Chapter 38: 37-Unforeseen Consequences
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire universes. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin, respectively. I make no claim to ownership.
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. I also want to thank my beta-readers nicknm and Bub3loka for helping me bounce ideas around.
If you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name for up to read 3 chapters ahead of discord.
***
Sansa Stark
She admired her work with satisfaction. A savage dark-blue maw, carrying a bloody head. It was going slow, despite the help of Alys and Myrcella. She had a long way before they could manage to depict the whole body of Winter, Ramsay's headless corpse below, not to mention the whole battlefield.
This was a tiny detail in the tapestry but one she immensely enjoyed doing. It felt liberating to create the scene with the demise of her tormentor. It made her feel peaceful inside, despite the macabre visage that was forming under her skilled fingers. With a forlorn sigh, Sansa placed her spool on the table. It was time to attend the council again. She headed towards the meeting chambers, shadowed by Brienne.
The princess's thoughts drifted towards the Stormlander behind her; she had gotten used to her presence. The Tarth heiress had faithfully served as her sworn shield without complaint, and Sansa was glad she accepted her back into her service. She was quiet, dutiful, and quite capable, and the princess scarcely noticed her presence, despite that it was always there, guarding her loyally. But as the last living child of Lord Tarth, she would have to return to the Stormlands to take up her Lordship once her father had passed away. From what Sansa knew, Selwyn Tarth was quite old, and there was a war going on in the South.
"Brienne, do you want me to release you from your vows so you can go back south and retake your place as the heiress of Tarth?" she asked cautiously, after stopping in an empty hallway. Sansa would rather know now if she had to part with her sworn shield.
The tall Stormlander stilled in her tracks, and a heavy frown appeared on her face.
"No, I don't intend to return south. My Lord Father tried many a time to find me a lord consort, but all attempts ended poorly. I myself have no head for sums, governing or leading, nor any of the feminine graces," Brienne responded quietly. "The Castellan of the Evenfall Hall is my father's cousin and will inherit after his passing if I do not return. Besides, I like it here, in the North, far more. Despite the cold, everything is far quieter and calmer, and warrior-women are received far better."
Sansa nodded, and they continued walking in silence towards the meeting.
She prayed that nothing would go wrong and Jon would deal with the Targaryens quickly and return. She hoped that her good-sister would be safe and successful in her journey to aid the Watch. But no matter how much she hoped, she couldn't help but think that something would go awry. The last few years had brutally beaten out her naivete and optimism.
House Stark was in an incredibly vulnerable position right now. Jon had singlehandedly propped it back up and mended the North together. His presence alone had been like a mighty boulder, warding off any trouble just by being there. If he died, her House and the whole North would be forced into a perilous position. Icy foes stirred in the north, fire-loving Targaryens loomed to the south, and Sansa felt like a small leaf amidst a storm once more. Without her brother and his dragons, she would become the Lady of Winterfell and the head of House Stark. The thought brought dread into her chest and was only further exacerbated by the fact that she would also have to marry a third time should that happen. There was nothing worse than being at the dubious mercy of strangers, and Sansa found herself praying to whatever gods would listen to aid her brother in his quest in the south.
But her worries did not end there. She had been ruling Winterfell and the North for less than two days, yet it already began to feel incredibly cumbersome. The thought of dealing with big and small issues, seeing and speaking with so many people, just tired her. Wyman Manderly was there and shouldering a big part of the governance in her stead, but her presence was required far too oft. Sansa's respect towards Jon and Shireen had therefore grown even further.
She entered the council room and sat at the head of the table. Manderly, Glover, and Locke were already there.
"Princess, an urgent letter arrived from Lord Dustin," The Lord of White Harbour spoke up worriedly and placed a parchment on the oaken table. "House Blackwood has landed in Barrowton."
"What do you mean by House Blackwood?" The question spilt out of her mouth.
"Lord Tytos Blackwood, his whole family, household, men-at-arms, and three of his vassals..." The Hand grimly explained. "All in all, nearly three thousand souls, less than a thousand of whom are battle ready."
"Are they attacking us?!"
