The Steel Wolf (OC/SI Jon Snow's twin,ASOIAF)

The Mad Merman pt 1
Wendel Manderly
30 nautical miles outside Bravos



Wendel watched the dejected squire and his direwolf skulk away below decks to their shared cabin. The large knight just knew the boy was rolling his eyes. For the briefest of moments the second son of White Harbor was tempted to give the arrogant pup another clout, and a less playful one at that. Rick could be rather annoying with his stealth wit at times, something appreciated in a peer, not one's frequently insufferable squire. The would be 'young wofl' had just subtly reminded Wendel of just how dangerous the Jaw was in an attempt to calm his knights nerves. It was also a suggestion on how to deal with said rapidly approaching shyte sell sails in the most expedient manner.

No doubt it was also a reminder that Rick thought himself capable of handling the situation and more importantly commanding the Dyre Steel Conglomerate directly and without Wendel's supervision. Why did the young always rush to grow up and out of their parents control? It was a blindness to the dangers of the world, which each and every young person he ever met displayed. At least the boy didn't reach for his helmet strap until he was through the door. The 'Mad Merman' smiled remembering how few thrown objects it had taken to drill not taking foolish chances with ones life into Rickard's often thick skull. "At least he learns and admits his errors," Wyman whispered under his breath. More importantly they young man sough to learn from them, so that those under his command didn't suffer.

Oh the boy thought he was clever, and to be fair he was touched by genius. However, even Bran the builder needed the guidance of his parents until he was passed 10 and 6 name days. Yes, Rickard Snow was a damn fine fighter, could think clearly and had good character. Sure he understood business and how not to offend peasant, merchant or highborn even when he frequently disagreed with them. But Rick still lacked patience. He simply didn't fully comprehend what his inventions were doing to the world around him.

The Steel Wolf understood that he was 'improving' the productivity of the smallfolk and the amount of money merchants could be taxed, thus increasing the wealth of the nobility. As a bastard even half a great bastard, no one really cared if he bothered with copper counting or play acting a maester. Well provided they got 'their just share of the pie'. Of course the back of his mind chided Wendel for being one one to talk about greed. His family had milked the youth's ideas to their great benefit. When they accepted one of Stark's bastard boys to foster Wendel thought it was part of his father, Lord Wyman's attempts to ingratiate himself towards gaining a proper Stark marriage. They hadn't believed the stories about his skills and couldn't or wouldn't see the forest for the trees. Well at least Wendel admitted his faulty logic in assuming the youth would be a pampered spoiled burden when he was politely but firmly told to accept the 'honor of training the boy'. His ever decreasing jowls and belly shook with mirth at the joke despite the current circumstances.

What his squire didn't comprehend fully was that the changes he made, while profiting his father's bannermen were something other people would object to strenuously. Yes, he had arranged his pricing as to not cause undue stress outside the north, but as DSC was in control of an increasing 'percentage' of trade and gained 'lateral and vertical integration' such would change. Even the thickest of the nobles could see that would shift control of 'financial markets'. The boy quickly grasped the significance of 'knock back' effects and was shoring up his connections with major houses via fancy gifts, paying dowries for minor nobles in key positions and offering to armor and equip major houses with northern steel at a discount. 'Keep the people who matter happy and you won't have many problems', was something his father had taught Wendel as well. As the new words and meanings rolled off his tongue Wendel realized just how much impact the 'not Stark' had effected on the way he and his rather unusually mercantile kin thought about trade and money. They had a fucking bank now called the Wolf's Bin. Not to mention the damn boy had mentioned words like 'bonds and securities' in hushed tones with his father before the ship left the White Knife. Wendel did not like the predatory smile on his father's face, not one bit.

Sometimes Wendel felt the boy and his father were too crafty for their own good. The two of them didn't appreciate the fact the other Daughters were capable and more than willing to send a message like the one in front of him. A son of major house vanished after getting involved in trade would probably be acceptable to a good number of lords. After all what good could come from associating with bastards and coin counters. The hypocrisy that his squire spoke of began to make his jowls darken with rage. His father was a very clever man and had taught him about long term plots and cover stories long before his squire mentioned the words 'plausible deniability'. Why was it he didn't take the risk more seriously. Then the knight smiled as his fathers 'eight and a quarter percent' speech resounded in his head.

As Wendel arranged three quivers of arrows in front of him, carefully strung his bow and completed a final check of his armor he contemplated the overall reason he was here. His father ultimately wanted to send a message. The Manderlies were always an odd duck. They were 7 worshippers in a land of the old gods. They were also a lot more mercantile than most noble families. A few of their cadet branches were in fact merchants and highly skilled laborers. It was for that reason, and yes their tendency for opulence and corpulence, that many snickered behind their backs. Though to be fair it was their ability to understand trade and acceptability to southron and Essossi nobles that they were so rich as to keep such talk behind their backs. Wendel personally would prefer to beat their 'more noble than thou' attitudes into the dust in the training yard though. "I guess that might be why I became a knight and trained hard enough to avoid the corpulence so prevalent in many of my kin," was what the man told himself in a hushed tone. Wendel shook his head as the pieces fit together and he realized that he and the boy were just being given exactly what they each wanted most with the best tools they could assemble. Again he could see the hand of his father and why he was chosen for this mission rather than his brother.

There was also the matter of just who was teaching who. Ricky had come as a page, but he rarely did any pouring wine or errand shuffling for him, his brother Wylas or their father. Yes, Rickard trained the sword, lance and bow with himself and the other squires. However, his father had let the bastard spend most of his time in the forge or with his group of tutors. That only made the little know it all all the more insufferable by 'improving his efficiency and synergy'. Before long the boy had everyone getting more things done in the same amount of time, wasting less resources and all but stopped theft. Then he got around to 'fixing' and 'solving' problems people brought to him involving their personal problems. Worse, the bastard had actually suggested a 'better diet' for the household. The lil fucker had made it part of a challenge and as the too drunk knight he was Wendel had agreed. And the wolf shit had used his later anger to decrease Wendel's drinking habit as well!

The fact Rickard's 'suggestions' had improved his life by 'quantifiable measures' did little to soften the blows. Yes Wendel had lost a good deal of fat and could finally see his manhood again, but squires were not supposed to shame their knights into doing things using their own sense of honor against them. If he were being honest though he would have to admit his father very likely played a large role in that debacle. Well, he had gotten the wee bastard back. Since his father only allowed him to give the boy martial tasks he made the Steel Wolf practice the long bow daily, on moving targets for hours. If he had to suffer through this apprenticeship then so should the damn wolf boy. Well he needed to learn the longbow, it was a proper knightly weapon after all. Rickard would thank him one day just as he had promised Wendel he would thank him for the lost weight.

Rickard Snow would make a good knight, battlefield commander and yes merchant one day. But he was still wet behind the ears in some places and Wendel would make sure that didn't get him killed. At least not today.

When the first galley came into view of his Myrish eye Wendel could see the smile on the sell sail captain's face. He saw his gaudily gloved hand make a signal and sails ran up the mast. Said code was the 'universal' sign of serious pirates and privateers to surrender or accept no quarter. Wendel hrrupphed, which was echoed across the deck along side a few spit takes. That shyte was not happening, not with what this girl had to offer.

Sir Wendel Manderly gave the order to raise the battle flags and unveil the first surprises. Despite his earlier admonishment of his charge the lust for battle filled his heart.
The crew heard his confidence, could see his conviction, but the knight would never let them know his thoughts lest the pup wag a finger at him. For in his hearts of hearts all the son of White Harbor could think was what his inclination and life of martial training prepared him to do.

