Blessed Baelor SI (ASOIAF)

[cosmicfox]

Those who wish to know in further detail of the First Great Deed, of Baelor's Revelation, the Hunt of the White Hart and the Holy Passage, must look upon the work of Archmaester Tommen, or if they are inclined to a more hagiographical work, they should read "The Seven Great Deeds, or the most holy life of the Blessed Baelor", written by Septon Bonifer of the Stoney Sept.

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If this First Deed is the standard by which all others will be measured, I have trouble seeing what the next six could be.
Just conquering Dorne wouldn't be as culturally significant.

Maybe truly unifying the whole of Westeros, meaning bringing Dorne, the Stepstones & beyond the Wall under the Iron Throne authority?

Maybe successfully travelling to Valyria to bring back magic & Dragons to House Targaryen?

Or even "invent" the compass & successfully sail West to either a whole new continent or just reach Asshai that way?

Make a prophecy on his deathbed, sent to him from the 7, about the return of the Others in 136 years.

I don't know, it still leaves 2 more.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

If this First Deed is the standard by which all others will be measured, I have trouble seeing what the next six could be.
Just conquering Dorne wouldn't be as culturally significant.

Maybe truly unifying the whole of Westeros, meaning bringing Dorne, the Stepstones & beyond the Wall under the Iron Throne authority?

Maybe successfully travelling to Valyria to bring back magic & Dragons to House Targaryen?

Or even "invent" the compass & successfully sail West to either a whole new continent or just reach Asshai that way?

Make a prophecy on his deathbed, sent to him from the 7, about the return of the Others in 136 years.

I don't know, it still leaves 2 more.

Click to shrink...

The Reconquest and remaking of Dorne is the second, the rest are various reforms he has in mind.

There will be no return of the dragons.

 

[Sebastipole]

There will be no return of the dragons.

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Well Viserys will be very disappointed (after Baelor brought his infant grandsons back to life, I'd expect him to be hoping he'd be bringing dragon eggs back to life).

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXIII: So, you want to be a courtier?​

To my lord and brother,

You have my congratulations in finding a knight at court in need of a squire to foist your son on. But if it is your ambition, as I most accurately suspect, to use his squiring as the first step of raising him to a higher position in court and in the king's favour, I fear there is much more work you will need to do.

You have praised at length your son's martial skills. But these skills alone would not find enough favour with King Baelor. The Young Dragon is dead, and all the young knights eager for glory are not our new king's friends, for they have not proven themselves beyond the shedding of blood. A place for such men can no longer be found even among Prince Aegon's retinue, for since his incident, he shuns knights for jealousy of their manliness. He only keeps the company of drunkards now, and that is a fate I do not wish upon the young boy.

One could say that there are several factions at court, though some people could be considered part of more than one. It is to men high in such factions that your son should seek to attach himself.

The oldest of these factions, to which I belong on account of being appointed as one of the Keeper of the Keys a dozen years ago, is that of the Hand of the King, Prince Viserys. Our days of glory are long past, even if king Daeron, and now king Baelor have kept many of their uncle's appointments. There is no security in our positions anymore. The king has changed men solely on account of corruption or incompetence, of which misdeeds I am not guilty. But when the Stranger shall take the Lord Hand in his bosom, we can only pray that fortune shall keep smiling bright.

From our faction, the position of Lord Hunter, the Master of Laws is the shakiest. The king loves greatly justice and disapproves of the haphazardly manner in which it had been dealt before.

The Master of Coin is secure until a more skilled man is found, and the few times he has shown a matter of incompetence, the king has threatened to give his position to his sister, the Princess Elaeana. This is surely a jest.

The king's uncle, Lord Velaryon steadfastly remains in favour, for he has proven himself time and time again at sea. Save for the granting of the Stepstones to his line, his star shall shine no brighter. He seeks not a greater influence at court, save for the affairs of his office. The king has pondered, it seems, to hand over the office to his cousin, the Lady Laena, if the gods take the Oakenfist, but has changed his mind, for he does not wish to keep the lady from the sea. When the times come, only the gods know who shall take the post.

