Year 300 AC
Wolfswood, Near Crofters' Village
Hugo Wull's legs ached as he waded through the deep drifts, his steel plate encased in a layer of frost. The frigid air did nothing to calm the resentment churning in his stomach. Bending the knee to the Stag feels like pissing on the Starks' graves, he thought, but what choice do we have?
The Big Bucket was a man of the mountains, where loyalty ran as deep as the winter snows. His clan had followed the Starks for thousands of years, not these southron lords with their perfumed knights and burning hearts.
As he trudged toward Stannis Baratheon's command pavilion, his thoughts turned dark. The Ned, beheaded on the steps of Baelor's Sept. The Young Wolf, butchered at his uncle's wedding. And now we follow a southron king who never knew winter's bite.
"I'd sooner drink a pint of Bolton piss than bend my knee," he muttered to himself, "but the enemy of my enemy..."
He ducked into the command tent, his massive frame nearly filling the entrance. Inside, the air was thick with argument. Lords and knights from the south bickered with their northern counterparts, their voices rising like crows fighting over carrion.
Bloody southrons, Hugo grumbled inwardly. They'd sooner die of pride than learn how to survive a northern winter.
Stannis Baratheon stood at the center, his jaw clenched tight as iron, eyes hard as flint. The king who never smiled. At least he doesn't pretend to enjoy this bloody business, Hugo thought with grudging respect.
"Enough," Stannis said, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade through butter. The tent fell silent. "We face the Freys and Manderlys on the morrow. I'll not have us defeated by our own discord before we even take the field."
Stannis turned to each of his commanders in turn. "Ser Richard, you will take the vanguard. Break their lines and drive them back."
Horpe nodded, his pockmarked face betraying nothing.
"Ser Godry, secure the western flank. Hold that position at all costs."
The Giantslayer puffed up his chest. "I'll hold against a thousand Freys, Your Grace."
Aye, and I'm the bloody King Beyond the Wall, Hugo thought sourly. This one killed a fleeing giant and thinks himself Symeon Star-Eyes reborn.
"Crowfood," Stannis continued, addressing Mors Umber, "your men will reinforce the eastern approach. Let no Frey or Manderly pass."
The one-eyed northman grunted his assent, his beard crusted with ice.
Finally, Stannis turned to Hugo. "Big Bucket. Your mountain clansmen will defend the western ridge. The Manderlys must not outflank us."
Hugo met the king's gaze, blue eyes as cold as a winter morning. For a moment, he considered telling Stannis Baratheon what he could do with his orders. The mountain clans had fought their own battles for thousands of years before the first Baratheon ever drew breath.
Instead, he nodded curtly. "My men will hold, Your Grace." His voice was as rough as the mountains that bred him. "We've been killing invaders since the First Men came to Westeros. A few fat Manderlys won't trouble us overmuch."
A ghost of something—perhaps approval—flickered across Stannis's face. "See that they don't."
As the commanders dispersed to prepare their men, Hugo remained, his massive hands resting on his sword belt.
"Something more, Big Bucket?" Stannis asked, not looking up from the map table.
"My men don't fight for you, Your Grace," Hugo said bluntly. "They don't fight for your red god or your iron chair."
Stannis's head snapped up, eyes narrowing dangerously.
"We fight for the North," Hugo continued, undaunted. "We fight because the Boltons are a festering wound that needs cutting out. We fight because the Freys broke guest right and butchered the Young Wolf. We fight because winter is coming, and when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a rumble. "I want to bathe in Bolton blood before I die. I want to feel their bones crunch beneath my boots. I want the Freys to learn that the North remembers. Tell me your southron law will give me that, and I'll call you my king until my dying day."
Stannis studied him for a long moment, jaw working beneath his beard. Then, with the barest nod: "The Boltons will answer for their crimes. As will the Freys. Justice may come from a southron hand, but it will come nonetheless."
Hugo straightened, satisfied for now. "Then my axe is yours on the morrow, Your Grace." He turned to leave, then paused. "And when the time comes to take Winterfell, I'll be in the vanguard. I've lived too long to die anywhere but in battle, with the taste of my enemies' fear on my tongue."
Outside, the wind howled across the frozen landscape, driving needles of snow against exposed skin. Hugo pulled his furs tighter, gazing toward the horizon where the enemy waited.
The North remembers, he thought grimly. And the mountain clans most of all.
He spat into the snow and began the trudge back to his men. They would need to sharpen their axes and prepare their spirits. Tomorrow, they would remind the Freys and Boltons why the mountain clans had survived eight thousand years of winter.
Tomorrow, they would begin to set the world right again.
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Wolfswood, Nearing Crofters' Village
Wylis Manderly sat across from Ser Hosteen Frey, his face a mask of feigned interest as the brawny knight droned on about battle formations and troop deployments. The Manderly heir fought the urge to roll his eyes, knowing full well that Hosteen's strategies were as useless as a dull blade against Valyrian steel.
"We'll send the vanguard straight up the middle," Hosteen declared, stabbing a meaty finger at the map, his brow furrowed with misplaced confidence. "Crush Stannis's forces like a nut between our jaws."