As he took up his bow his very soul cried "Let these horribly dressed slaver fucks find out why I am called the Mad Merman!"

 

The would be Knight part 1


Therry the Turnkey
Wolf's Jaw


A playful slap to his head followed by a crushing embrace were among the most recent memories Therry had of his mother. "I don't see why being a turnkey is such a bad thing. Yes they closed the Old Wolf's den but Manderly is building three of dem 'correctional facilities," were the greying, but still shapely woman's exact words. It was an old argument and they took their positions like two sparring partners in the yard going through the daily routine. Sally, called shapely Sally when townsmen were sure Therry would not hear, raised a clean cloth to wipe his cheek. He smirked, noting it was simply the opening thrust before she lunged with her main argument.

"Its a sure thing they still need turnkeys or whatever that fancy highborn renamed them to. Gotta have someone to make sure people don't escape the lord's justice. Going out with the Steel Wolf is dangerous and you don't have to do this on my account. I'm happy the way things are and when I get old I'll go live with your sister and her usband." It was decent argument, if the somewhat skinny lad was being honest. Sea life was dangerous and frankly short for far too many people. Even high born died from various diseases or the odd pirate's arrow. Though Therry had a good riposte and he grabbed his mother's hand gently before sandwiching it between both of his own.

"Mother I want to be my own man, and once the Steel Wolf is knighted he will open up a school to make loyal knights who go out to help people in need." He didn't mention that they would be getting paid for it and were somewhat of unofficial police mercenaries, but Therry was sure his mother could read between the lines. " I can learn to read and write and skills even if I don't make it. Ma trust me, this is my best shot." She cut him off before he could finish the speech he memorized with another hug and by grabbing his ear.

"Be a good boy you hear. Mind what your betters say. I didn't spend 5 hours in the birthing bed and a score o years washing highborn drawers to hear about you getting flogged ta death for lipping off on account you got too familiar. No matter how nice e is to us commons remember that wolf ain't one of us. Catch him In a bad mood with the wrong joke and 'ell have the skin off your hide like all the rest". Guilt filled him then, the unspoken allusion to his dead siblings and the fact only two of her six children were still alive was a low blow. And the reminder of how Tanner Tim the Thoughtless earned his nick name, alongside the cross hatching above his waist was a bit scary. Though Therry was determined not to let her fears, even well meaning pressure, rule his life.

He knew mother was exaggerating to make sure Therry remembered 'is place'. Some seats, like the Dreadfort had a very bad reputation concerning commons who 'forgot their place'. There were even rumors that people would vanish for no reason. The Manderlies and the Starks never did that kind of shyte, but her heart was in the right place. So he swore on the Seven and the old gods and made his mother feel comfortable about him going off to make his mark with DSC. The gods knew she earned such small comfort and much more; as he remembered him and his brother and 2 sisters not eating for days. Sometimes that didn't stop until mom came home late. On those days she would be tired and sometimes too distracted to speak to her children.

It wasn't until later he understood what the rumors were and what 'Shapely Sally' had to do to keep them from starving to death like their smallest brother Tom and them that never got to have names. That was part of the reason why Therry was joining up with DSC. They paid everyone who worked for them the same base 'living wage' for the same job. Yes, better workers earned more money but women could earn enough to take care of their children without having to sell their virtue. Working to build and expand such a business model was something that struck a chord with him.

He put those thoughts away while he helped assemble the "Long Paw" in front of him. As he was previously trusted as a prison turnkey and proved himself intelligent he got to fire the damn thing. It was a curious machine that was about 140 pounds all together and suspended on a tripod. Its workings looked complicated at first but once he had the gears and rods sorted it was pretty simple. He was surprised no one ever made something like it earlier.

In short it was a big steel crossbow that was powered by a crank two people behind him would turn. It was fed by a 5 shot hopper above and would fire the same kind of crossbow bolts everyone else did but a hell of a lot further. What made it extra special was the fact it had a 'iron sight' with a wind gauge on the front as well as the choice to use a Myrish Eye. There was an assistant to call the range too. This 'crew served weapon' could put out more pain per minute than anything Therry even saw and would outshoot almost anything except one of them big ballistae.

Wendel was cursing at the fuckers threating the crew and Therry's future. When the normally taciturn man started mumbling under his breath everyone knew not to fuck up. He was wont to slap the Stark's bastard son when in those moods. And a man willing to punish the all but lord in name paying his bills was never one to trifle with. Hell, he already almost knocked Rickard's block off a second ago!

The still helmless man turned to face the crew. While he was seemingly portly only idiots and new fish forgot most of his girth was solid muscle. And Ser Wendel's strength and speed were not the only things deceptive about him. None of the Manderlies were stupid and were in fact very knowledgeable in whatever field they took too. Therry had learned to see what was 'obvious and unspoken' in his time with the DSC. The large knight was using his anger to inspire the crew when he bellowed and his words were timed for effect. "Those slaving fucks want to keep on raping and terrorizing this part of world. They don't even have the balls to come out and fight for themselves like the Braavosi fleet. No, they paid for sell sails to send us running home with our tails between our legs. Tell me does the Merman's tail turn? Does the Direwolf forget its teeth?"

Though Therry knew this routine for what it was he heard himself yell "Fuck no!"

"Hang the bastards, the whole lot of them!" came from somewhere else. Sir Wendel nodded his head and his voice carried over his crew.

"Damn right. They think we're scared of them fucking tiny crossbows and the fancy cunts they bought in to use them." Ahem, Wendel coughed a few times, likely having caught the likely person's glare of killing intent. "No offense to ladies present. I say we show them what the Steel Wolf can make!"

"AYYE!" came the unanimous response.

That's when Therry knew he would have to earn his future with the blood of others today. It wasn't anything new for him. He had been a turnkey and he knew that he might have to torture or assist in the execution of some condemned fucker. It likely would have been someone easily deserving like some child diddler or a raper. But like as not it would have been some poor fucker whose only crime was being hungry and too poor to feed himself.

As he made sure the latch was in the closed position and the hopper aligned the former turnkey said a silent prayer to the Warrior for the courage not to falter. The Steel Wolf had personally come him with a job offer after he heard about Therry getting into a fight over what some guardsmen said about his mother. Most lords would have banished Therry from town for the repeat offense or had him flogged. Either could easily been a death threat. Instead the grey eyed fuck just sat down and talked to him like a man.

Rickard Snow a lad younger than him spoke to him man to man, not a lord or a false father figure trying to talk down to him. His mother denied it, but Therry knew she put a few men up to talking him and trying to convince him not to defend her reputation with his fists. The bastard, he didn't go that route. All he said was "Hard truths are still true no matter what we do those who speak of them. It is a fool or a madman who attempts to do the same thing over again expecting a different result." Then he spoke of a better world that men and women could build with keen minds and the sweat of their brows. And seven take Therry he believed the mad fucker. He didn't want to let the bastard lad down. He was wasn't fighting today, but everyone knew it was because Ser Wendel sent him away.

The Steel Wolf had courage. He killed a mess of men who threatened his kin before he was 12. Therry knew some people who saw the bodies, or rather what was left of them. One didn't threaten Starks in his presence. Well one didn't threaten Starks in the presence of any other Starks, but Rickard in particular liked 'providing sharp lessons' to quote lord Twyin. He was below because those bastards would have shot him to death with likely poisoned bolts. That's how much those fucking slavers wanted to keep doing their hellish work. Therry wasn't sure whether he liked the old or new gods better but both of them despised fucking slavers.