The second faction is that of the King's Men. These are men appointed in posts by our new king, and have caught his eyes on account of competence, wisdom, and honesty. Chief amongst them is Ser Herman Harte. He does not owe his positions because to kinship with the king, for our sovereign has denied power to a closer cousin who has proven himself unworthy. He has served the king well in Braavos and now as deputy to the Master of Ships, and rumours abound that upon the passing of the king's uncle, his star shall shine the brightest in this constellation of courtiers.

Second and most martial of them is Ser Jonos Edgerton. Proven in service in Dorne and in Pentos, he keeps no steady position at court or in the king's employ, but he is ever the king's favourite. His father, the Master of Horse is a man whose council the king does not shun, even if he holds his office by hereditary appointment. One of his brothers is the King's Counter, and through this kinship his fortune shines bright. He might be our next Master of Coin. Alas, the gods do not smile upon me.

Among the same faction we count the septons closest to the king, who advise him in many matters, the septons Cad and Paul. The first knowledgeable in many worldly matters, the second of a most inquisitive nature. These hold a measure of power of some of the King's Men, the Knights Inquisitors. They are men honest and competent, ever eager to root out misdeeds among the king's officials. But some of them are accomplished in arrogance and that might be their downfall.

The strangest man of this faction is Bastyen, the king's fool. He entertains the king with his folly, he speaks with wise words in counsel to our king and is a more accomplished swordsman than many knights. He now rides to war at the king's side, and I am told he has yet to prove himself a craven.

The third faction of which I shall write, now growing stronger since the Holy Passage, is that of the Faithful. We are all faithful, but these are men that have earned the king's favour through their piety. It is curious a fact that these are the most martial of the royal favourites and that their captain is the self-same Jonos Edgerton. He now commands the Holy Hundred, which had guarded the Seven Stones, and which the king has decided to keep on. The Holy Hundred itself counts among the Faithful. But these are not only martial men, for the king is interested in conversation with pious men that hold some degree of intellectual acumen, to not bore himself with them. As with the King's Men, some are useful to the king for service, some for wise counsel.

Of all the king's favourites, Ser Herman and Ser Jonos are the most likely to benefit from the humbling of Dorne, and we might someday call them lords.

If your son is not particularly skilled in matters besides that of arms, I counsel him to read attentively the Seven-Pointed Star, be ever a pious man, and later seek admittance in the number of the Holy Hundred, of whom many shall undoubtedly die in Dorne. These men are not a company in the usual manner, for the king might send them to some errand of the other or grant them offices grander and farther than the Red Keep.

So, if your son has not taken to the vices of drink, gambling or whoring, has not spoken impious words, that is the path that the Crone's Lantern enlightens for him. Find him some septon for a tutor before you send him here. I shall be glad to receive my nephew.

Your ever loyal brother,

Balthasar Grell

 

[WinRarArchivist]

XXIV: Of Holy Matters

It is said that since the Seven Stones have crossed the Narrow Sea, the people of the southern kingdoms have grown more pious. That is certain of the smallfolk, which came as pilgrims to King's Landing in their droves.

Thousands, then tens of thousands made the journey to see for themselves the holy relics. From the Fingers of the Vale and the many river valleys of the Riverlands, from the Westerlander mountains and the fields of the Reach, from the Rainwood of the Storm lords and the mouth of the White Knife in the North. From Dorne came few, and only those who had acquired some license of safe conduct from a Marcher lord or the other, and thus risked not their life in crossing the Red Mountains.

Processions, miles long, led by barefooted septons, advanced upon the multitude of the roads in the realm. Men and women, young and old, filled with holy fervour. They were ordinary people, desirous of closer company with their gods. They were septons and septas, seeking the slightest measure of divine guidance and revelation. They were wretched sinners, of untold and many crimes, seeking repentance – at the behest of the village septon, sent here to do their penance.

They carried with them staves - wooden sticks with iron toes. They wore long, coarse tunics and scrips - pouches of leather, strapped to their waist where they kept their food and coin. The villages and the septs, septries and motherhouses along the road offered roof over their heads, the fire of their hearts, water, and fresh bread, knowing that the gods would reward them sevenfold. Lords sent their men-at-arms to escort them along the way and keep them safe from robber bands, and the most pious built large guest halls for the purpose of providing hospitality to the pilgrims on their way to the capital.

