Chapter 40: 39-The Third Slayer
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-reader 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 three chapters ahead of discord.
*
A.N: This is one of my longest chapters to date!
*
Greatjon Umber, near Westwatch
"My Lord, the Bridge of Skulls has collapsed, but the dead are swarming from within the Gorge, and the men of the Night's Watch are being pushed back," one of his scouts reported hastily as their host trudged through the snow.
It seemed that things were worse than he had imagined. It was good that every one of his men had at least half a dozen torches. While some grumbled about the extra weight, soon enough, they would be thankful for having them.
"We don't have the numbers to hold off the wights in an open field. We have to blockade their entrance to the Gorge or the slope somehow," The Wull said heavily.
"What if we quickly erect a wooden fort and a wall at the northern slope of the Gorge?" Greatjon proposed.
"And how are we goin' to do that, Jon? There are plenty of trees around, true, and we've plenty of men. But it takes time to fell a tree, carry it, and build with it. But during all that time, we would have to push the undead back into the Gorge. Our force would be exhausted from fighting long before any fort can be made," Wull said with a frown.
"Unless you have a better idea, we should at least try," Greatjon grumbled. "And we got giants and mammoths. Giants on our side, Wull! Forty giants that can rip trees off and carry them without a problem in the snow. Arton, get me Leathers and Wun Wun!"
His captain quickly went to fetch the wildling black brother and the leader of the giants that had joined their host. The king never ceased to amaze him – he had somehow managed to get a wildling to honestly swear his life and sword to the Night's Watch! And the former savage was truly committed and earned both his and Wull's respect. Not to mention that seeing the giants with his own eyes never ceased to amaze Greatjon.
"'Tis a mad plan, Umber," Hugo sighed heavily. "But these are mad times. Aye, I have no better idea. My strength is slowly waning; I'm not what I once was. It's good to die with my ax in hand, fighting foes of legend instead of in a bed, unable to move and surrounded by whinging women and children. If I fall, burn my corpse."
"Aye, we can only hold here or die trying," Greatjon agreed grimly. "But not all hope is lost. The Stark won't abandon us, Wull. News should have reached Winterfell by now, and his grace is probably flying here on that fire-breathing monster of his."
"Bah, the raven could have been lost to the snows." The chieftain's reply chilled Greatjon's blood and the conversation died out. The only thing that could be heard was the trudging of men and horses in the snow. In some places, it was above his knees, yet not too close to his waist. Thankfully, Denys Mallister had still kept a road cleared out.
Soon, the giant hairy form of Wun Wun neared together with the fur-covered wildling black brother. Though, the old savage had dyed his furs black, as per the tradition of the Night's Watch.
"Leathers, ask Wun Wun if he and his… folks are willing to chop trees and dig to help us create a fort and a wall at the entrance of the Gorge."
The harsh and clanging sound of the Old Tongue stirred something within Greatjon. He would get someone and his sons to teach him if he got out of this alive.
In the end, the giant grunted loudly with a nod, and the Lord of Last Hearth did not need any translation to understand.
"Forty giants and their mammoths might not be fast enough," Wull mused. "Leathers, go with them. We can also spare seven hundred axemen. My son, Rogar, will lead them. He has always been handy with wood and axe in hand and has a good head for building."
Jon Umber knew that building that wall, even with the work of hundreds of men and giants, would still take at least a day, if not two.
A few orders later, the Wull heir, the giants, and some of the mammoths headed towards the nearby forests. Their host, however, was fast approaching the bay of ice, and the fighting could be seen.
"Now we only have to push the dead fuckers back in the Gorge," the old chieftain mused next to him and hefted his big war axe.
"Your axe might be useless there unless you can chop their bones up. Don't forget the torches. We might have to leave the horses here," Greatjon sighed.
"Why?"
"What if they're spooked by the moving corpses or the rotten smell?"
"Fighting on foot it is, then," Wull shrugged and jumped off his horse. Greatjon followed.
They increased their pace as they approached the nearby battle. The Lord of Last Heart could see the enemy spilling out of the edge of the Gorge like a rotten flood, trying to drown the motley group of Night's Watchmen and wildlings.
It was a pity that it would be impossible to form and advance in a line in this much snow.
"Light up your torches," Greatjon bellowed. Soon after his order was followed, a cry tore from his throat, "UMBER!"