He suddenly felt better about what he knew was coming next. His team mates Squire Tallbright and Joss took their position behind him after checking to make sure the shield was in place. Then they began turning the lock that loaded the receiver.

Clank, Clank

Months of practicing the sword and spear.

Clank, Clank

Months of practicing how to use the gauges and windage meters.

Clank, Clank

Months of training first aid and working as a team.

Clunk

Wendel had taken his position at the helm, which was protetected like a large portion of the deck behind reinforced shields.

"Windage 3 knots southeast. Target 110 meters. Long Paws fire first. After first volley local control!"

"Long Paws target key personnel." He and the other 3 Long Paws crews on deck aimed for one of the ships attempting to corral them towards a larger one in to their flank. They would likely try for a ram and murder everyone in the water as they drowned. Even though such an attempt would likely fail, it would still kill some of his friends. Thus, the bastards would never live to make the attempt.

They just made it easier for him to place the 'cross hairs' on the chest of the flamboyantly dressed Tyroshi piloting the craft labeled "Saucy Wench" in Black letters.

"Ready!" came from Wendel's mouth.

He focused.

"Aim!"

The ship turned slightly toward the ship, his ship. Its ram was figure was ugly and uncouth. A woman with bare breasts and wanton with her arms outstretched rushed towards them.

"Fire!"

His fingers closed around the latch and pulled smoothly, just as he practiced despite the use of the frankly weird attack command. Then again when you got paid as well as DSC folks were one made allowances for strange. Besides his Stark, and he considered Rickard one despite the fact the crew called him Snow for 'propriety's sake' was a good kind of strange. Most of his weird ideas were very useful and 'suppression fire' and 'firing for effect' did make sense once one got used to the idea of using missile weapons as the killing tool instead of a preliminary to melee combat. Well, they trained well for that possibility as well, but Rickard said ideally it should never come to that. Everyone knew he meant to preserve their lives, and the thought of a 'noble' who cared more for his smallfolk levies than personal glory in combat was the type of weird the world could use more of!

Therry refocused on his job and lined up another shot. He looked to see where his first landed to account for 'deflection'. Three bolts impacted on members of the enemy crew. His bolt went right through the man with multicolor hair, almost 'center mass'. Each bolt and arrow shaft were distinctly colored to aid in 'fire control'. The concept of 'shot placement' and 'fire for effect' were truly scary. The unfortunate pirate pilot would have likely agreed, as he fell back and the metal quarrel embedded itself in the mast behind him.

The flamboyant captain was less lucky. He took a quarrel through the gut, which also entered another man behind him as it came out his back. He would not die anytime soon.

What Therry could only assume was the captain of the 12 crossbowmen stationed on the pirate ship got it worse. He was wearing what seemed to be chest plate with a skirt of coat of plates covering his groin. Said coat of plates was not made of high quality steel, as the third quarrel found its way into his family jewels while he was standing straight to give orders. That kind of wound couldn't be treated in combat and would just cause an agonizing death, while sapping the morale of those under his command. Seasoned mercs understood that in combat morale loss would doom everyone. Therry suspected that his compatriots would cut his throat in fairly short order.

Therry assumed that shot came from the starboard Long Paw 'manned' by Jess. She was called happy Jess because she was excited to be part of anything that fucked with slavers. Jess also scored the highest number of hits by any Long Paw operator.

He turned to the tall and muscular, yet attractive woman and received the 'thumbs up' signal the Steel Wolf had introduced them to. The black haired beauty regarded Therry a minute through her laughing blue eyes and smiled. Out of sheer practicality the ex turnkey returned the gesture and a chaste wink, as it was very unlikely she had missed that shot. Then again if someone had kidnapped Therry's sister during the Greyjoy Rebellion and sold them to slavers he'd probably shoot every slaver he saw in the cock as well. It was then Therry was glad he wasn't on one of those ships.

 

The Merman's Trident


Wendel Manderly
Wolf's Jaw
Starboard Deck



Timing the distance Wendel sang to himself almost silently. "In a voice that was sweet as a peach. But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own." and as practiced he stopped himself and gave orders to open the dance. The Long Paws were firing continually, putting down any crew members on the Saucy Wench that went near the steering wheel and thereby making it a one on one fight with the "Bad Tom". Said ship had almost closed to effective archery range. The Myrmen held their fire, as they were not about to waste quarrels on men who were clearly expecting to fight missile troops.

As they didn't have pavise shields set up on their deck Ser Wendel felt no such restraint.

"Crossbows and Archers loose with me then fire at will" he cried. Let the bloody child keep his confusing yet effective attack words. Fortunately, the crew was well trained enough to answer to either "Fire!" or "Loose!".

"Port and Starboard Long Claws prepare to fire!" Wendel heaved back on his bow, aiming for the bridge of the Bad Tom, as the now un captained and un steered Saucy Wench continued in its turn. Such a turn snapped more than half dozen oars on their starboard side and also had the desired effect of tossing more than 5 Myrish Crossbowmen and a few others into the ocean. Many others were knocked down to the deck. If they were properly trained and equipped they likely could ditch their armor before they drowned, but disorientation has a real effect in combat. Then the increasing angry White Harbor knight remembered they chose to work for slavers, so fuck them!

Wendel didn't wait for the other captain to realize why letting him get the first shot off was a bad mistake and 40 bow and crossbows began rapid firing at the enemy. They needed to get them into position for the next part.

Caught by surprise by accurate crossbow and longbow fire and without the support of their compatriots on the Wench the 20 or so crossbowmen found themselves effectively suppressed. Meanwhile the largest Pirate vessel known as the Black Fist came in shooting. It had perhaps more men than the Jaw and its men carried shields to protect themselves. It was attempting to use the distraction of its collogues to close the distance and board. From their current distance their fire was more of a nuisance, but as they got closer it would become a threat.

On closer inspection Wendel noticed the Black Fist was an actual warship and a sizable portion of the crew actually appeared to be soldiers. This was confirmed later when he spotted Myrish flags and tabards among the 'sell sails'. So this was really personal and they meant to make sure his squire's new ideas didn't spread, likely by torturing the crew for information and tossing them to the sharks later.

Wendel decided to end the fight quickly and withdraw as he had no desire to risk direct conflict with equal or greater numbers. To do that he would use their aggression against them and remove each enemy from the fight in turn. "Destruction in detail" was something he and Rickard loved to practice after all.

The Tom attempted to move into a position that would allow it to ram their starboard side. Unlike the Saucy Wench their captain was smart enough to have people with shields protect the pilot and it closed the distance rapidly. However, the distraction allowed The Jaw to pull along side the ship in a smart turn, exposing its side to the Long Claws of which there were 2 below deck. Not to mention it clipped a good number of oars.

"Fire at will!" cried Wendel. The Starboard one fired at the now exposed side of its attacker.

The Long Claw was basically a medium sized alcohol gun that fired a hollow metal bolt. Inside that bolt was mixture of ethanol, flammable oils and pepper plants. The effects on the Bad Tom's crew were pretty near immediate. Originally just a trader outfit by pirates it walls offered little protection to its crew. Small balls of flame and smoke sprung up quickly and continued to build. By the time the Jaw turned around the Tom was burning out of control and men were taking a dive in the lukewarm waters of the Narrow Sea.

The Jaw repeated the process against the Saucy Wench as it passed it on the way to retreat from the Black Fist. It was also thin skinned enough to burn in one pass.

Even when comprised of quality steel, using a high proof ethanol and with a salt battery as a detonator alcohol guns were not efficient tools of war in this era. The hand held version didn't have real penetration. Even at under 20 meters it wouldn't penetrate chainmail and a good gambeson would likely stop rounds as well. The larger ones only punched through the enemy hull at damn near spiting range, which made this application more an anti boarding against unarmored attackers or a terror weapon. To be honest Wendel wasn't sure the alcohol guns would penetrate a dedicated warship at any range.

Wendel hoped those demonstrations would convince the Black Fist to disengage, either out of fear or to pick up survivors. However, whatever Myrish Magister's son was leading them was bold. He likely reasoned that if the Jaw could have destroyed them it would have. Ser Wendel cursed his luck again. He really didn't want to fight anything close to an even battle.

The Fist was full of relatively fresh men while Wendel's people had taken casualties as well. Not to mention running from an enemy, 'feigned retreat' or not, never increased moral. Judging by the size of the damn thing he'd bet they had about 300 sailors and mercenaries to his 200 combat capable crew. Taking stock of the situation he realized he wouldn't be outrunning them and tiring his rowers might spell quick death for everyone, if they were lucky.

"Shit! Prepare for a sharp port turn," Wendel cried to Len Two Fists, the helmsman. They might be outnumbered but the Jaw was still a bit taller than the Black Fist. Wendel Manderly would see how they liked a taste of the deck sweeper version. He gave orders to load glass shot and bring the anti personnel versions above deck.

They were well armed and armored and the knight reasoned the moral of the mercs had to be bottoming out after their employer just left their compatriots to die. It was still likely that a strong enough attack just might convince them to flee or reach a compromise. Ser Wendel would have to have to give up a technical advantage, but ensuring the safety of the person who made such ideas possible was more important. He had swore to both his father and Stark he would return the boy alive to the North, no matter what, and the Manderly's remembered their oaths.

"Turn!" The ships moved in toward each other firing a variety of projectiles at each other as they closed distance. A lucky or skilled shot by Myrman disabled the operators of the forward Long Paw. In exchange his men had put 9 more of the elite crossbowmen down, as while the mercs' plate chest armor might stop a bolt the energy transfer put them out of the fight. Wyman sent Wayatt, a Stony Dornish man to make sure Rickard and wolf were armored and armed. He also hoped they would not need to use said equipment.

Instead of ramming each other the two ships pulled alongside each other with a solid crash the battle was joined. Wendel really wished he had chosen to wear full plate until he saw a few unlucky men in heavy plate or cloth that fell into the water as a result of said collision. While rails, hooks and strap devices lined the Jaw the pirate captain had lacked either the concern or foresight to apply 'Occupational Safety and Health Administration' techniques. Nope, drowning was not how he intended to die. He let more of them cross the hastily thrown gang planks, many of whom were armed with spears but not shields. Ser Wendel placed that disorganization at the feet of having more than one group of mercs in the same place. They wanted to sweep him with numbers and get their prize instead of working together to make sure they survived the attempt.

He had something else to give them.

"Now!" the large knight cried.

The men near Wendel picked up the sweepers, which were alcohol guns loaded with glass and obsidian pieces. Rickard called them 'shot guns'. Wendel had seen the frightening effect said awkward looking weapons had on elk and pig carcasses. Of course the 'poor man's buckshot' did little against anyone wearing armor. Well, provided it didn't hit them somewhere vulnerable. Some of the attackers did go down clutching their faces, groins or legs; and those wounds would likely be untreatable and slowly fatal. Despite their howls of pain the number of victims was small, but what his surprise most accomplished was causing a distraction in their momentum. That allowed Ser Wendel to force his way into the shocked knot of fighters in front of him.

His vision shrank to the men in front of him as he dropped his bow and picked up his long sword and shield. "White Harbor!", he yelled as he parried a sword stroke from a cutlass. Then the powerful man ran his shield and the bulk behind it into the man's face. The fool with the three colored beard went down, likely with a broken jaw. Wendel then stepped his neck, hard before bringing his sword down on his head to be sure.

Three more foes went down in the next 12 seconds. The first with an opened gut after he misjudged Wendel's reach. His friend followed when he tried to wrestle the knight's sword away, and was successful after a manner. Said sword was planted in the merc's lungs before it left Ser Wendel's hands. The last, one of the Crossbowmen charging him with a short sword, fell when Wendel bounced a small hammer off his helm. The weight breaking his skull and dropping the green bearded pawn like a marionette with its strings cut. He frowned knowing his squire wouldn't shut up about it if he found out. Thanks to his squire's recommendation, Ser Wendel learned the value of small thrown weapons. But unlike his Squire the big knight preferred something that would work against armored opponents even if he could only carry one or two of them. He walked over to the dead merc and retrieved his blade from the corpse's chest, before taking a few seconds to breathe. Wendel was not surprised they were doing so well. While there were more enemies than allies his soldiers had trained to work together where as the enemy had at least 2 different crews to command.

Then Ser Wendel took a crossbow bolt to the back which, while not piercing the plate, staggered him long enough for someone to brain him with an axe to the helm. The last thing the Mad Merman saw was a blade coming down toward his head.

 

The Jaws of the Steel Wolf
Rickard Snow
Below Decks



To say I was not pleased to be in the hold while everyone I trained with for months was risking their lives and or dying was an understatement. I could understand why Ser Wendel had ordered me down there. It did make sense they would target me individually, but I wasn't wearing distinctive armor. Also the odds of a bolt finding exposed flesh would be rather limited even if they were willing to use poison.

I was seriously considering shouldering past the 8 or so guards posted on me and risking a hiding from Ser Wendel. He had never actually beaten me, but he had threatened to do so on more than one occasion. Though to be honest I may have provoked him a bit more than was necessary or prudent. It's just his Walrus face was so funny when it turned red. It was something me and the terror twins enjoyed doing.

My internal respite ended when Therry the Key came in holding the upper torso of my knight. Happy Jess and Konnor Crabbe had the other parts. Wendel looked the worse for with a nasty looking gash on his forehead and dents along his chest and back plate. All mirth left me and a fury that I didn't understand took control of me. I was still cognizant enough to understand that I was now responsible for these people, my people. The rage subsided enough to do what was required.

"Tell me. What does it look like up there?" I ordered. Jess clutched her broken arm and stared at me.

"Bad, they pushed us back to half the deck and some of the newer ones are scared".

"But we are keeping the rotation like we trained. By the Old and the New we'll hold. Those bastards are not getting this boat," said Therry. Swiftly it was followed by the AYEs of everyone else.

"No. I believe we will be getting theirs!" was my reply. I took control of Wraith who seemed to be even angrier than I was. I impressed on him the importance of staying hidden until I called for him. We would only get one shot at surprise.

I barked out some basic orders that those around me didn't question and headed to deal with the situation with a more...personal touch. When I emerged from the doors leading to the main deck the carnage was somehow greater and less than the last time I felt that feeling. Such a thing was hard to put into words even with a collegiate vocabulary. I was angry to see so many good people hurt, in part because of my actions. There was also rage at the injustice the people in front of me were continuing to perpetrate.

At the same time I was beyond emotion, both in the sense of controlling and being controlled by it. I wasn't sure whether this was 'battle fever', the 'wolf blood', 'awoken dragon' or just my own reaction to seeing a man I deeply respected so gravely injured by the veritable scum of this poor man's middle earth knock off. My movements were both slower and so quick as to be above perception. I wasn't warging the sea gulls above but I was aware of them.