"No, princess," Manderly replied and wiped large beads of sweat off his brow. "They are fleeing from the conflict in the south. Lord Dustin wrote that Tytos Blackwood now rides hard to Winterfell through the snows to swear fealty to King Robb's successor."
Sansa rubbed her brow tiredly. Why did she have to deal with this?
"Do they expect us to help them fight in the south?"
"Nay. Jonos Bracken has been appointed as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands by Aegon Targaryen, and the Blackwoods are seeking refuge," the Lord Hand spoke heavily.
Seeking refuge just like his house did thousands of years ago. He didn't finish his words, but she heard them clearly. The legendary Blackwood-Bracken feud seemed still alive even in this generation. Lord Blackwood would rather abandon Raventree Hall and flee the Riverlands than swear fealty to a Bracken.
"We cannot feed or house them during winter here," Sansa said with a frown after a short silence.
"They are said to have brought quite some supplies with themselves," Galbart Glover said. "House Blackwood was one of your brother's staunchest supporters. They were the last to dip the direwolf banner, long after the Red Wedding."
She might have been heir apparent to House Stark, but she had no real authority to accept new vassals or give out new lands. But for House Blackwood that served Robb loyally and were also followers of the Old Gods, it would speak badly to turn them away in their hour of need.
"Can Barrowton afford to house them?" she inquired.
"A large part of them, but not all," Lord Manderly explained while rubbing one of his many meaty chins.
Everything went quiet as the council fell into contemplation. After a few minutes, she finally came to a decision.
"House Stark is honour bound to accept House Blackwood's vow of fealty," Sansa broke the heavy silence. She was certain that Jon would not have turned them away, so there was no harm in accepting their pledge. "Let Lord Dustin house as many as he is able to and send the rest to Torrhen's Square. Any discussion about lands will wait until spring."
There was plenty of free land in the North. The Stony Shore, Sea Dragon Point, and The Gift – all good, rich locations that could be given out. But Sansa was not stupid enough to make such a decision now. When Jon returned, he could handle this type of politics. Whether to grant them any land or if he should do so at all. And it was not like much building could be done during winter – House Blackwood would have to wait for spring either way.
"I will write to Lady Tallhart at once," The Hand promised solemnly.
"Lords Knott and Burley have started a dispute over the ownership of a small spring valley on their borders and are coming to Winterfell for the Stark to mediate," Glover spoke up.
Sansa schooled her face into an impassive expression, but a headache began forming.
"Who owned the valley before?"
"A small, nameless clan. Most of them died fighting for your elder brother, and the rest were struck down by a bad fever a few months ago," Galbart explained. "Both clans have a blood tie to them from three generations ago."
"I will receive their dispute in court as soon as they arrive in Winterfell," Sansa promised. She had to consult with some books in the library, but she already had a good idea of how to deal with this.
"Princess, there is one more problem," Lord Manderly started hesitantly.
"With the mountain clansmen or the Blackwoods?"
"Neither. It seems that in the absence of his brothers, the crimson dragon, Bloodfyre, has begun sleeping on top of the taller rooftops or the walls," the Hand said worriedly.
The thought of the lazy blood dragon sleeping on the roofs made her lips twitch in amusement.
"What is the problem, though? Is Bloodfyre too heavy or making trouble?"
"No, the roofs have no problem bearing his weight for now. In a year or two, when he grows larger, it might become a problem. The main issue is that people are afraid to approach him. The guardsmen are wary of patrolling the section on the walls where the dragon sleeps," Manderly explained delicately.
If Sansa was not well acquainted with the crimson drake's habits from the two moons on the march, she would have been greatly worried.
"Bloodfyre is very… calm and lazy. Tell the household not to mind her. The crimson dragon is completely harmless and used to the presence of men. There is nothing to be afraid of as long as they don't try waking or touching her." She was about to dismiss the council but remembered some of the gossip Alys and Myrcella had told her earlier. "How goes the negotiations for your daughter's marriage, Lord Hand?"
"It is going swimmingly! Young Larence Hornwood has agreed to marry Wylla, and the final negotiations about the dowry are underway. They will wed within a fortnight."