And he rushed towards the wights.
"BUCKETS!" the chieftain's cry echoed shortly after his own.
He smashed his torch into one of the corpses, and it ignited as if it was soaked in oil. He kicked it into the other wights, and the fire quickly spread amongst them. This might be easier than he expected.
*
The cacophony of battle rang around him. No matter how many they burned, the enemy kept coming. He had lost track of time – the sun had just begun setting. Fighting in the snow proved very exhausting. They had slowly managed to push towards the Gorge, yet not without casualties. They were still half a hundred yards away from the slope. And his fallen men already rose again.
Greatjon swung his torch, igniting another corpse. On the next swing, his torch broke again. He had lost count of how many he had broken, but soon he would have no more left. His first dragonglass dagger had easily broken at the very start, and he had decided to leave the second one in reserve.
It suddenly became colder, and snow quickly began to fall again. Greatjon wondered if the gods had abandoned them as his torch started flicking. He didn't mind the cold, but if the snowstorm became fierce enough to extinguish the fires, they would be done in for.
The Lord of Last Heart slammed his battered shield into another wight before setting its arm on fire with his torch. The flames quickly spread across the whole body. Greatjon's limbs had started feeling heavy hours ago. He was not yet fully recovered from his stay in the weasel's dungeons.
Fighting the dead things was not hard; the real problem was that they were going to run out of torches and things to set the enemy on fire long before they would manage to push their enemy back into the Gorge. His men had started forming up, but a good line simply couldn't be made.
Suddenly, a high-pitched sound similar to cracking ice grabbed his attention, followed by cries of pain and death. His gaze caught the unnaturally bright pair of blue eyes adorning a face made of ice instead of flesh. It was a beautiful thing, Greatjon had to admit, but its cruel eyes and annoying smirk made it uglier than a southern weasel. The White Walker wielded a large longsword made of pure ice, and it effortlessly cut through his men as if they were made of cloth. The legendary foe also glided above the snow as if it was weightless. Swords quickly shattered when meeting the icy blade or bounced off the black armour adorning its torso. All who attempted to get close and stab the enemy with a dagger were slain mercilessly before they even got close. A few arrows flew towards it but shattered on its armour. Those who were about to land on its unprotected neck or face were easily avoided or cut down with a swing of the crystalline sword. The being of legends reaped lives across the battlefield effortlessly and was starting to reverse the tide of battle single-handedly.
Finally, a worthy foe compared to those useless moving corpses!
Greatjon smashed his torch into another wight and kicked it back into the swarm of enemies before throwing it straight into the Walker.
The torch did nothing but irritate the icy being, who shrugged away the fire and settled its venomous blue gaze on Greatjon. The Lord of The Last Hearth dropped his shield, unsheathed his greatsword, and pointed towards the White Walker with his blade.
Both the wights and the men quickly freed the space around them.
The Other seemingly accepted the challenge and started running towards him at inhuman speed, killing every man who was still in the way. Greatjon quickly patted his belt, confirming that his dragonglass dagger was still there.
Steel clashed with ice with a high-pitched screech, and Greatjon could feel his sword crack. His arm felt rattled by the strength of the blow. The last time he felt like this was when he sparred with his grandfather Hoarfrost, who hadn't held back one bit against the young not-so-Great-at-the-time Jon. He grunted and avoided a swing from the Walker before slashing straight for the opponent's unprotected neck.
TING!
His sword broke into a hundred pieces, but the giant of Last Heart tried using his size advantage to tackle his opponent. The icy fucker was too quick and sidestepped while trying to pierce his chest. Umber frantically rolled through the snow, but not before it grazed him through his scale shirt. Coldness started seeping into his torso.
In desperation, Greatjon grabbed a handful of snow and threw it into his enemy's eyes. The fucker gave a blood-chilling shrill and started slashing blindly towards the Umber with one hand and wiping his face with the other.
The Lord of the Last Heart lunged beneath and stabbed his dragonglass dagger towards the small unprotected part near his enemy's ankle with all his strength. An inhuman screech followed before it shattered into a million pieces. Scores of corpses began falling like bags of rocks, and for a short moment, Greatjon thought they had won.
To the west, the sun had slowly set, and the only thing illuminating the surroundings was the weak lights of the torches.