I might have underplayed the importance of my presence and over estimated my ability to be 'non distinctive'. Yes, despite my lack of gold and silver a direwolf helm was rather flashy even among the various hand crafted personalized armors of my crew and the fact my men moved to provide me cover marked me as a leader even without such an ostentatious display of wealth.

The fighting soon slowed as both sides awaited the eventual negotiations. As such I approached the 'battle line' where I was confronted by the leader of the most organized group. He and his elites was in front and the other mercs were in deference. In all likelihood he was in fact the overall merc commander and leader of the famous band of sail sells. I think he was attempting to limit the casualties he would have to take to kill us, but I sort of wasn't paying that much attention to him. In truth I just saw a 30 something year old man in all black armor and multi colored cloak.

"So are you going to see reason now? I mean it's not like your families won't pay the ransom and the poorer ones can find service with new lords. Don't make me kill you like I did the fat." There, that was the moment. His archers and body guard had relaxed just enough for this to work, because that pitch had been successful so many times they wanted, needed to believe it would work again.

My left hand, which palmed the plumbate dart sent it right into the fucker's open mouth. From less than 12 feet it wasn't that hard a throw. As their leader chocked on his own blood the first rank of my warriors took a knee and the rear ones put arrows into the enemy archers who were still in a state of shock.

Still one of them managed a shot at me, despite the fact I was rapidly closing with their dying leader's guard. My Bastard sword picked the arrow out of the air before I ducked. Then the third rank of my soldiers tossed their javelins breaking the concentration of the men in front of me. These were the better end of the pirates, who actually wore mail or scale. However even if they didn't penetrate modified Pilum were still disorienting. They didn't live long enough to recover as my men swarmed in with spear and sword and axe.

I rose, slashing the legs from an under armored merc. He was likely a rower pressed into the battle in desperation. His cotton aketon did not protect his ankles and he went down as I used a one inch punch to send his soon to be corpse into his friends. Their line was just about to break and then I played my trump.

I motioned with my sword, more out of habit than necessity, as warging was still something some of the seven worshippers on my crew took issue with. Then a whirlwind of canine fury entered the fray with a uncharacteristic growl and roar. Usually Wraith was even more silent than his brother Ghost, but I decided loud was better today. Never underestimate the value of primal fears in close quarters. Humans are programed to fear certain animals, even when armed and in groups of kin. Lions, bears and wolves are among those. If said wolf happened to weigh more than some men and was clad in steel that terror would multiply greatly, no?

We swept the enemy forces, some who I later suspected were enslaved, from the deck. More than a few threw down their arms and cowered or decided to swim back to Myr. Those my men spared or took prisoner with knock out blows or broken limbs. I led with Therry and Wraith beside me. Konnor held a nice sized axe and put it to good use on anyone trying to flank me. The rest of the battle up until we reached the Black Fist was a blur.

I cut off the arm of some Myrish crossbowman after using my shield to block a quarrel aimed at Therry. Wraith bounced an arrow off his armored side before opening the stomach of the one foolish enough to try to kill him. I recalled him before he could start feeding. Lesson one of having magic pets, don't get them used to eating human flesh. No good comes of it. A few more fights and I took a wound to my left thigh from a spear as I climbed over to the other ship. Said opponent was in the water before I could turn my attention his way.

My men and women were right behind me as we cleared two thirds of their deck. Then most of the survivors who were still on the ship threw down their weapons. Something told me a madman covered in blood followed by a large predator had something to do with it. But off course there were always a few idiots who don't get the message. I was directed to the last scene of said combat by some of my men. A seven foot tall man with copper skin and almond eyes stood in front of a knot of fighters. All of them were wearing golden scale mail with fancy helms. His of course was the most ostentatious. Three men I knew personally were laying dead at his feet. Two of them were missing limbs and one had been decapitated. Looking at their opponent it was easy to see why.
He had large two handed curved sword that could only be made from Valyrian steel. Some of my crossbowmen were about to fire when I placed my hands for calm. Shooting down a noble, even one who had launched an unprovoked and would be declared illegal attack on my ship wouldn't be politic.

Jess whispered in my ear. "Boss I can have Therry just wound the fucker with a crossbow". I shook my head, I had a better idea. No one had brought a capture weapon in our joint bloodlust, and unlike what movies tell you there is no 'safe' place to shoot someone with an arrow.

In painfully arch high Valerian I could make out his speech. "That's right you unwashed dogs, you are right to fear the sword of Sandoq the Shadow." I told Wraith to back down mentally. The brat looked like he knew what he was doing, even though I could see a few dents in his coat, where the scales had been dented or broken. There was blood slowly dripping down his right leg, where a spear had cut him. I also suspected at least a few sword strokes from the Pattern 286 Cutlasses had gotten through his defense when my unfortunate crew members had tried to bum rush him for later ransom. There was no blood on his chest, but I suspected a few ribs or other bones were at least bruised.

Still an almost capture that resulted in four of my men dead was not acceptable. Later on I would have words with someone about implementing more discipline, we had designated bola and net users for just such occasions after all.

Knowing what was at stake I strode forward. It would save lives and help my later plans if this worked.

"Please state your name noble sir." came from my lips. I hoped my voice did not convey the contempt I held for the overgrown slaver lord. It was frequently said that the Myrmen are of Rhoynish Descent, though I hoped said measters were wrong because Nymeria and Garin would roll in their graves.

"At least one of you has manners. You have the pleasure to face Jaleso Imbrasio the third and you are?" I let his introduction remain unanswered as I fished my memory for the connection. So he was Magister Dogmo Talga's nephew. My lapse in 'good manners sparked the desired affect as his open faced helmet displayed his rage. Before he could attack I decided to play by the script.

"I am Squire Rickard Snow the Steel Wolf. The one you sought to slay and I request the honor of dueling you." I said in equally arch high Valyrian. I had studied the forms of Myr and their codes. This one was brash but not stupid, he knew that he was burned and no one would be covering up a failed assassination attempt on a foreign noble. That went double for obviously infringing on Braavosi territory to try this bullshit with someone meeting the Iron Bank. The best he could hope for was to die with honor and let his kin hire a faceless man in revenge.

His 'loyal retainers' were all collared with neck braces made from intertwined gold, silver and what I suspected was platinum. Despite their obvious fear of death each looked to him and he allowed them to stand down. Just great, institutionalized body guards who would likely take down more of my men if we rushed their boss.

"Just so we are clear when I defeat you, your entire ship compliment will surrender" I said with simply truth.

"Presumptious, but agreed. And when I take your head I and my retainers will have you as slaves" the brazen fuck said in the same condescending manner most of his kin addressed their slaves with.

"No, you get to leave with your freedom and property. They can go with you if they choose to or they can each receive 30 gold stags and a ride to Braavos and a life freedom." Realizing that he wasn't getting a better deal the arse agreed.

Seeking more information before the duel, I took the time to exchange my half sword for a longer weapon. I was not going up against Sandaqs two handed scimitar with a bastard sword just to inflate my legend. There was bold and then there was stupid after all. In this case I took a fresh two handed great sword of my own design from an artillery officer who had done no actual interpersonal melee fighting. Since it was a gift and said crewmember knew I would replace later, he didn't mind. It was a single edged backsword resembling a ninjato and was more in line with thrusting than slashing. I chose it because of its relatively thin blade, making movement easier.