Sansa knew that Manderly's granddaughter held some affection for Jon and was not eager to wed, but it seemed that the Lord Hand was in a hurry. If it was anyone other than her brother, she too would have been forced to marry again for some alliance.
"Send her my congratulations. Why don't you hold the wedding here, in Winterfell?" She offered with a small smile.
Some celebrations might make her forget her worries, and if she got busy with the wedding planning again, at least she would not have to dwell on her brother's grim task in the south.
"It will be an honour, princess!" Lord Manderly replied as his eyes lit up.
***
Sarella Sand, the North
Her cabin felt stuffy, and she went on the deck to get a breath of fresh air.
Sarella could feel the cold despite her thick fur-lined cloak, woollen gown, and thick linen shirt underneath. She watched with amazement as snowflakes fell. Sarella outstretched her hand in curiosity. They felt cold and wet on the skin. The journey so far had been thankfully peaceful and without much trouble, aside from two small storms. They had stopped in Braavos to resupply, before continuing westward. She had spent most of her time on the ship reading about the North and its history. There was not much interest in northern history in Dorne, so the maesters scarcely taught the lords and ladies beyond the barest necessary basics. The citadel was scarcely better, but some books could be found on the subject.
Now, they were finally about to arrive, more than a moon after leaving Sunspear. In the distance, White Harbour slowly approached. A few trade cogs and carracks were departing from the harbour, and quite a few more were coming in. Some were bearing flags of the Free Cities and even a few from the Vale. There were at least two dozen war galleys with the merman banner that Sarella could see. She wondered how large was the Manderly war fleet. Next to the docks was an enormous rock. The famous Seal Rock. She could see spitfires, scorpions, and crossbowmen patrolling between on top of the weathered ringfort that the first men had built there. The Seals at the base of the rock were making a racket, barking up a storm at the ship as it approached. Sarella was not sure if they were welcoming them or not.
Quiet steps echoed on the wooden deck behind her, making her turn around. Arianne, covered with furs from head to toe, walked next to her.
"You know, you didn't actually have to come North," Sarella said with a sigh. "Uncle Doran has always been reasonable. His gout has gotten so bad that even milk of the poppy can scarcely dull the pain. Add wine to the mix, and you could be sure he was not in his right mind. He would have easily rescinded his order on the morrow if he ever remembered giving it."
"I know, Rella," Arianne replied quietly. A cold gust of wind blew over, making both of them shiver. "I know! Trystane would never usurp me, and Jon Snow has probably already bent the knee like his ancestor at the sight of dragons. I know that my father would rather ally with a nameless Lyseni orphan just to see Elia avenged and the Lannisters brought low before he dies. But I could not bear to stand and watch him waste away in delirious pain any longer. For the last few moons, Sunspear felt like a prison, not a home. I just wanted to get away, and this was the perfect excuse."
Sarella nodded quietly. She would never say it but was glad to be accompanied by some of her sisters and her cousin North. They made for a far better company than Sam ever did.
"What are my sisters doing?" She couldn't help but ask.
"Hiding inside their cabins. The cold does not agree with Nym and Ty," Arianne said with a small chuckle. "But they will come out soon enough. Dornish blood runs hot, and even the winds of winter cannot freeze it!"
Obara could have been here with them had she not joined a sellsword company in Essos. But her prickly sister simply couldn't sit in one place for too long, so it was no surprise that she had run off as soon as Doran had released her from detainment in the Water Gardens.
As the docks were approaching, Sarella noticed that they were quickly filling up with men-at-arms, all of which had a green merman with a trident in hand depicted on their surcoats.
"It seems we won't receive a warm welcome," she noted with a frown.
"The winter has turned even their greetings cold," Arianne japed with a small chuckle before turning serious. "I don't recall either Dorne or House Martell having any feuds with House Manderly. And my Princely Father should have at least sent a raven with news of our arrival."
"The journey a raven would have to take from Sunspear to reach White Harbour is long and perilous. It's very possible that the raven got lost or did not survive," Sarella explained after mulling it over. "I don't imagine the ravens in Sunspear could bear the cold up here."