But the reality was cruel. Two heartbeats later, no more wights fell, and the rotten tide continued surging out of the Gorge unimpeded. His men tried to reach him, yet the onslaught of corpses quickly blocked them. He tried getting up, but sharp pain cut through his side, where the cold was slowly spreading and quickly sapping whatever strength he had left. He took the last torch strapped on his back and, with gritted teeth, managed to use the stick to get up. He was tired and could scarcely move his limbs now, yet the end of the enemy was nowhere in sight, and snow continued to fall thicker and thicker. Greatjon could now scarcely see more than two dozen yards away. His hand weighed like it was made of stone, yet he stubbornly started searching in his pockets for those pieces of flint. He had to ignite his torch. Otherwise, he was doomed.
There was no retreat here. If they let the dead spill into the North, they would not be able to stop them anymore, and all would be lost. Yet his men were just as tired as he was and were now slowly being pushed back. The mad slaughter caused by a single White Walker might have doomed them all. The Lord of Last Heart finally managed to fish out the flints from within his cloak. He desperately hit the two pieces of stone, yet the sparks were drowned by the falling snowy veil.
He didn't even have the strength to open his mouth to curse, so he did so silently in his mind.
Greatjon could see as the wights were quickly shambling towards him as he futilely tried to set his torch on fire. The night was getting darker and darker. Was this how he ended?! He gritted his teeth in rage and decided he would stare death in the face if that was where he fell.
At that moment, a reverberating roar tore through the air, and to his endless joy and amazement, a stream of purple fire from above ploughed through the sea of corpses, quickly setting them all aflame.
*
Jaime Lannister, The Golden Tooth
"Lord Commander, the Targaryens are less than ten miles away," the scout reported.
That meant that they would be under siege tomorrow.
"Thank you, Loren, " Jaime said before dismissing the man. He tiredly ran his left hand through his greying locks as he looked at the map on top of the large table in front of him. "It is not enough. You've seen those beasts and their riders scouting around."
"It's no use to worry now. You've done everything you can, Jaime," Addam Marbrand tried to reassure him, but even his voice felt uncertain. "The Golden Tooth is a mighty keep, and we have it fully manned, Five and twenty hundred men. We have five hundred of the finest longbowmen in the west, two hundred scorpions and all the other man-at-arms and knights here are veterans of more than one war. The granaries and larders are filled to the brim, and we can sit here and eat for more than two years. Every field and village within seventy leagues has been stripped bare, and the Crownlands and the Riverlands would not be able to sustain their numbers for long, especially since winter has come and snow has already begun to fall. You even sent five and ten hundred horsemen to go down the gold road and raid their supply lines in the crownlands. This is our best chance to break their army."
"Aye, you speak truly. But Riverrun was a hardy keep to take, yet it fell to Aegon in a single assault," he said grimly.
"That may be so, but they were not prepared for the dragons as we were. They only had little more than a hundred men and no scorpions. If the Targaryens want to storm the Golden Tooth, they will have to pay a bitter price to take it."
"They already saw most of our defences from above when flying around. Daenerys has ten thousand unsullied Addam. Soldiers with ironclad discipline and no fear. If I were in Aegon's place, I'd keep throwing unsullied at the walls until they broke through. Not to mention that the scorpions have almost no way to aim for the dragons if they sweep from high above," Jaime countered grimly. "But you're right. I've instructed ten of our best marksmen to lurk around the highest towers and only aim for the dragonriders. Same for the scorpions. If they manage to take the walls, I have ordered for the granaries and larders to be burned."
Jaime felt the urge to go to the small sept and pray but quickly fought it off. He had long stopped believing in the gods. Where were the gods when Aerys savaged his wife and raped her? Where were the gods when the Mad King burned Rickard Stark and strangled his heir while cackling madly? Where were they when he ordered King's Landing to burn? Where were the gods when Robert beat his sister in his drunken rages? No, If they existed, they were cruel. Praying to them would not achieve anything.
Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he had sat on the Iron Throne and proclaimed himself king after slaying Aerys. But he shook his head - he had no mind for matters of governance, politics, or sums. He was alike with Robert Baratheon in this, as much as he loathed to admit it. And the realm would have never accepted a kingslayer as their ruler.
"Let's go spar, Jaime; it will take your mind off all those worries." Marbrand's urging brought him out of his musings.
"There's no use, Addam. I wield the sword worse than a young page with my left hand," he replied with a scowl. "Not to mention that the men will lose morale when they see their leader being smacked around like a little child."