Still, not all had good in their hearts, for many an innkeeper profited of a pilgrim's plight, offering them cheap wine, bad fish, putrid mean, filthy beds, and hard bread for the road. Yet their punishment would surely come, for many of the pilgrims cried to the heavens against those who had thus defrauded them.

Some had joy in their hearts and upon their face, eager to be so close to something so holy. Some had terror and trepidation, the penance of confession in a place as close to the gods they could be frightening their heart and wits, and their rest was plagued by night terrors most sinister, playing upon their guilt, and making them wake having imagined more sins that they had indeed committed.

The innocent prayed to the Crone to light and guide their way to King's Landing, and the guilty tearfully beseeched the Stranger each night to spare their lives another day, so that they may do their penance, and acquire thus the chance of lessening their damnation, of making it into the lesser of the Seven Heavens, or even in the lesser of the Seven Hells – for it was the fate of those who had failed to confess and atone for their sins until their dying to be cast into an ever-deepening pit, where sinners suffered extremes of cold and heat, of ice and fire, their cries drowning under the sinister laughter of demons. The first hell, where people were gnawed at by venomous worms, sounded far more pleasant than that, and the seventh hell - where sinners would boil in fire and brimstone for eternity in that oven infernal, was a fate that none desired.

There was a septon seeking guidance from above, for a lightning had struck the village sept, and rumours and whispers of the punishment of the Seven abounded. There was a party of village elders who had seen a red sky at night seven times each following another, and now sought the truth of that omen.

There were others, who sought a different kind of relief. Driven by new rumours of the king bringing back his cousins' sons from the precipice of death, and by elder ones, of the king's father visiting those stricken by diseases, they sough the touch of King Baelor's healing hands. Septons spoke of the seven oils of anointment at the king's crowing, and how such imbued the royal touch with healing power, by making the king himself holy. And so came the blind, the deaf, the infirm, soldiers seeking relief from the pain of old injuries, people suffering from a myriad diseases, but carrying in their hearts and souls the slightest of hopes.

There were even others, who had brought along their children, healthy as they could be, not to be healed of some illness, but in hope of a king's blessing, so that their child might grow up a worthy one.

A heavy rain stopping the advance of one day was thought to be the work of some malignant, demonic power, come straight from the seventh hell, to prevent this exercise in piety and damn their souls. It only emboldened them further.

The most holy of relics were though to hold such divine might as to bring the desired joy to the pious and succour to the penitent and the sinful. Carved by the sanctified hands of the Blessed Hugor, the King upon the Hill, and in them residing the presence of the Seven themselves, the Seven Stones were the hope of many.

Besides the septons and the smallfolk, came wealthy merchants, dragged on the pilgrim's path by some wife or daughter with exceeding piety. Lord and ladies came also, but who can say that they came by reason of a pious heart or not to prove themselves less faithful than their neighbours?

And they arrived, and set their sights upon the Seven Stones, and fell prostate in adoration at their sight, praying and crying and singing hyms of praise. Some made to approach the statues with handkerchiefs and aprons to take some divine grace to heal their sick. Some took the dust on the floors of the Dragonpit. Each according to their wealth made offerings of coin to the almshouses and sept of King's Landing, as tithes to the Gods, in gratitude or penance, or in hope of a blessing.

The pilgrims sought the slightest glimpse of the king and great crowds formed every time the king rode through the city, hands seeking the royal touch. Those whose ills were lessened or cured, praised his healing hands, and those who saw no relief saw themselves to sinful, or where shamed by their fellows for not showing enough penance for whatever misdeeds they commited in life. More than once, King Baelor had to unclasp his cloak and throw it to the crowds, for they made to tear at it, as if the clothes of a king held the same power as his hands.

Once the seven moons had passed, and the Seven Stones where returned to the Royal Sept and the King took his Holy Hundred and marched to Dorne for war, pilgrims came still. The highborn came to give coin to the king's new almshouses where septons and septas were in service to the poor and the sick, the old and the infirm, the widow and the orphan. Whetever they did so out of pious inclinations or seeking royal favour, only they know in their hearts.