Despite popular belief Valyrian Steel didn't cut through every thing like a lightsaber or 'glorious Nippon Steel' katanas. Yes Valyrian steel would laugh at chainmail in a thrust, but so would most well made swords. It was indeed possible to punch through a breastplate or ruin another sword with edge on edge combat. However, that required good aim, shitty equipment on the part of the enemy and a great deal of strength. Not to mention that you, like anyone who favored using a war pick, then had to pull your weapon out of your enemy. All while his friends had their chance for revenge.
Having said all that, Valyrian steel was far from useless and provided many solid advantages in duels. They were very light, could cause wounds and cuts with less proportionate energy used and would never bent or break. If you had one you could actually lop off the wooden hafts of pole weapons in one stroke, even though that shit was impossible in real life with any other sword. What the dragon steel could not do was chop through my deceptively thin looking blade in less than twelve strokes. I knew that because I'd tested my gear against Ice, my ostensive father's blade, and found that unless I was fighting the mountain normal steel was plenty good enough protection. There would be no blade locks and this fight would be over long before the ninth exchange.

As I made a show of inspecting my sword my direwolf's senses gave me a report. I realized from his smell via Wraith the noble was frightened. Said wounded patsy thought he brought enough gun to the fight and now everything, including the dreams of his future were fading fast. He had been sent out to do the dirty work with thoughts of being a hero. Hence why he spent so much for that fancy antique Rhoynish looking scale armor and brought what must have been a hidden family heirloom to a fight in the middle of the ocean. How many Valyrian steel swords were at the bottom of bodies of water because their owners didn't think?

The people around us cleared a space as we took our positions. He held his sword with his left as though he intended a downward vertical slash. He was favoring that side due to what I suspected were semi serious injuries. As for myself I kept mind to my own thigh wound, even though it didn't pain me the last think I needed was to falter a parry at the wrong time. Especially as I knew better than to attempt to go edge to edge with a Valyrian steel slashing weapon.

"I honestly advise you to give up. I promise you wont be tortured for information".

"Too late for words barbarian." He lashed out in the predictable way and I deflected three cuts before bouncing my sword off his helm with a swift retort. He stumbled on his off foot, wincing at injuries I suspected on his midsection. I made a flourish with my blade and a mock bow, before stalking toward him. My own injury was all but forgotten.

"In fact I'll even ransom you back to you father or uncle. I honestly don't care which of the Magisters set this up. It's way bigger than any of them."

I moved in, flicking my blade in false thrusts and mini slashes that left him guessing. As I always kept my blade away from his, and aimed at his increasingly apparent injuries and thereby putting him on the back foot. Jelaso could only guess from which angle I would strike. I provoked a predictable slash and moved in following a deflection with the intention to grapple him. He was bigger than I was, but I almost certainly was stronger and I suspected weighed more than some pampered slave lord. The fact he was both wounded and winded after so brief a fight also spoke wonders. Whoever trained him had done a good job, as bespoke the dead men I found in front of him earlier. However, there was the practice one did for the occasional honor duel and the damn near insane preparation for actual combat conditions marking my own life. Frankly this boy should have stayed home!

Then I paid for my over confidence when he switched main hands, distracting my blade work. He quickly spun and sent a surprisingly smooth, though desperate faux Win Chun kick my way as I closed to 2 inches. Such a move would ordinary have been suicide on a moving boat, but he knew I would wreck him in wrestling. Such a weak kick ordinarily would have just received a fight ending shove in reply, but in his desperation he landed it expertly on my wounded thigh. I wont lie, he knocked me for a loop. I really had to stop underestimating opponents because they looked like simpering idiotic fops. Just because Renly Baratheon was a dandy and horrible at serious ruling didn't make him a poor warrior by any means.

The kick was followed by a series of punches and diagonal flowing cuts from the former Shadow's blade. The combination caused me to lose my weapon as I dodged the blade. So the lil shyte had decent hand to hand skills, point him. For a minute I considered offering him a 'honorable' draw and letting him go free once we reached Braavos. I really didn't need his ransom or the damn sword. In truth what I really didn't need was to kill numb nuts and have his kin raged up enough to pay whatever the Temple of Black and White wanted. Then the dumb shit got cocky and even more aggravating.

"Ha, now what were you saying? Maybe you should surrender to me. I might ransom you back after I pick your brain a bit. Or maybe I'll keep you." His smug look replaced the earlier fear and now all I could see was a dark haired Joffery. I was seriously getting tired of being relatively nice. He must have mistook the anger on my face for impotent rage because he kept speaking.

"No, well I'll tell my sire what a good sport you were." He then made to cut from the same stance I noticed earlier. Only now he was significantly more tired than before. Yeah the sword of Sandaq is light, but physical exertion in an environment one is not prepared for is draining. Dehydration and his wounds didn't help either. I let him move into attack stance and quick as a snake I walked into his space. Down came the blade, but my hands clasped firmly around his wrists. Then I kicked him in the stomach, right in his wounds, before backhanding him as he doubled over in pain.

He was in fact about thirty pounds lighter than me. As such he went down and stayed that way.

"Keep him tied up. But first strip him and make sure he doesn't have any poison on him." I'd rather not have a faceless man after me anytime soon after all.

I turned to his former slaves. "You three, please tell my men where he keeps his poisons so he doesn't kill himself later. If the Sea Lord allows him to keep his property that is. Since he will be going back home alive his kin would reward you for the service."

"Also, you are now free and will be given enough gold to choose your own fates once we reach Braavos". The slaves looked at each other and moved to obey. While I couldn't be sure but I thought I saw hope and amusement in their eyes.

So now I had a new ship, a good number of ransom worthy prisoners and a Valyrian steel sword out of legend.

All that was missing was the other shoe.

 

The Bearer of Bad News

Howland Reed
283 After conquest Afternoon. (June, earth Analogue)
Tower of Joy
The Prince's Pass, Dorne
Between Nightsong and Kingsgrave



Afternoon

Howland Reed was Lord of the Neck, the strongest Green Seer north of the Isle of Faces in generations and master of herblore The Citadel would never know was lost. Sorrow and a million regrets welled in his breast as he turned to his friend, his soon to be last living true friend outside the neck and shook his head.
All his learning, all the rituals and near death experiences he had endured to learn the ways of his ancestors and the Children could do nothing. He could do nothing to help his.... friend. Howland broke down in tears as he dragged himself toward a bench.

The short statured lord sat down, both his blood stained hands were clutching his grief stricken face. His head rested between his knees as he shook back and forth to a rhythm only he could hear. The gifted armor was rough against his skin, but scrapes didn't mean any more than the bruises, saddle sores and sun burns he had endured to get here.
He thought back to the night before this...this tragedy.

Earlier

"Ned we have to approach this carefully. There is more going on here than you realize..." Howland said in a matter of fact tone. His normally rational friend cut him off.

"That ....man has my sister in that damn place. We are getting her out of there before anything else can happen to her. The time for patience is over. I followed that letter and trust in your visions. That has given us this chance. You are sure she is there Reed?" The last statement might have been insulting coming from anyone other than his liege. Green sight was not perfect, but those who mastered it did not take such statements of doubt lightly. Howland breathed deeply and replied with respect and compassion to his friend.

"As sure as the sun rises and sets your sister is in that tower. It is not just Ashara's words that speak to it. Tis the only place in this area that has the things Rhaegar needed most. It's easy to see who is coming, few people have reason to come near it and it can be defended from small numbers of bandits or broken men with only a handful of stout warriors. That tower is the only place we know that fits and is close enough for Rhaegar to have gotten to the trident when he did." The logic of Howland's arguments drowned out the horrifying reality of his green dream. A she wolf laying in her blood, her belly torn open and small scales like those of a dragon nearby. Worse the wolf had a noose of moss wrapped around her throat.