"You are Lord Commander of Tommen's Kingsguard. Could you even defend your nephew when the time comes?" Jaime swallowed heavily at those words. "We can practice in one of the private rooms where none would see. And your left hand is worse than a page's because you've trained it less than one. You didn't become one of the best swords in Westeros in a matter of moons or by wallowing about your lack of skill, but by relentlessly training yourself to the limit for years. You were the best sword in the west once. Do you have what it takes to do it again?" His childhood friend challenged him with an expectant look.
For the first time in a while, something stirred inside Jaime Lannister. Addam was right. His sword arm had taken years of sweat, blood, and stubbornness to hone. Mayhaps he had been too arrogant to assume he could match his years of effort with meagre hours of practice. And worst of all - if the time came and he could not protect Tommen, he would not be able to forgive himself.
"Fine, let's go," he grudgingly agreed and followed his friends through the hallway. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do while waiting. Excitement, nervousness, and some fear bubbled within him as if he were a young boy again who would be squiring for Lord Sumner Crakehall.
Jaime swore to himself that if he survived the upcoming siege, he'd become as good with his left hand as he was with his right.
*
Sarella Sand
The garrons had little problem trudging through the knee-deep snow while pulling their queer wheelhouse. If it could be called that, when Instead of wheels, it had wide, flattened pieces of elongated steel parallel to each other. The coachman, dressed in heavy furs, had called it sled- apparently a rather new invention that was commissioned to the best craftsman when Lord Manderly had to visit Winterfell during the past two winters.
The so-called sled glided through the snow with little to no problems. But it was quite expensive to make and was used only by the northern lords. And last but not least, it was quite warm inside. At least compared to the cold outside. Behind them trailed a second sled transporting half a dozen Martell man-at-arms. The rest of their original escort had to stay on the ship as there were only three such sleds in White Harbour currently, and one of them had to always stay in House Manderly's seat.
As she admired the landscape, Sarella saw something big and grey move between some trees in the distance. Golden eyes made contact with her own for a heartbeat before they disappeared.
"Rella, could you please close the shutter?" Nymeria requested through her chattering teeth as another gust of icy wind blew over. Tyenne and Arianne had wrapped themselves with layers of wool and furs, and only their faces could be seen peeking underneath the fluffy fur hoods.
Sarella herself shivered despite her thick clothing and finally closed the carriage shut. Another icy gust of wind made her shiver despite the thick clothing. She wore a fur-lined cloak, a thick woollen tunic, and a thick linen shirt. Yet they scarcely warded the northern cold. She had read plenty about the ferocity of the winter up here, but experiencing it first-hand was completely different.
"Thank the gods for these… sleds," Arianne said with a sigh while rubbing her gloved hands together before covering them with her fur-lined cloak. "I don't think we could have survived camping out there."
The Northmen escorting them were not too bothered by the cold, probably because they had long been used to it. Snow itself fascinated Sarella - it made everything look so pure and easy on the eye while giving an ethereal beauty to it. There was something magical to the snow-covered pines that littered the landscape. Sadly, it also made everything cold and wet.
But the thought of getting her hands on the rare books that could no longer be found in the Citadel made her drool. The Night's Watch never had to follow the kings' laws and decrees. Rare books like Dragonkin and the Jade Compendium survived in the library of Castle Black, and Sam had even read them himself. What else was hidden in the libraries of the Night's Watch? Or even in Winterfell's library, where the Faith had no sway and was left untouched by Baelor's purges? Enduring a little cold was worth it. Even her princely father had not visited the Wall in his journeys around the world. A pity Maester Aemon had died. A man so old and wise would have been witness to history! Oh, all the tales he could have told her.
The coachman's shutter was lifted, and the coachman's shaggy face with dark eyes appeared.
"M'ladies, we're approachin' Winterfell," he said and turned around, closing the shutter.
Sarella placed her hood, opened her shutter and curiously showed her head outside while ignoring the curses of her cousin and sister. The cold air bit into her skin, but she was too stunned to care.
The grey walls of Winterfell approached in the distance.
Sarella could only blink in amazement - they must have been two times taller than anything else she had seen before! Aside from the Hightower, of course.