The smallfolk kept coming for a different purpose. In ages past, the Poor Fellows from their lot had wandered the roads of the Seven Kingdoms, escorting pilgrims, carrying axes and cudgels. Now came artisans and craftmen, masons, stonecarvers and woodturners, blacksmiths and goldsmith, and people of many other professions, or those only of hardworking hands, that sought not the favour of the Warrior, but of the Smith. Wearing habits of course wool or hairshirts, they came and swore the service of their craft to the king, and called themselves the Confraternity of Holy Works, or the Smith's Apprentices.

For the king, once the seven moons had passed, had ordered the clearing of the ruins of the Dragonpit, intent upon building there a Great Sept, one whose like none had ever built or seen. He sought to make holy again the place that had been desecrated by Maegor, when he burned the Sept of Remembrance in dragonflame, and to build a suitable house for the Seven Stones.

The sept was to be built on the foundations of the Dragonpit, from the pale red stone that could be quarried close to the city, and clad in white marble from the isle of Tarth. It was to such a great and holy work that the the Faberards gave their service. The king housed and fed them at his own expense while they worked, and, loath to see their works go unrewarded, gave them wages from his own coffers. Though some would not accept it, King Baelor accepted no refusal, and as such, some gave the coin received to alms, and some kept them, but accepted only coin with Baelor's face, using them as amulets to ward of accidents or illness.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXV: Painting in Blood


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Yronwood would not fall as easily as Wyl did. The siege had gone on for more than a fortnight, the royal troops ferried by the king's ships while the Stormlanders laid siege to Skyreach, hopefully with aid from Reachers coming up the Prince's Pass, though Kingsgrave was still in their way.

In the king's pavilion, amidst the lords gathered in council of war, one was fool enough not to think a plan through, and fool enough to make it heard. Though no lord of fame and bold deeds, nor commander named by the king, he had somehow found his way into the councils by dint of how many lances he had gathered to battle in his name. He went by the name of Albin Peake, and an office of some worth held previously in King's Landing was the reason he was not presently amidst the hosts of the Reach.

Instead of giving counsel on the taking of the castle, the knight spoke of matters outside such purview and greater than he ever had right to give counsel:

"Your Grace, perhaps it would be wise to offer Lord Yronwood dominion over Dorne, if he renounces his rebellion and begs for mercy and renews his fealty. Surely, he has allies of his own amid the Dornish, and the Bloodroyal have always made claim of paramountcy south of the Red Mountains. It would surely help us pacify this kingdom, if Your Graces names one of their own as lord over them."

Amid the jeers and lords calling the unfortunate fool craven, the king banged his fist upon the table, asking for silence, and with a measured voice, answered him:
"I had thought of a plan myself, if you would care to learn it?", he said, and the knight could only nod. "Let us gather our host and go round the walls of the castle once for ever six days, seven priests singing hymns to the Warrior before our men. And upon the seventh day, we shall go round seven times and then all men shall shout with great shouts, and make blasts out of trumpets and horns, and the walls of the castle shall fall down flat."

Murmurs arose in the council, and none dared to speak about such an audacious plan. At last, Ser Jonos Edgerton dared to ask the king: "Sire, was this deed revealed into you in a vision in the night by the Warrior?"

"By the Seven, no, Jonos" cried the king, with sudden anger. "I know you to be pious but use your wits for but a moment. Nay, it is but a jest. But having heard the words of a fool drip into our ears, I had thought we were making fun, not speaking of a serious matter. To name Yronwood Lord Paramount of Dorne instead of the arch-rebel Martell? He has with equal measure rebelled against us, fought against his rightful liege, and knew of the planned treachery that led to my brother's death – I will show him no mercy, for I hold the most violent and deadly hatred against him. So, I had thought to make my own joke, so monumentally amusing that none would take it but for such. It seems I was wrong. So tell me, Ser Albin, are you such a fool that you do not think before you speak, or you are a different sort of fool, a jester who tried to lighten our day with your buffoonery?"