Whether all or part of his dream were shaped by his fears, desires and guilt Howland could not say. And he would not even consider the fact he was indirectly responsible for Lyanna's dire peril. A part of him said that Rheagar would not have noticed her had the brave girl not interceded with those squires to save him. Had Howland been more mindful and less trusting those callow youth would never have gotten the drop on him. But he had wanted to see the jousting so badly, and he did have a 'right' as a noble to walk in through the main path with his father's colors shining in the sun. And then he had seen her through the trees, the loveliest girl the crannogman had ever seen. She wasn't only pretty, Howland could see the intelligence and fierceness even from so far away. He could not sneak in and expect her to respect him. No he would walk in pride like any true noble, even if she would never acknowledge his feelings Lyanna would have a good impression of him. The rest was history.

"And I realize more than you give me credit for old friend" Ned said with a subtle wink and a raised eyebrow. Howland feared for a moment he would be rebuked for setting his sights above his station but then Eddard Stark continued. "There are 3 of the most deadly knights in Westeros with my sister and god forbid the Targaryen heir. Men who stood by while Aerys brutalized his wife to keep their vows. Their king is dead and so is his son and family. Only Viserys and the pregnant queen are still alive and they are under siege and second in succession. In their lifetime these men have seen two of their number break their vows, instead of dying. Right now they are desperately clinging to any chance to keep their honor, which we both know means taking Lyanna and or the heir out of Westeros." Howland could only nod at his liege's sound reasoning. However, he had to try once more to avert the tragedy the Reid heir felt partially responsible for.

"Showing our hand with anger and the threat of death in broad daylight is insane Ned! They will know we are coming the minute we are within half a mile. Who is to say they won't just bundle her on a horse and be gone before we arrive? Or just threaten to slit her throat if we don't back away."

Ned smiled. It was both comforting and rebuking at the same time. "Don't be foolish, you know better. Those three are the best of the kings guard. If she had given birth already they might have simply left her behind, but hostage taking is beneath them. More so they won't do anything that would jeopardize their future king. That especially means not putting strain on a pregnant woman so close to giving birth. They gave up everything for that white cloak and seeing that child on the throne or married to Viserys is their only goal. That we won't allow. I will not loose any more of my blood to that iron monstrosity!" Ned's fist slammed into his palm for emphasis.

"We have to move before the child is born because once it is they will be dust in the wind. Doran isn't stupid, if they set foot on the main roads they will raise suspicion and if Lyanna has a boy only the gods know what will happen. Oberyn will be mad with grief and there are many in Dorne still furious about that idiot shaming their Princess. Tell me how safe do you think they will be Reed? Do you think anyone will even listen to reason if they run into the Red Viper?" Howland shook his head, even though the question was rhetorical.

"Yet there are other means to save your sister that might better serve us. The crannogmen are no great knights but we have staved off many an invasion. Most of which never made it into the histories..." started the small man before being cut off by the wolf lord.

"And as for sneaking into the tower at night, do you really think you can take out the sword of the morning even with surprise? Can you honestly climb a 20 foot tower and sneak past 3 of the Kings guard to poison their food without any of them realizing it? I know none of the rest of us can. What would dying men do in that situation if you didn't get them all at once? Can you be sure my sister wouldn't taste any of their food before the poison took effect?" Stark put an arm around his shorter friend. He stared into his eyes with compassion and sorrow, but steel and fire shone in those grey pits as well.

"Do you imagine yourself rescuing your lost love like some gallant knight of song? You were there when that kind of thinking started all this. Yes, I know you love her too Howland. There is no shame in it, but the time of such things is long gone. This isn't your fault, no matter what you may be thinking in your head. We are all responsible for our choices and never those of others. Two years ago we left childhood behind, as you have told me many times." Having sensed he lost the argument, even before he opened his mouth Howland Reed subsided with a bow.

"I know your worth my old friend. Can't you trust me a little, at least for a while longer? This is our best chance to avoid bloodshed." Afer a minute Reed nodded. Then they clasped hands and rejoined the others and ate in companionable silence.

So as the night wore on the little Crannogman took his liege lord's words as comfort and did his best to put the best spin on his feeling of dread. Then after his friends had gone to bed he took the first watch and saw to his weapons, both those approved of by his companions and those they did not. For as much as he wanted to believe his friend's words of peace and reasonable actions he knew in some part of him beyond conscious thought he would have need of them.

Sometime between

Howland said that he would hold the horses and allow those of greater stature to plead their case to the Kingsguard. Stark agreed with him that his perceived stature might give offense to the great knights and make violence more likely. His other friends said nothing to dissuade him as despite the gifted armor all present knew Reed wouldn't be of that much use in a fight of this nature armed with a short spear. He hoped his friends didn't think any less of him, and understood fear wasn't his reason for staying back.

This wasn't going to work, he knew it before they started down the single road to meet the living legends in front of them. Reed knew it when he saw the looks of determination and remorse in the White Bulls eyes as he realized exactly who was speaking to him. There was simply no way to reach a compromise when each of them wanted something completely at odds and neither would admit their goal was a nursery tale.

Hope for a peaceful resolution was doomed to fail before The Sword of the Morning said "And now it begins." From the mournful way Ser Arthur said those words he had to know how the battle would end before the first blow was struck.

A bloody future was written in stone before "And now it ends" rolled with grief from Eddard Stark's tongue. He as well could see just how far the situation had degraded from reason and sanity and Howland knew it both sickened and grieved him to be party to this. Yet and still for his sister's life he did not hesitate to bring his family's great sword down upon the White Bull's guard in an attempt to overwhelm him with youthful vigor.

Though the attempt to end the battle in one blow failed, so did Ser Oswald's diagonal slash at Ned's Neck. While Eddard was not strictly speaking the most famous of warriors he was the frequent sparring partner of Robert Baratheon who was. Not to mention a year of bloody warfare had seasoned the already tough northern lord. Thus the conflict was joined and the song of steel filled the plain beneath the dilapidated tower.

To call it a epic battle would be exaggeration. It was over in less than 30 seconds. Dustin was the first to fall with Went's sword in his neck. One death that his dreams told him would lead to more grief for house Stark in the future. That distraction allowed Martyn Cassell a chance to tie him up and for Ned to bring Ice into play. The trio had killed his friend, a veteran of at least five battles in a matter of seconds. Kingsguard were really that good, at least Aerys's generation was.

Howland did not see the next exchanges because he had uncovered his horse blanket and removed his weirwood bow and the 9 arrows coated with the deadliest poison he knew how to make. This wasn't an honorable battle of knights, this was a mission to help his sworn brother and the woman he secretly loved for almost two years avoid death.

When he had eyes on target two of his friends were dead and the White Bull had lost his left hand at the wrist. If he had to guess Ned had used Ice when Hightower was slaying Glover as Went's sword was red in his disconnect hand laying on the stony dust beneath him. Without thinking the White Bull buffeted Ned away from him and scooped his sword up in his other hand. Then the first arrows entered the fray.

Had Howland told Ned or the others what he intended they likely would stopped him; well tried to stop him. He would forever regret letting Ned talk him out of shooting the three deluded arses in the night. Men had to piss sometime and even the kingsgaurd didn't wear armor to the privy.

That arrow was cut out of the air by Whent with something approaching contemptuous ease. It still allowed a dying Theo Wull to grab his sword arm and drive a dagger into his armpit and past the chainmail there.

He either didn't see or couldn't remember how the White Bull died as he was focused on Ned. It was a good thing too as Ser Arthur had used Dawn to Shatter Martyn Cassell's sword and with his magic blade took his head with his next move. Even with Valyrian steel such a thing should have been impossible. Yet few Northerners, even lords, had the same high quality plate found in places like Kings Landing. Not to mention Martyn didn't have a gorget, only chainmail.

Ned lost himself to the 'wolfs blood' and the two began a rapid exchange of sword strikes which saw him wound Ser Arthur in the left foot with a back slash in exchange for a thrust that slid past his thigh protection on the right side. Ice slid from his fingers as the Sword of the morning raised Dawn to deliver the finishing move.

Howland didn't have a great shot but he had no time to find a perfect one. Howland's arms moved as a springing cobra and his fourth arrow slid past Ser Arthur's guard to pierce his cheek. The Sword of the Morning turned to him then as he pulled the shaft out and spat blood. It would take a shot to the eye or down the throat for a typical crannog bow to kill a grown man in one hit. It was damn near impossible to punch through chain mail with one even at fourteen paces.

To most knights it would have seemed little more than cheap distraction, unworthy of notice. Reed hoped that Dayne would dismiss it until it was too late. However, Ser Arthur was not most men and had just as much knowledge of his body as he did his sword. Less than a second later the wielder of Dawn understood what had happened to him.
The venom of the Bog Moccasin was potent enough to give it the name of 3 step death. Howland guessed most men could survive maybe 20 seconds after that hit. Of course before they died they would endure delusions and hyperventilation.

Reed would never understand what Ser Arthur did next. Instead of driving Dawn through Eddard Starks aventail and tossing his sword at Howland the Sword of the Morning paused. He bowed his head to him with a look that seemed to imply gratitude and raised his sword in an awkward stance that left him vulnerable. Then the most skilled knight in a group of sword gods missed his thrust and waited the three seconds it took Ned to shove his punch dagger into his neck.

Howland knew Ser Arthur was in control of his actions. He also knew four seconds would have been enough to kill them both, as there was no way he would have dodged Ser Arthur's throw at that distance.

Reed suspected Ned had figured it out himself rather quickly as he regained his footing and began removing his armor to check his wound.

Ned turned to him with a look he never saw on his face before. However before either of them could voice their thoughts they heard a woman's scream.

 

His Sister's keeper

Eddard Stark
Tower of Joy
Dorne




The screams of his sister sounded as though they were increasing in intensity. It might have just been his imagination however. The shape of the tower, its height and location at a windy elevation played with sound in ways that turned the wails of childbirth into the mournful recriminations of a wraith. From the Neck to the Wall there were a litany of stories telling of the exploits of such wrathful ghosts of mistreated women. They all tended to start with the wailing driving the offender mad before some horrible justice was met to them.

'I have much to answer for in this matter' was a thought that frequently crossed his mind from the moment he heard that sister had been 'taken'. If only he had only spoken to his father about his suspicions. If only he had forced his baby brother to open his mouth. If only he had grabbed Brandon by the neck and made him see reason. If.if.if.

The rational part of his mind told him his father was far older than him and was as sly in the ways of politics as any southron. Not to mention he had raised all four of them and knew their personalities just as well as Eddard, if not better. If Rickard didn't see through Lyanna's 'small rebellion' or have knocked sense into Brandon there was nothing Eddard could have done which would have made a whit of difference.

It still felt like he had failed his family and his friends. Out of the five Starks who were alive three years ago only 2 were safe and as he didn't know the full seriousness of his side wound that was iffy. That did not bode well for a bloodline that stretched back to the Age of Heroes. The pain in his side seemed to vanish as he ate the steps in front of him. There were no further guards with crossbows or spears, otherwise without his breastplate and greaves it would have been childsplay to thwart his impromptu family reunion.

As he reached his sister's cell he was met with a smell he recognized many times from his times on the battlefield. It only put more power into his legs. The sounds of his footsteps turned the corner and he remembered the sword in was still in his scabbard. Ned drew it and opened the door.

Inside was a cozy if somewhat stale rectangular room. There was one window in the eastern corner, a bed, some chairs and a desk. Aside from some rugs depicting Dornish heroism, a fairly clean chamber pot and some vases of water there wasn't much to talk about.

That is other than the sweating form of his very pregnant sister and a rather nervous looking woman who might have been in her late twenties. Her hair was tied in a ponytail, more black than brown and fell to her mid back. Her features tended toward the sharper angular First Men stock more than most Dornishmen in the area, though she could still pass for a Sandy Dornish in a pinch. She was pale, slightly plump with large breasts and firm hips. His first impression was midwife.

Seeing what the woman was doing, his assumptions were proven correct. However the nervous woman reasonably became pale upon seeing a 6 foot tall bloody man wielding an equally bloody Valyerian steel blade. After recognizing the terror in her blue eyes and understanding that he was the only man in the room he started to lower his weapon. That was hen his sister beat him to the punch.

"Ned Stark! Put that fucking sword away before you give Wylla a heart attack!"

He was speechless for a moment. For half a year he wondered what had become of his sister. Did she truly leave of her own accord? While she was willful and perhaps enamored of the golden tongued prince did that mean she wasn't intimidated when he showed up with a retinue of kingsgaurd to spirit her away? What was her reaction when word of Brandon and Father came? Was there ever a time when she was scared and alone?

Now that she was before him he couldn't decide what to ask her first.

In the midst of his indecision his sister broke his deadlock.

"Fuck Ned! Put the goddamn sword away or chop off our heads, some of us are too busy giving birth to deal with your bullshit. Though I find it very strange you cut down three kingsgaurd just to kill me and a midwife" said the red faced Stark in her most defiant tone.

Same old Lya. Stern enough to stare down a shadow cat or a dire wolf without steel in hand. A smile came to his face as he considered her puffy, yet pale cheeks. A flicker of the life he remembered lingered in her eyes and a half smile formed on his face without his conscious command.

The sword was inside of his scabbard between one breath and the next. Said scabbard and the sword belt were placed on a chair soon after. Then he was wrapping his bloody arm around his sister, the other was still pressing the cloth Howland Reed had given him against his side.

The little Crannogman had threatened him at spear point to wait until he could put the Myrish fire on said rag.

"I'm not going through this to bury you as well. Three minutes won't change anything. I will get what I need for the struggle ahead. Say hello to Lya for me and don't threaten her. She knows how bad things are and making her feel worse.." Ned had stopped him there.

"I'm here to help her and my blood, not place judgement on her" Ned said to his friend with more heat than he intended. Neither said any more as he made for the steps. His thoughts snapped back to the present situation as she returned the hug with one arm. Ned could feel that she wasn't as strong as she normally would be. Her skin was warm, hotter than the room and almost as bad as some parts of the Prince's Pass.

"Now Ned I know you are upset but strangling me isn't much better than the sword. At least let me explain what I can. Then you can fill me in on what I missed." He realized he was being too rough and stepped back. The midwife bowed when he noticed her gathering the things she would soon need.

"I think I understand what happened. But I have a feeling that someone else wants to join the conversation and they inherited your patience." He smiled, who said Ned couldn't tell a joke?

Lya frowned before punching him in the arm. "Your humor is still shit, just like Bran always said. Shit Bran." Her face went slack a moment while mental and physical pain warred for control of her vocal chords. As a testament of her strength only a slight murmur passed her lips.

It was then he could finally name the familiar smell about his sister. It was something he had become accustomed to while visiting the wounded and suffering men he had led south to die. All for something that was based largely on a lie or least a very well stretched truth.

That something was a smell that accompanied war and its aftermath.

The smell of fever and inflamed flesh.