They descended into an easy silence as they were nearing the white city. Ser Deziel Dalt, who was captain of the Martell men-at-arms accompanying them, started organising his men with worry. Nymeria and Tyene, wrapped in furs and wool, finally left their cabins at the commotion.
As they docked on the harbour, Arianne, accompanied by Ser Dalt, carefully stepped down first on the docks to meet with a tall, greying man with a polished plate wearing at the head of the Manderly men-at-arms.
"What brings members of House Martell to White Harbour?" He asked with a heavy frown on his old face.
"I am Princess Arianne Martell, and I am here as an envoy to Winterfell at the behest of my father, Ser...?"
"Ser Marlon Manderly. I will bring you to the Lady; she will decide what to do." His craggy voice was heavy with suspicion. "Your guardsmen will stay here or surrender their arms."
Ser Dalt was about to object, but Arianne looked at him and shook her head.
"My cousins will accompany me, then," the Princess said evenly.
"The Sand Snakes, eh? They, too, will have to surrender their weapons."
"You are free to search me, Ser Marlon," Tyene said demurely and twirled a finger through her blonde locks, suggestion hanging heavy in the air.
The old knight, however, was unaffected and searched all of them with a stony expression on his face. Sarella handed over her dagger and goldenheart bow voluntarily, but the Ser had to take out half a dozen daggers and dirks from the gowns of her sisters. Nymeria and Tyenne smiled innocently, making the man's face even grimmer.
The faint smell of fish wafted out of a small market that was right under the thirty feet tall walls. They passed through the thick harbour gate, entering the city proper. A cobbled square greeted them, with a fountain in the centre adorned by a twenty-foot stone merman. Despite the snow, the place was filled with men and women haggling with peddlers selling their wares. Besides the food stalls, Sarella could see scribes, money-lenders, and even a hedge-wizard. They were quickly escorted deeper into the city.
The cobbled streets were straight, clean, and wide, and there was none of the stench that marred the air in Oldtown or the shadow city. The buildings were all made out of whitewashed stone and had slate roofs. While not as big as the southern cities, or maybe because of it, White Harbour seemed far more pleasant and peaceful.
The Dornish retinue was escorted along a wide street paved with white stone towards the hill where the New Castle stood proudly. It was also built of whitened stone, and the Manderly banners proudly flew from all the towers. Six guardsmen stood in front of a thick ironwood gate bound with iron.
Sarella, her sisters, and Arianne finally entered a large hall. There were two dozen more guardsmen, all armed with silver tridents and wearing half-plate and blue-green wool cloaks.
"Presenting Princess Arianne Martell and her cousins," A herald cried out.
The floor and walls were lined with painted wooden planks decorated with all sorts of sea creatures. She wanted to take a better look at them, but her gaze was drawn towards the cushioned seat on the dais.
A young maiden with a heart-shaped face sat there, wearing a green-blue silken gown emblazoned with the merman of House Manderly. Probably Lord Manderly's eldest daughter, Wynafryd, if Sarella recalled correctly. The northern beauty had enchanting blue eyes and a long brown braid and sat on the high seat with a bared sword across her knees. Sarella's insides twisted into knots at the sight. They were being denied guest right.
"What brings a Dornish Princess to the North?" The young woman's voice was cold.
"I am here as an envoy to Winterfell, sent by my father, Prince Doran Martell," Arianne replied sharply. "Have the Northmen forgotten their courtesies?"
"I would give you bread and salt, but I'm afraid it means little for the likes of you and the Freys," the girl retorted with a scoff.
"What has House Martell done to deserve your ire?!" the princess asked with genuine confusion.
"You might not remember, but we do. The North remembers very well. How the Young Dragon was slain under a peace banner, and Ser Desmond Manderly, the heir of White Harbour, was killed defending him. Oh, how the dornish managed to weasel two royal marriages and honours out of the fel deed," Wynafryd recounted impassively. "No apology was ever given for this grave insult; none had the courtesy even to return Ser Desmond's bones! You might point out that all of this was in the distant past. But was not Myrcella Baratheon Prince Martell's ward? Yet her kingsguard was slain, and she was almost murdered under his care. How are the Dornish any better than cutthroats and bandits?"