Ser Albin thought for a moment but had not the heart to confess himself foolish in matter of politics or warfare, so he confessed himself to be a jester, and apologized for the misplaced levity of his words.

"Well, if buffoons we must have among our council", said the king, "I could have summoned one of my own employ. Begone from my sight, Ser Albin, and summon before me the fool Bastyen. Perhaps he'll speak wiser words. And you would do to remember that now we're waging war, not settling peace."

And wiser words Bastyen spoke. The king's jester knew the moment for levity, and the moment to speak of serious matters. And having once sold his sword in the Free Cities, he knew of warfare.

Sitting amid lords and generals more highly elevated than he, he spoke sound advice: "It seems to me, sire, that for all your late brother, King Daeron, has said that the Dornish could summon fifty thousand men to war against him, this is no longer the truth against you. Some say that your brother has exaggerated his words, and they numbered less, but many fell against his might, castles were sieged and fell, fields and orchards burned. The Yronwood no longer have the might of their full banners, their castle has been slighted in a previous siege, and your royal brother had wisely refused to allow the Dornish to repair their castles."

"And from what I have heard of the whispers of Maester Rowley, Your Grace's Lord Confessor, since the Submission of Sunspear, they had not the time to fill their granaries for a long siege. They had not done so when they feigned loyalty, as to not seems suspicious in the eyes of Lord Tyrell, and they have not done so since they treacherously cut down your brother, for they viewed your surrender of the hostages as the abandonment of all plans for Dorne. And their false sense of security only grew when you made war with Pentos instead. Only of late have they sought to prepare for sieges, but the time of the harvest was not near and so they had little success in it."

"This is my advice then, Sire. If you wish to starve them out, it shall not take too long. If you wish to storm the castle, it will fall easier than most castles, for lack of repairs. And Yroonwood has no tunnels or caves where the defenders might hide. I judge either decision to be a wise one – for we can be resupplied at sea, and we have also asked fines of produce from the villages of Yronwood's lands, and they have sent victuals to our camp, to save themselves from looting. And they do not seek to give aid and countenance to their liege, for they hold dear their immunity from war."

No one of the council saw fault with his words, and by the king's decision, the next day, Yronwood's castle was to be stormed.

The next morning siege towers were prepared, tens and hundreds of ladders readied to escalade the walls. The walls had been mined under in the previous days but had not collapsed yet. The other engines of war now stood silent and resting, for if they were to storm the castle, it would not do to hit their own men.

Among the men that volunteered to be first upon the walls were many knights and lords of the Crownlanders, men who bore the livery of the Holy Hundred, chief among them Ser Jonos, joined by his brother Symon, and the two fools, Bastyen, and Ser Albin, the latter eager to wash away his shame in blood.

Men gathered in files in front of the ladder, climbing one after the other. Man after man fell under bolts and arrows, under boiling oil and under rocks that smashed the helmeted heads of soldiers and threw them into the moat. From the king's own archers, some fell from the siege towers to their doom – damnation or salvation in the next life. Not all died, but some limped away with grievous wounds and burns.

It was a day of corpse-making, and blood flowed freely as the battle waged on, under the watchful eyes of King Baelor, sat upon his horse a safe distance from the walls, the Kingsguard gathered around him.

But not all that died were of the king's men. Symon Edgerton was first upon the walls, slaying half a dozen defenders, before one had grappled him upon the wooden hoarding and thrust a dirk into his eye. At that sight, Ser Jonos, who had come second after him, carved a dozen or two more Dornishmen with a great axe, as if he were a butcher slaughtering piglets for a lord's feast. After him, was the third man, Bastyen the jester who showed no lesser a valour that many a great knight that fought for the king.

The king had a great more men that he could afford to lose than Lord Yronwood and by nightfall, the castle was taken. His men had entered the castle by climbing with ladders on the walls, but King Baelor entered it through the open gate, to find the Yronwood bound and awaiting his sentence, surrendered men-at-arms kneeling around him, disarmed under the sword and spears of royal soldiers, and his hall burning behind him.