Boltons means to bleed us dry, fool.
Wylis nodded, his expression carefully neutral, masking the disdain that simmered beneath his placid facade. "A bold plan, Ser Hosteen. Your prowess on the battlefield is well known." He forced a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching with the effort.
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, like the dregs of a sour wine, but Wylis knew he had to play the game. His father, Lord Wyman Manderly, had entrusted him with a far more delicate task than winning a battle. The Manderlys' true loyalty lay with the Starks, a bond forged through generations of shared history and unwavering devotion. Wylis was determined to see that allegiance through, even if it meant enduring Hosteen's bluster and incompetence, his jaw clenching with each boastful word that spilled from the knight's lips.
Wylis's thoughts drifted to the whispered rumors that had reached his ears mere hours before. Arya Stark had somehow managed to slip through the clutches of the treacherous Boltons. A flicker of hope ignited in his chest, a small but persistent flame that refused to be extinguished by the bleak reality that surrounded him.
Wylis couldn't help but admire the young Stark's resilience, her fierce resolve to endure in a realm that appeared determined to shatter her spirit. If the whispers are true, he mused silently, if Arya has truly broken free from the horrors of Winterfell, then mayhap there remains a glimmer of hope for the North to ascend once more.
He closed his eyes for a moment, sending a silent prayer to the old gods and the new, beseeching them to watch over the young Stark girl. Let her find shelter, he thought, his hands clenching beneath the table. Guide her to safety, to allies who will protect her and help her reclaim what is rightfully hers.
Wylis knew that his own role in this game of thrones was far from over. He had a duty to his family, to his people, and to the memory of the Starks who had ruled the North with honor and justice for generations. He would play his part, biding his time and maneuvering the pieces on the board until the moment was right to strike. And when that moment came, he would stand proudly beside the Starks once more, his sword and his loyalty forever at their service.
As the Frey knight continued to pontificate, Wylis's thoughts drifted to the hidden dagger in his boot. One quick thrust, and Hosteen's blood would stain the snow, a fitting end for a man who had betrayed the sacred guest right at the Red Wedding. The Manderlys would never forget, nor forgive, the treachery of the Freys.
But Wylis knew he had to bide his time. Striking too soon would jeopardize their plans, and the Manderlys needed Stannis Baratheon's support to restore the Starks to their rightful place in the North. So he smiled and nodded, offering empty platitudes as Hosteen outlined his foolhardy strategies.
"We march at dawn," Hosteen declared, his chest puffed out with misplaced pride. His voice boomed through the tent, drawing the attention of all present. "And by nightfall, Stannis's head will adorn a spike atop the battlements of Winterfell. The Boltons shall feast in victory, with the false king's defeat."
Wylis rose from his seat, his hand itching to reach for the dagger concealed in his boot. He forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace stretching across his face. "As you command, Ser Hosteen. The Manderlys stand ready to serve, as we always have."
He dipped his head in a show of obedience, though every muscle in his body tensed with barely restrained fury. "House Manderly will honor its pledge to the Warden of the North and fight beside you on the morrow."
But as he turned to leave, Wylis allowed himself a small, grim smile, hidden beneath his thick beard. Soon, he thought, the Freys would learn the true meaning of loyalty and the cost of betrayal. For the North remembers, and the mummer's farce would not endure.
His steps crunched in the snow as he strode towards out the camp, mind churning with the final preparations that must be made. Dawn would bring more than one reckoning, if the old gods were good.
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Near Queenscrown
Jeyne Poole rode in silence, her thoughts as heavy as the winter cloak draped across her shoulders. The rhythmic clopping of hooves against the frozen earth filled her ears, a mocking cadence that seemed to chant "Arya, Arya, Arya" with each step. But she was not Arya Stark, no matter how many times they forced her to wear the name like ill-fitting armor.
Jeyne's heart raced as she was brought before Ramsay and Roose Bolton, their cold eyes raking over her trembling form. Ramsay's thin lips curled into a cruel smirk, his pale face alight with sadistic glee. Beside him, Roose stood still and silent, his moon-white gaze piercing through her.
Jeyne wanted to shrink away, to disappear into the shadows of the hall. But there was nowhere to hide from the Boltons' predatory stares. She could feel Ramsay undressing her with his eyes, a twisted hunger in his expression that made her skin crawl.
"Ah, my lovely bride," Ramsay purred, his voice dripping with mock affection. "Are you ready to become a true Bolton?"
Jeyne's tongue felt thick and heavy, the words caught in her throat. She knew what horrors awaited her in Ramsay's bedchamber. The whispered tales of his cruelty echoed in her mind - the flayed men, the screaming prisoners, the broken spirits of his playthings.
Roose regarded her with a detached curiosity, as if she were an insect he might crush beneath his boot. "You will do as my son commands," he said softly, each word precise and cutting. "You belong to House Bolton now."