Were the Manderlys following the First Men's burial traditions instead of the Andal ones? Sarella shook her head uneasily – now was not the time to dwell on mundane things. Dorne might have successfully expelled the rule of the Young Dragon, but it seemed that their methods had made them many an enemy. Next to her, Nymeria and Tyene shuffled uneasily, but Arianne seemed uncowed.
"We will not infringe on your hospitality any longer. There's plenty of inns in the city," the princess said calmly and turned to leave.
"We might be at war, but the Northerners are not without honour. As long as you stay staunch in your role as an envoy, you have nothing to fear in the North. I shall even provide you with a guide and escorts to Winterfell. But there would be no Baelor to spare you if you tried any of your backstabbing ploys. Winter is here," Wynafryd warned as they were leaving. Sarella couldn't help but shiver, yet Arianne scoffed quietly but did not even slow her stride.
As soon as they were on the wide white street, Ser Marlon returned all the daggers, and their escort left them, though Sarella could see a few men of the city watch keeping an eye on them from the end of the street.
"The gall of that girl!" Nymeria exclaimed indignantly as soon as they were out of earshot.
"Those Northerners sure have a long memory," Tyene lamented before shivering from the cold. "Who cares what happened a hundred years ago?"
"Apparently, they do," Sarella said with a cough.
"Thankfully, they have more bark than bite. The girl could have taken us hostage," Arianne smirked. "Although I wouldn't blame them. None of what they said was false. But unlike them, we play the game to win, not for stupid things like honour. And we, the Dornish, are slow to forgive slights too. We can easily do without the mermen's hospitality."
"I'm far more curious how they know what happened to Myrcella," Nym said thoughtfully. "The little lion princess died in King's Landing, and the North has no love for the Lannisters."
"Well, we could have had her as a hostage still had you not abandoned her on the streets of King's Landing while fleeing," Arianne sharply retorted, but Nym shrugged her shoulders without an ounce of shame. "And I have a feeling that we might find out soon anyhow."
"We can still turn around and return to Sunspear," Tyene proposed.
"We've gotten this far, and you want us to leave Sarella alone on her journey to Winterfell? Not a chance. I also want to see that bastard turned king that inspires such confidence to win a war against the dragonriders in these Northerners. Nym, find us rooms at an inn. Otherwise, we might have to sleep in the cabins again."
***
Westwatch by the Bridge
An endless string of wights kept crossing the bridge of skulls. The burnt bones under the walls of Westwatch were already stacked halfway through.
Duncan rolled the arrowhead in a torn piece of linen and shoved it in the brazier nearby until it ignited. After two heartbeats, the arrow already flew from his bow into the tide of corpses, igniting another wight. At the start, the wights had attacked like a torrent, but the flames quickly spread to the rest soon after the first one was set on fire. After this was repeated a few times, the stream of walking cadavers thinned but continued flowing ceaselessly.
They would not have held Westwatch if the reinforcements from the Shadow Tower and the nearby Wildling tribe hadn't arrived quickly. A hundred and fifty Night's Watchmen under Denys Mallister and another two hundred men and spearwives led by the Great Walrus, the tall and round wildling chieftain who had settled at the edge of the bay. Duncan was glad not to have to give orders anymore. Mallister had been commander of the Shadow Tower for decades and knew how to lead.
With a good wall, the wights themselves were not a fearsome foe on their own, but their unending numbers and unrelenting assault had slowly started to grind the defenders down into exhaustion. They scarcely had any casualties save for when a wight managed to climb the wall over the burnt bones of the other fallen. They had fought in four shifts for nearly three days now, and the end was nowhere in sight. Thousands of wights had been burned so far, but that did not seem to diminish their numbers. The supplies of tar and oil were being kept as a last reserve, and they had started using linen to light up their torches and arrows.
When he arrived, Denys Mallister was reluctant to order the collapse of the bridge. They had a superior position where they funnelled their enemies and dealt with them with almost no deaths. But on the morning of the fifth day, the number of enemies did not seem to lessen one bit, and if things continued this way, they would all collapse from exhaustion in less than a fortnight. If the piles of charred bones did stack up high enough, they would have to fight the wights without the advantage of the thirty-foot wall. This morning, Denys Mallister had a dozen men down to the Gorge with hammers and pickaxes to try and collapse one of the supporting bridge pillars.
Duncan kept shooting and shooting arrows until his arms started cramping. The hours stretched in endless drudgery as the wights poured through the bridge like a stubborn river. Two pairs of gloves were torn by the bowstring, and he was on the third one now. He looked around only to see the men around him struggle from exhaustion too.
Thankfully, the time for the next shift came. A motley group of wildlings and night's watchmen, but they worked together well enough against the wights. He had some doubts when The Jon had let the wildlings through, but they were now long gone.
Duncan and the other men barely managed to walk to the wooden keep and sprawled on the ground. Eighteen hours until they had to be back at Westwatch's wall.
"It should be seven hours already," Rory sighed tiredly next to him. "How tough can that support pillar be?"
*
On the southern slope of the Gorge below,five men were tiredly pounding on the black rock that carried the pillar above. Cracks had begun to form, but the stone still refused to break. A dozen men had sprawled on a nearby stone, surrounding a small bonfire. One could easily mistake them for dead if they did not occasionally move their limbs. Another dozen men with torches in hand stood in a loose circle around them, watching the scarcely lit rocky slopes vigilantly. The furious churning water could be heard from the rocky bottom of the slope.
One of the pickaxes broke with a loud clank, followed by a pained cry. One of the black brothers that were toiling failed on the ground like a bag of rocks. The rest quickly stopped whatever they were doing and crowded the fallen man.
"He ain't movin'," one of the men grunted.
Another turned the fallen face up, only to reveal a bleeding hole where the eye used to be.
*CRACK!*
The rock near them groaned, and they quickly scrambled to move away. The foundation was quickly covered in fissures, big and small.
After a few long heartbeats, the rock split in two and the foundation slowly began to collapse with a mighty rumble. The bridge slowly followed. The night's watchmen kept running towards the mouth of the Gorge where the only pathway up the southern slope was.
Once the loud rumbling stopped, they turned around only to see a thick cloud of snow and dust.
A tired yet heartfelt cheer tore from the group. But numerous dull thuds were heard. Their celebration quickly stopped when silhouettes started to emerge from the dust. A shambling cadaver slowly emerged. Its limbs were twisted, and some of the bones were broken and easily seen from the rotting skin and each step was a struggle. Yet it continued to move. As the dust subsided, more followed. Five, ten, a score, half a hundred. At the bottom of the gorge, large chunks of fallen debris now formed a crossing over the raging Milkwater below.
"Fock me!"
"We can't hold that many back!"
"We haf'ta tell Commander Mallister."
*
At the wall at Westwatch, the night's watchmen cheered loudly at the bridge's collapse. Yet Denys Mallister watched the Frostfangs impassively. The happy shouts quickly died out when corpses continued flowing down the mountain pass across and started falling over the broken bridge like a waterfall.
"How wide is the goat path down the Gorge?" The Commander asked.
"Two thin men can descend there shoulder to shoulder," one of the rangers hurriedly replied.
"The wights will not die unless their bones are completely smashed. This fall will not end them," Mallister said grimly. "We have to fortify the pathway!"
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Gladiusx
Gladiusx We see the first detail of the Grand Tapestry.
Sansa gets a taste of ruling and dislikes it. She already has everything she wants in Winterfell without having to run the show. Blackwood finally lands at Barrowton, but not at the best time.
The Dornish PoV is finally chronological(in case you didn't notice, the previous one was not)! They arrive at White Harbour, and get a cold welcome, yet are undeterred.
We finally find out why Doran took such a brash decision.
Wynafryd Manderly is not as experienced or sly as her grandfather.
Reinforcements arrive at Westwatch!
The Bridge of Skulls is finally collapsed, yet the threat is not over.
Can a few hundred brave men stem the surging tide of death?
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord, where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
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