, he was dreading the conversation he’d be having with his wife now that she knew more of the truth.

Robert continued to look at him incredulously, “You’re telling me that a garrison of two hundred men turned away a force of four thousand?” He was in disbelief, “Even with a castle behind them…”

“Oh, it was more than two hundred.” Ned said, “The North is hard Robert. They all rose to the occasion. Robb did extremely well in this crisis. I’m more than just proud of him. He got over eight hundred volunteers from the women and smallfolk to arm themselves with crossbows and aid in the defense. The cunts lost a thousand men before they even got into the castle, and that was just one more trap. They never even got into the main keep.”

“Gods!” Robert started to cackle, “Oh, to have been a fly on that wall! They’re all fine, then?”

“Aye.” Ned chuckled, and made a decision he never thought he would make. But he knew the truth about his nephew, and perhaps it was time to start building his legend. It could make things much easier in the future, if things progressed in ways Ned feared they inevitably would. “Some of the smallfolk have apparently even begun worshipping Týr. Apparently he killed hundreds himself with his spear and shield.” Robb in his letter had in fact been quite clear that Týr had saved them all. First by his training, allowing Robb to buy time, and then for his utter decimation of the enemy force. He even killed Rodrik Greyjoy himself.

“Oh, come off it, Lord Stark.” Jaime scoffed, “That’s too much. It strains credulity. Your bastard is ten.”

“Aye, you’d think so.” Ned’s eyes glittered, “But he’s bigger than Robert already, and has never once lost a spar against anyone.” He chuckled ruefully, “Including Ser Rodrik and myself.” Jaime continued to look at him incredulously, wondering if the truth written on that letter had just broken Eddard to the point he was making stories up now.

Robert had eagerly filled another glass with wine, and now sputtered, snorting it all over himself, “You’re kidding! Gods, the lad was huge back when I held him and I figured he’d be a great warrior just like his father, but that’s just not normal!”

“There’s very little about him that is.” Ned said.

“I want to meet him.” Robert said, now smiling eagerly, “Once we squash this damned Rebellion I’m hosting a tourney in honor of our victory. You northern wimps don’t have to participate-” Robert grinned cheekily at his childhood friend, “But I’ll be damned if you and your family don’t at least attend!”

“…Very well.” And Ned was already regretting everything. “But that’s putting the eggs before the hens.”

“Aye.” Robert’s eyes darkened, “The audacity of these bitches to attack a Lord Paramount’s home directly like this. Their punishment will have to be more severe.”

-]|[-

And that’s a wrap for chapter two. Hope you all enjoyed!

Obviously some unrealistic elements here, what with their ages, but magic is the great equalizer after all. Plus… you know… their teacher is the fucking God of War. And yes, we’re going to have BAMF Sansa.

Next chapter is going to be even more wild in some ways! It’s also already done, and will be posted relatively soon. (I hadn’t actually meant to sit on this one for so long. Sorry guys LOL) Got some more big divergences coming.

My muse has been going fucking wild with game of thrones and asoiaf fandom. It’s gone full fucking QoQ. I’m working on another totally different premise and my muse is just spewing out ideas like a fucking leaky faucet. Like half a dozen different points where I could divert canon into a canyon. Couple different peggy sue ideas, one where Jon gets yeeted through time at Laena and Rhaenyra 200 years in the past, etc etc.

I’m actually rather curious as to how long my muse is going to be firing on all cylinders for this series for. LOL

And now for a little rant: Why the fuck can we not have fics where Jon is with Dany WITHOUT Sansa turning into gigacunt supreme and vice versa? Seriously, the fucking number of them where either one or the other just goes full Cersei is annoying.