"Tell me, my lord Yronwood", asked Baelor, "why did you have to pain and wound us so? Could you not have kept your oath and stayed in your castle while Dorne rebelled? You might now be ruling Dorne by my generosity if it were so. But my cousin Aemon spoke of you joining the treacherous curs that betrayed my brother under sacred banner. Why choose such folly?"

"I am the Bloodroyal! Why should I bend before you, son of an abomination of incest?" spat Yronwood. "I have the pride of my line to uphold. Kill me and be done – you'll hear no penance from me."

"Yet you knelt before Martell as if you were a pup taken from the bitch and raised with milk by his own hand. You have humbled yourself before him far more than you would have done before me or my brother. And for no gain."

"You see the banner that stands behind me, Yronwood?"

The Dornish lord tried to keep his silence, but the armoured fist of Jonos Edgerton and a few missing teeth washed away his stubbornness. "It is the red banner of war without mercy" said he, with gritted teeth.

"It is more than a hundred years. Some maesters say it was a white one, until Maegor the Cruel drenched it in the blood of the Faith Militant. Perhaps I shall need to use another white banner, and being a royal one, dye it with the Bloodroyal."

The king turned to one of his men: "Fetch me the linens of Lord Yronwood's bed." Once they had been brought forth. The king took them and threw them on the ground. He grabbed Lord Yronwood by his long hair, took his dagger and cut his throat, the blood dripping upon the fabric, pale white turning to bloody red. Once the last of the blood spilled upon it, and the traitor's corpse was carted away, the king asked that the linen be made into a banner, to be carried from now in war.

His attention now solely upon the remaining prisoners, he ordered the hanging of the remains of the garrison. Lord Yronwood's sons, good-sons and grandsons faced two fates. Those who none present witnessed being part of the great treachery that led to the death of Daeron had a chance at their life. If they begged the king for mercy and confessed themselves traitors, they were given the chance of taking the black, spending the rest of their lives as brothers of the Night's Watch. Those who were present at that murderous meeting, or those too prideful to beg for mercy had their throats slit, a deed for which Ser Jonos and his father, Lord Manly Edgerton were quick to offer themselves. In that deed, they imitated the king, but instead they dyed in blood white surcoats, and swore that they would wear such bloody garments on their armour until all of Dorne were pacified and they would have returned the bones of their kin to Moorcastle, to the grieving lady Elissa.

The daughters, good-daughters and granddaughters of Lord Yronwood were to join the silent sisters. A fitting fate, for half of them had been already rendered mute, witnessing the cruel fate of their male kin that was the king's will.

And then the king and his army marched towards the Tor. In the weeks and months following, news came of the fall of Kingsgrave and Skyreach, of Blackmount, Starfall and High Hermitage.

The Stormlanders, after leaving garrisons in the castles they took, embarked upon the ships of the royal fleet, eager to once again join the king. The host of the Reach split in twain, half braving the dunes of the Dornish desert, to wreak vengeance upon the Qorgyles, and half marching up the Brimstone River to take the Hellholt. None envied them, for their part in war would be the hardest of all.

After the Tor, Ghost Hill had Spottswood had fell, king Baelor and the Oakenfist joined and soon ravens would feast upon the flesh of the slain all along the Greenblood. Meanwhile, the longships of the Iron Isles reaved all across the southern coast of Dorne. But the Dornish coast was hundred of leagues of whirlpools, cliffs, and hidden shoals – hardly a place to make a safe landing. The Ironborn who made it to the shore were half likely to drown with their loot upon their leaving, and many said that such was precisely the king's intent upon unleashing those murderous reavers.

 

[Fallout5368]

You know I can't help but wonder how the Dornish sources look at Baelor. Everyone is the Hero of their story and I can see Baelor being turned into a monster.

 

[zecorezecron]

You know I can't help but wonder how the Dornish sources look at Baelor. Everyone is the Hero of their story and I can see Baelor being turned into a monster.

Click to shrink...

"Oh come on! All we did was violate hospitality, commit perfidy, and kill his brother. Why does he hate us so? It's so unfair."

But, you know, unironically.