She could see a glint of crimson-red colour above the gate. Sarella squinted her eyes but couldn't make out what the thing was from all the snow. Her interest was now piqued. She wondered if the guards would let her up the gate to check what that was. She bit her lips - it would be quite rude and suspicious if she asked to check their wall. As they neared, she saw a pair of burly guardsmen standing at the gate.
While their arrival was expected, they were searched, and all weapons were taken before being allowed entry at Winterfell, much to Nymeria's chagrin. Only the princess was spared the search. The large comely Northerner that looked like he was in charge of the guards and was searching her flushed heavily in the process for some reason, in contrast with the rest of the stone-faced guards. To her annoyance, Tyene threw her a saucy wink at the sight.
Sarella had long made peace that she'd have to part with her precious Goldenheart Bow. It seemed that while Guest Right was still respected in the North, the guests were simply no longer as trusted as before the Red Wedding. Only the unarmed Ser Dalt was allowed to escort them, and the rest of the men-at-arms were sent to the sea of small snow-covered rooftops snuggled outside of the walls that the guards called Winter Town.
Inside Winterfell's walls was somewhat warmer, but that was maybe because the high walls warded off the biting winds. Guardsmen were seen training in the yard, unbothered by the snow.
"I can see now why the Northerners are famed for their hardiness and stubbornness," Arianne said in a somewhat impressed tone as they were escorted by the tall northerner that had searched her. "They ought to be such to survive such a harsh land."
"What is your name, ser?" Sarella asked their escort curiously.
"My name's Rickard Liddle, captain of the Winterfell guard, My Lady," he said with a flushed face. "And I'm no knight."
"I apologize, Lord Rickard," she bowed her head in shame. The fact that most of the Northerners had little regard for the institution of knighthood because of their staunch belief in the Old Gods had somehow eluded her. "And I'm no lady either, just a dornish bastard."
"The mountain clans are not part of the northern nobility either, so I am not a Lord either," Rickard countered with a twitch of his lips.
A greying old man clad in darkened scale mail with a black trout emblazoned on the surcoat approached, followed by a dozen guardsmen. Gods, was this the famed Brynden Tully?
"Princess Martell, the court is open right now. You can either wait for it to finish or enter inside and wait for your turn to bring your… petition to Princess Stark," the man said gruffly.
For a princess to hold court, the king had to either not be here or be busy. Sarella hoped that she'd still manage to get access to the library here.
"We'll wait at the court, Ser," Arianne decided without any hesitation. "Was the North not ruled by a king?"
"The king is busy right now," came the unhelpful reply as the old knight returned to drilling the men-at-arms in the cold.
They were escorted through the snow to a large building made of stone.
"The servants will prepare your quarters in the Guest House," Rickard Liddle politely nodded at their group, and she felt his gaze linger a heartbeat longer upon her before he headed towards another part of the yard. Sarella found herself feeling unusually hot for this cold weather.
They were quickly ushered through the large oaken doors by a serving boy. A sigh of relief tore from her lips as she finally removed her fur-lined hood, as the insides were quite warm.
"Presenting Princess Arianne Martell from Dorne, her cousins, and Ser Daziel Dalt!" A herald cried out.
They were met with the sweet scent of oak and a bunch of suspicious looks as soon as they entered, but Arianne and her sisters were not too affected as they moved towards one of the long tables on the side. The hall wasn't very full, but it couldn't be considered empty either. At least a hundred men and women were dotted around the tables, almost all clothed in heavy furs or thick wool.
Sarella's gaze then moved towards the high platform where Princess Stark was supposed to be. There was an empty stone throne in front of the dais. But in front of it was an elaborate wooden seat that was taken by a gorgeous maiden with long mesmerising crimson hair, pale skin, and clear blue eyes. She couldn't help but stare in wonder at the beauty. A simple silver circlet adorned her head, similar in colour to the grey gown she wore. Although it looked rather plain, it did not reduce her beauty in the slightest. Sarella barely noticed the fat old man wearing Manderly Heraldry to her right and an expressionless younger girl with brown hair and grey eyes wearing a similarly grey gown and a silver circlet on her head to her left.
"I didn't know you preferred maidens, Rella," Tyene's wicked voice whispered in her ear, and she shivered from the warm breath on her neck. "You can join me in bed tonight if you wish!"
Sarella shook her head to get out of her stupor and quickly followed Arianne towards the nearby empty table, pretending not to have heard her sister at all. She refused to play those games with them.