Her gaze drifted to the horizon, where the Wall loomed in the distance, a towering barrier of ice that stretched as far as the eye could see. Jon Snow was there, waiting. The thought filled her with a sickening dread. He would know her for a fraud the moment he laid eyes on her. Jeyne had grown up alongside the Starks, had played with Sansa and Arya in the halls of Winterfell, but it was Jon who had always been closest to his little sister. He would see through the lie in an instant.
Jeyne shivered as she listened to the exchange between Tycho Nestoris and Alysane Mormont, their words barely registering through the haze of fear that clouded her mind. The Braavosi's mention of Jon Snow's honor and fairness offered a glimmer of hope, but it was quickly extinguished by the dread that twisted in her gut. She knew the truth of her identity would be revealed the moment Jon laid eyes on her.
"I...I am sure the Lord Commander is as you say," Jeyne managed to stammer out, her voice trembling despite her efforts to keep it steady. "But I fear he may not be so welcoming of a Bolton bride, even one he believes to be his sister."
Tycho regarded her with a hint of sympathy in his dark eyes. "You need not fear, my lady. Lord Snow will not turn away his own blood, regardless of the circumstances that bring you to him. The Iron Bank has placed its trust in him, and so should you."
Jeyne nodded weakly, wishing she could share the banker's confidence. Alysane Mormont spoke up then, her tone gruff but not unkind. "Aye, the Starks have always done right by the North, and Jon Snow is a Stark, bastard born or no. He'll see you safe, m'lady. On my honor as a Mormont, I swear it."
Jeyne forced a grateful smile, though inside her heart continued to race with trepidation. As much as she wanted to believe their reassurances, she could not shake the feeling that only more pain and hardship awaited her at Castle Black. But what choice did she have? Where else could she go? At least there was a chance, however slim, that Jon Snow might take pity on her and allow her to stay. It was a chance she had to take, for she had nothing else left to cling to.
Jeyne swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. "I...I am not a lady," she whispered, her gaze falling to the snow-covered ground. "Not anymore."
Alysane's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean? You are Arya Stark of Winterfell. Your brother will welcome you with open arms."
A bitter laugh escaped Jeyne's lips, tears stinging her eyes. "I am not Arya Stark. I never was. My name is Jeyne Poole, and I was Lord Eddard's steward's daughter, nothing more."
The Mormont woman's eyes widened in shock, her hand tightening on the hilt of her sword. "Seven hells," she muttered. "The Boltons lied to us all."
Tycho Nestoris remained impassive, his expression betraying nothing. "It matters not who you were born as, but who you choose to be now. Jon Snow will grant you sanctuary, Jeyne Poole. You have my word on that." Jeyne shivered as she listened to the exchange between Tycho Nestoris and Alysane Mormont, their words barely registering through the haze of fear that clouded her mind. The Braavosi's mention of Jon Snow's honor and fairness offered a glimmer of hope, but it was quickly extinguished by the dread that twisted in her gut. She knew all too well how easily honor could be tarnished, how quickly promises could turn to lies on the lips of those with power.
"What if he sees through me?" Jeyne whispered, her voice trembling. "What if he knows I'm not Arya?"
Tycho Nestoris turned to her, his dark eyes inscrutable beneath the shadow of his brimmed hat. "You have nothing to fear, my lady. The Lord Commander has no reason to doubt your identity."
"But he knew Arya," Jeyne insisted, her fingers twisting in the folds of her cloak. "They were close, everyone says so. How can I fool her own brother?"
Alysane Mormont placed a gloved hand on Jeyne's shoulder, her grip steady yet gentle. "You belong to the Stark Household, and if Jon Snow is the honorable man they say, he will never turn you away."
Jeyne wanted to believe them, to let their assurances wash over her like a soothing balm. But the scars on her back seemed to throb with every beat of her heart, a constant reminder of the price of deception. She could only pray that Jon Snow's honor would blind him to the truth, that he would embrace the sister he longed for and not the broken girl who stood in her place.
She knew the truth, knew that the real Arya Stark would see through her ruse in an instant. And then what? Would they cast her out into the cold, or worse, send her back to Ramsay? The thought made bile rise in her throat.
Alysane's declaration of House Mormont's loyalty to the Starks only heightened Jeyne's anxiety. She could feel the weight of the lie bearing down on her, threatening to crush her beneath its burden. How long could she keep up this charade? How long before someone discovered that she was not Arya Stark, but Jeyne Poole, a frightened girl masquerading as a ghost?
Jeyne flinched at the mention of Lord Eddard. If he were alive, he would have seen through this mummer's farce in a heartbeat. But he was gone, his head taken by the Lannisters, and she was left to play a role she had never asked for.
"We'll make camp here for the night, Lady Arya," Justin Massey called out, reining in his horse. "We should reach Castle Black in two days' time."
Jeyne nodded mutely, her gaze drawn back to the Wall. It seemed to grow larger with every passing moment, a looming specter of judgment and condemnation. She would face Jon Snow soon enough, and then the truth would be laid bare for all to see.
But until then, she would play her part, wear her mask, and pray to the old gods and the new that somehow, some way, she would find a way to survive this.
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM. I have no ownership.
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