 

[Fallout5368]

"Oh come on! All we did was violate hospitality, commit perfidy, and kill his brother. Why does he hate us so? It's so unfair."

But, you know, unironically.

Click to shrink...

You know I could actually see Oberon talking like this, and believing every word.

 

[WinRarArchivist]

Chapter XXVI: The Follies of Green Boys
​

Digging hundreds of graves on the Milkwater, seeking the ancient tomb of Joramun, and his fabled horn, could become pretty boring after a while. Fortunately, the lands beyond the Wall proved to be one of the finest hunting grounds on the continent. Snow bears, shadow cats, mammoths and elks.

His party had made camp at the Fist of the First Men, from where they ranged forth periodically, while being occasionally harried by wildlings, though not in numbers so great as to overwhelm them. Jonnel thought that the wildlings were more curious than hostile, wondering what men wearing the direwolf livery sought so far north, when no one north of the Wall had called itself king.

When they had made their camp amidst the ruin of that ancient ringfort, one of his men had found a old, cracked war horn amid a bundle of weapons of dragonglass – daggers, spearheads, and arrowheads. Jon Umber had spoken in jest, claiming that they had already found that fabled Horn of Winter. Jonnel believed him not, but had kept the war horn, out of an abundance of caution.

When Jonnel tired of watching over his men digging grave after grave, he went hunting. He had already faced a great snow bear, and won his pelt, which awaited now in his tent for the day he'd gift it to his wife. In their camp were also a multitude of other pelts – from wolves, a few shadow cats, and mammoth ivory taken from those they had stumbled across. Their meat had already made its way into his men's bellies, though choice morsels were being kept in brine, to be taken to Winterfell.

It had been two months when they had stumbled upon the grave of what seemed to be a great chief or king among the giants once – for his skeleton could not be that of anything but one. Amid his remains were a golden ring, a silver brook, bracelets of gold, a belt buckle of the same, and silver armbands graven with runes. Most striking of all though, was a war horn, eight feet in length, black with golden bands, and engraved with ancient runes. He had studied the runes, and they seemed to be suitably old, and spoke of words of protection.

The Stark heir was not entirely convinced that this was the fabled treasure he sought, but his mean had grown weary and tired of digging, his wife was soon to give birth, and he would not return home with empty hands. That horn would do.

That night, Jon Umber had drunk too much ale, and a most unwise thought (given the legends surrounding the horn) entered his head. He gave way to those thoughts, in his addled state, and took the horn and blew it. A great sound, loud and piercing blasted all through the camp, and a foreboding feeling filled the hearts of all. Some even worried that mayhap the Wall had fell, as legend spoke, and counselled sending men to check upon its state. But at last, the men had calmed and went to their rest.

That night, at the hour of the ghosts, disaster struck. A great ruckus woke up Jonnel, and as he went out of his tent, in the light of torches, he saw giants with enormous clubs striking at the makeshift palisades that surrounded the camp and crushing men beneath their feet. Twice the height of a normal man, covered in shaggy fur, their clubs made short work of men-at-arms just woken from their sleep, unarmoured and barely armed.

Jonnel looked around and saw Umber, with a dumbstruck face. Remembering the moments of their earlier revel, he yelled at him: "Umber, you dumb fuck, you should have listened better to your nurse's stories. This is all your damn fault."

"What? What the fuck did I do?" asked Jon Umber, more dumbfounded.

"The Horn of Winter was used by Joramun to wake giants from the earth. I guess we've found the right one, but your lack of wit just doomed us to our deaths".

Jonnel could have argued longer with that fool of an Umber, but the strike of a club just a foot behind him reminded him of the current situation, and he began to run. And run he did, with naught but his shirt and breeches, a fur covering him, and a sword in his right hand. Yet a strike from a giant still met him.

Thrown away what seemed to be half a hundred feet, his ribs bruised, maybe broken, bleeding from his head, and limping, he managed to find his way to the forest.
He did not know even in which direction he went, but as the hours of the night went by, the pain and the cold became unbearable, so he stopped, wrapped the pelt tighter around his body and went to sleep.

---

When he awoke, after what seemed an eternity, he was no longer in a forest. In the darkness, he saw the face of a creature, with dappled skin, and gold and green, catlike eyes, her fair full of wines, twigs, and flowers.

"You're one of the children" he said, in wonder.

"Our true name is those who sing the song of earth, human" answered the creature. He gave him a bowl, full of a blood stew, with barley and chunks of meat, and bade him eat.

"I'm Jonnel Stark" said the boy, mindful of the courtesies instilled in him at Winterfell. If but for a moment, he thought he saw satisfaction in the face of the singer, but it passed as soon as it came, and his visage returned to its previous state.

"My name is in the True Tongue, which man cannot speak." was the singer's reply.

"But then, by what name should I call you?"

"You cannot speak my name. Why call me by another?" retorted the singer, and in his state of health, Jonnel could not find a fault in his logic.

He looked around and saw white roots all around him, and that he was laying on a bed of moss in a cavern, the floor around him full of bones – of bird and beast, skulls – of beasts, of men, and mayhap of giants too. In the distance, he heard the sound of rushing water and a song of earthly tones.

"We found you in the forest, half-dead and delirious. We brought you here and healed you," said the singer.

"And for that you have my undying gratitude," said the Stark. "How might I repay you?"

A quick look of satisfaction flitted across the singer's face; this time mixed with incredulity. It passed as sudden as it came, and Jonnel gave it no further thought.

"Come" he said and would speak no more. Jonnel rose from his sick bed and followed him. They passed a river swift and black, and he saw passaged going deep into the earth, bottomless pits and deep shafts. until they reached a tangled nest of roots, where another singer laid enthroned, amid a score of others, who looked mostly dead.

The half-corpse spoke: "You asked of a reward, Jonnel Stark. We ask of you nought but to give us, when you return home, what you did not expect. But you are but a man, so I will ask an oath of you."

"When I shall return to Winterfell, I shall give to you or yours that which I had found and expected not. This I swear, by the Old Gods of Forest, Stream and Stone." That was Jonnel's oath, given quickly and without much thought, the boy prickly at the perceived insult towards his honour.

When at least the time came for him to leave the cavern, the singers gave him the war horn he had wandered beyond the Wall to find – the ornate one, and the old and cracked one, and bade him keep it safe with solemn words. And by the same token, a direwolf bitch, fat and pregnant, followed behind him, and the singers counselled him not to turn her away.

---

It took him a week to find his way to Castle Black, and as he reached the Wall he was met by Jon Umber and by Edwyn Stark, his father's cousin, now a man of the Night's Watch.

"We thought you dead and buried, cousin. Well, not buried, but eaten by some wild beast. A snow bear or a shadow cat. Maybe even by a pack of wolves."

"Or perhaps a direwolf" smiled Jonnel, and the bitch came from the trees to the cries of the black brothers.

"Something like that, I suppose. She's big enough to eat you whole, though I wonder how long you'd keep her fed."

"I will keep her fed 'till her dying day – I'm taking her with me, to Winterfell. It does not do to ignore such a good omen from the gods." answered Jonnel.

"Cease that talk of death and beasts feasting on the flesh of the fallen, Lord Edwyn. You have not told Jonnel the joyous news." intervened the Umber lad.

"Aye, I forgot for a moment of that." said the Lord Commander. "Your princely wife has given birth. Guess to whom?"

"There are only two guesses are there not. Do I have a son, or a daughter?"

"You have a son, Stark," said Umber. "Healthy and hale, black of hair and grey of eye. The rumours are he looks just like your lord father."

"Praise the gods then. It was high time for Daena to give birth."

"There is more news" said the black brother, "one's you'd least expect". And at those words, Jonnel's face paled, and his knees began to tremble.

"You have another son – this one silver haired, and red eyed, which is most peculiar. I had thought the Targaryens had eyes of purple, not red."

Jonnel sat in place, struck dumb and only one word found its way beyond his lips: "Fuck!".

"What's so bad about it?" said Jon Umber, utterly clueless. "You've got an heir and a spare the first time."

 

[zecorezecron]

This is why you never make deals that are that open ended. With that definition, damn near anything can be not expected.