"What's wrong, Nym?" Arianne asked in concern.
"Isn't that Myrcella Waters at the high platform near the wall?" Her sister furiously whispered while nodding towards two younger maidens standing primly near the northern Princess. One of them had long golden curls, but at that moment, she turned her head to them and glared. A large scar ran from her chin all the way to her missing left ear.
"I believe she is," her cousin replied just as quietly. "What the seven hells is she doing here?"
"It seems that the little lioness managed to get out of both King's Landing and Nymeria's not-so-loving embrace," Tyenne said innocently, earning a scowl from their elder sister.
"I think the North might have joined hands with House Lannister," Arianne subtly pointed towards one of the tables on the opposite side.
A blonde man with the unmistakable golden lion emblazoned on his surcoat was sitting next to a blonde woman that was either his sister or close cousin. If looks could kill, their group would have been slain by the glares the Lannisters sent their way a hundred times.
Though the westerlanders were not the only surprise in the hall - Sarella saw House Blackwood's coat of arms on one of the tables nearby.
At that moment, the beauty on the throne spoke loudly yet clearly, "Lords Knott and Burley, step forth."
The hall quickly quieted down, and two large grizzled men stood up from the tables and walked towards the clearing in the middle of the hall. One had a brown knot on white for a coat of arms, and the other one had a white knife on blue.
Sarella couldn't recognise either of the house names or the heraldries, despite brushing up her memory on the northern nobility before coming here. Mayhaps they were clansmen and thus not considered nobility, just like Rickard explained earlier?
"My Lords, both of you have staked your claim on the Red Spring Valley that borders both of your lands; is that correct?"
"Aye, Princess Stark," the clan chieftains answered in unison before glaring at each other.
"Both of you have equally strong ties stemming from twin sisters from generations ago, and nobody can tell for true which sister was born first; we will settle this the old way." Sarella could barely believe it as loud cheers thundered across the great hall. "Both of your spares will fight in single combat until yield or knock out. The winner will take the name Redspring along with the valley and wed the eldest unmarried sister of his opponent."
Both of the lords nodded without uttering a word and waved over two younger men. One was wearing ringmail over boiled leather, while the other had green brigandine, and both wore a half helmet. The tables near the middle were quickly being pushed all the way to the wall to create more space. Both fighters were rather tall, and while one had brown hair, the other one had auburn. There was no distinctive colouring on their armour or clothes either. At that moment, the Blackfish had entered the hall and walked to the middle while both combatants were preparing.
"Are they going to truly fight in single combat for a small valley?" Tyene's voice could barely contain her excitement.
"How barbaric," Nymeria snorted quietly.
"Is it truly barbaric, though?" Sarella couldn't help but ask. "Usually hundreds, if not thousands, must die before most disputes over lands could be settled. Even then, animosity is quite likely to remain. While this way, things are resolved with a simple fight and nothing more than a bruised ego."
At that moment, the fighters were given shields painted with heraldry, and her query was finally explained. The red-haired Knott was armed with a bearded war-axe, while the mud-haired Burley- a short sword.
Both combatants faced each other and stood fifteen yards apart from each other, with the old Tully knight standing in the middle.
"Begin!" his gruff shout was quickly followed by the clash of steel and wood.
Sarella didn't truly care much for fighting, despite being reasonably well-versed in her bow and daggers. After all, a girl had to defend herself, and her father had strongly insisted that all of them learn how to fight with at least one weapon.
The duel started slowly as they were testing each other and their defences, and Sarella mentally prepared herself for a prolonged and boring fight. However, the red-haired clansman managed to hook his opponent's shield with his axe suddenly. Just as his foe was struggling, he managed to pull Burley's shield down and slammed his own straight into his helmet. The brown-haired clansman collapsed like a sack of rocks on the stone floor.
"Winner, Jared Knott!" The Blakfish announced loudly, and the hall exploded in cheers as two men-at-arms carefully picked up Burley's knocked-out son and carried him off.
As soon as the commotion died out, the court was quickly dismissed, and people started streaming out of the hall. As they waited for the courtiers to leave through the nearby exit, they came face to face with Myrcella and her Lannister kin at her back. Sarella also noticed the Northern maiden with some more Northerners nearby. Not so subtly showing support. Close as they are, Sarella noticed the Northmen had a Sun Burst for a sigil. Karstark and Lannisters on the same side? Myrcella's piercing green eyes glared wrathfully at Nymeria and, combined with the thinly-veiled scowl on her scarred face, made for a fearsome sight.
Sarella could feel her sisters and cousin tense. At that moment, a young boy wearing white woolsack on purple heraldry innocently ran up to them, completely uncaring about his surroundings.
"Princess Martell, the Lord Hand and Princess Stark will meet you in the back chambers now," he said in a squeaky voice.
The Lannisters and Karstarks quickly started dispersing, freeing up the way.
Their group followed the young page towards a small hallway in the back of the Hall, where the fat old man dressed in Manderly colours was standing.
"Greetings, Princess Martell," he inclined his head. "My name is Wyman Manderly, and I'd like to apologize for my granddaughter's rudeness. She's still young and hotheaded and has a lot to learn still."
"'Tis not a problem, Lord Hand, as long as it doesn't happen again," Arianne said dismissively, and Sarella just noticed the golden paw-like pin adorning his large frame.
"Princess Sansa shall see you now," The Lord of White Harbour declared and led them towards a large oaken door guarded by a pair of guards.
The chamber was spacious, with a large varnished table in the middle. Opposite the entrance sat the two princesses, the tallest woman Sarella had ever seen, clad in steel right behind them. Half a dozen burly guardsmen were standing near the walls and looked at them with distrust. For some reason, Sarella found that her gaze easily passed over the younger, dark-haired princess.
At the middle of the table was a plain platter with bread, salt, and a cask of what looked like Arbor Red. Her cousin carefully sat on the chair across the northern princesses, tore a piece of bread, dipped it in the salt and quickly ate it. Sarella, her sisters, and Ser Dalt did the same and remained standing behind Arianne.
"What brings you to Winterfell, Princess Arianne?" the red-haired beauty inquired curiously.
"Other than my curiosity? Three things. First, I want to humbly request access to Winterfell's library for my cousin Sarella who loves reading," Arianne waved in her direction.
The pair of mesmerising blue eyes sized her up with a squint.
"Granted, but she'll be escorted by a guardsman and follow our maester's rules while perusing through the library." Sarella barely managed to stop herself from leaping in joy. She was unable to contain the wide smile that appeared on her face.
"My father, Prince Doran Nymeros Martell, has also tasked me with resolving the tensions between House Stark and Targaryen and knitting the seven kingdoms together if possible," her cousin said carefully.
Sansa Stark's face immediately turned impassive.
"I'm afraid that you might have come in vain," the northern beauty's melodic voice had gone cold. "My kingly brother has already gone south to… negotiate peace with House Targaryen in person."
Sarella couldn't help but notice that Sansa Stark still referred to her brother as king. Was Jon Stark somehow planning to negotiate peace with two dragonlords while keeping his crown?
"That's fine," Arianne shrugged without a single care in the world. "The third reason I came here was to see your famed brother for myself. I hope we won't impose on your hospitality if we stay here and wait for him to return."
"You're free to stay here as long as you do not cause any trouble," Sansa Stark said evenly. "The servants should have already brought your belongings inside the Guest House."
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Gladiusx
Gladiusx Greatjon and Wull quickly realise that they cannot defeat the dead in an open field and they attempt to desperately buy time for a simple wall to be raised quickly.
In history, we know that Julius Caesar built miles(nearly) of multiple fortifications in a span of less than a month to siege Alesia. Building a few hundred meters of wall with the help of mammoths and giants and seven hundred desperate men in 1-3 days is not out of the question.
The First Battle near Weswatch is a savage slog in the snow.
Greatjon becomes the third person to slay a White Walker since the Age of Heroes, but it was not enough to turn the tide of battle!
However, a young, determined queen with a fire-breathing dragon definitely was.
We take a glimpse of Jaime, who might finally stop moping if he lives long enough.
He has taken desperate measures to try and stem the advance of his opponents.
Snow has finally begun to fall in the south too.
The Targs finally arrive at Golden Tooth(approx. 300 miles from Riverrun) in around 33 days.
Sarella and company arrive in Winterfell and see many surprises, including a mountain clansman dispute resolution.
I update a chapter every Sunday! You can find me on my discord(dgj93pNeAD), where a chapter is posted two weeks in advance.
I'd love to hear your thoughts and ideas in the comments below!
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone