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Sean Bean Saves Westeros - Book 1: Sean Lends a Hand by High Plains Drifter
 A song of Ice and Fire & Game of Thrones Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Eddard S., Words: 109k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 737, Published: Jul 22, 2014 Updated: Feb 1, 2015  423Chapter 8
He watched Robb wiggled out from between two of the long, sharp stakes fronting the trench and bulwark of the siege line. His not son straightened up and promptly began marching over to where the Lord of Winterfell, a place the actor had only ever visited on set, stood at the foot of the tall platform the Umbers had constructed. For the second day, but only the first full morning, the golden and slightly bloodied form of Jaime Lannister dominated the top of the stage, on show for all King's Landing to see. Though from Sean's perspective, not Niko was more importantly on show for the disgraced knight's overly loving sister Cersei to see.
As he dabbed at his own slightly bloodied head, Grey Wind followed after his master, his brother (?), and slithered easily between some stakes too. 'Jesus,' Sean thought for the thousandth time. 'The beast's as big as a warg. Peter's warg, not George's. Warg means something else here entirely. Well almost entirely, it still involved wolves .. sort of … some of the time,' he thought, trying to wrap his head around the intricate details of this messed up universe that the stout white haired author, fucking George, had created. 'Worse luck me,' the actor continued, 'it's all bloody real.' And didn't he feel it, his head still hurt from the Casterly Kiss to his rock. 'I gave better than I got,' he told himself. 'At least I've got my armor to keep me safe.' The actor instinctively went to pat the life protecting plate mail gift and suddenly got a chill. He hadn't worn it the last two days, not since they'd set up the siege, believing himself safe and not wanting to lug about the extra weight of it.
"My Lord," not Rich said stoically, at last entering the small circle of guards, aides, and lordlings surrounding his father. He dropped a quick bob of his head to show his respects. "My lords," he repeated politely, sharing quick looks with those leaders present, many of whom only weeks earlier had followed him as their liege.
"Robb," not Ned at last replied in acknowledgement, before asking, "Any problems in the camp?"
A few of the Northerners looked like they wanted to snicker, word had spread quickly that the boy had gotten on his father's shit list, so to speak. But they'd all learned during the march south from Castle Darry that Lord Stark now took his, and everyone else's, shit very seriously; deathly so.
"No, my Lord. All seems properly laid out in accordance with your waste laws," Robb said with the solemnity of a teen acting older than his years.
"Good," he responded. "Come walk with me Robb, let us see if the Dragon Gate shows any signs of soon opening." When Olyvar and few others of his Special Protection Branch detail went to follow them, the actor waived them off, he meant to be alone a moment with his not son. His aides frowned, but obeyed.
"Yes, my Lord," not Rich answered with some enthusiasm, clearly hoping to be released from his father's garde-robe.
The pair started strolling in the direction of the city's immense walls. And where Robb went, so too did his direwolf. Sean kept a careful eye on the beast, who as usual never liked to come too close to the actor. The direwolf's odd but nonaggressive behavior towards him had come as a relief. After surviving the Battle of the Green Fork, not Ned's greatest dread had been about his first meeting with the dire wolf. Portraying a character believably, taking on a role as second skin, was an actor's goal. And he thought of himself as a damned fine one. Certainly good enough to bluff his way through with most of the hayseeds who automatically assumed by sight that he was Lord Eddard Stark. Yet, if any being could expose him as a doppelganger of the true Lord of Winterfell, he had worried it would be one of George's almost supernaturally attuned mega wolves. Sean harbored few doubts how kindly those exceedingly large and sharp teeth would take to discovering his usurpation of head of the Stark pack. Thankfully the beast seemed even more wary of him than he was of it. Of course that still left Summer, Shaggy Dog, and Ghost to account for in the future; oh, and Nymeria too if Arya's wishes were ever met.
Finally pausing, not Ned asked in a quiet, kind voice, "You're not going to be late again, are you, Robb?"
"No, father. I swear I shan't," not Rich promised fervently.
"Good. I believe you. I don't mind how frequently you practice with Roslin at making me a grandchild," he said, causing not Rich to blush a shade complementary to his Tully auburn hair. Nevertheless he kept going, this time in a sterner tone. "Just make sure it doesn't happen again on my time. It makes the both of us look poorly in front of our banners. Understand?"
Robb bit his lip at the relatively mild chastisement while nodding his agreement.
The four unhappy faces at last tepidly nodded their heads up and down, acknowledging their lord's command, but clearly revealing how opposed their hearts they were to this order. Sean didn't care, he meant to stay alive in this hellish world. And to do that the actor needed to win; not just today but the next day and the next and the next, until the Lannisters and all the other crazy bastards in his way were wiped out. To accomplish that he needed his lords, brutal men trained and smarter than him in the ways of war, to survive, even for now that treacherous leech Bolton.
Thankfully not Ned also knew a few classic battle tricks thanks to his many military roles and vociferous reading habits, and he would use all that he'd learned. Their urges to charge down at the Lannisters as they came at them piecemeal fell on deaf ears; he refused to give up the high ground, his orders were not up for debate. Each lord had his assigned place in the line of battle. Lord Roose would control the Dreadfort, Rills, and Barrowland levies on the far left. Lord Medger would direct the Cerwyn, Winterfell, and White Harbor banners on the far right. In two large blocks in the woods just past the either end of the line, large numbers of archers would pepper the approaching foe with flights of arrows. They lacked the powerful English longbows of old, but hopefully their curved staffs made of exotic northern wood would prove good enough for Sean's needs.
In the middle, Lord Robbett would command the foot from the Deepwood, Torrhen's Square, and the Twins next to Lord Roose's troops. And Lord Halys would give the orders to the men of the Hornwood, the Karhold, and Widow's Watch; who would hold the line between Lord Medger and Lord Robbett's warriors. All four lords, each given fifty precious cavalry to place in their reserve, were charged under pain of flaying (an order that of course brought a pleased smile to that bastard Bolton) to stay out of the front line and to more importantly never, ever let their men leave the shield wall. Sean, like every good Englishman, even a lad from the old Danelaw, knew why William, and not Harold, had won at Hastings. He suspected that once the enemy had broken their teeth a few times on Northern steel, the wily Old Lion would try some ruse to break his banner's shield discipline.
The actor playing at live war swallowed back on the bile edging up his throat and trying to spew out his mouth. He would command the main reserve, just over a thousand tough as nails bastards from the Last Hearth and one hundred horse. Satisfied by a last look, not Ned dismissed his four captains and spurred his piebald mount toward his own designated position behind the main line. The banners of House Umber waited by the tor which stood next to the Kingsroad, right where it passed over the top of the long sloping ridge on which the Northern army waited.
Seeing his approach, several mailed riders wearing unchained giant surcoats trotted out from the unwashed mass of far, far northern barbarians gathered about the rock outcrop. "My Lord," rumbled the deep bass of the senior Umber captain, a hard ugly man named Bofor. "The lads ain't taking it well you don't trust'em to stand in the shield wall with the other houses."
The other five blood loving killers accompanying Bofor harrumphed their agreement.
"Aye," he responded coolly, fixing them with his icy Ned glare. He'd gotten quite good at 'the look,' or at least he surmised so based on everyone's reaction when he whipped it out. This instance wasn't any different. The group tried to hide their uncomfortable squirms as he fixed eyes on each one for a long second. He said no more, just kept riding. They swung in around to join him, keeping mum; the debate apparently won by 'the look.'
The large crowd of weapon toting men in front of him parted, a few giving cheers at his appearance, others grumbling, and most simply speechless. He could smell a hint of alcohol in the air. More than one writer he'd read had talked of the need for even brave veteran men to stiffen their nerve with a nip or ten of something.
Sean ignored them all, moving forward, deeper into their mass, wishing he could still his own jitters with a shot of something. When he reached the crest, he at last brought the black and white spotted war horse to a stop. Of all the mounts he'd straddled since his mysterious, inexplicable arrival in this maddening place, Sean liked this one best. He just hoped the stallion would keep its wits when the fighting started and not throw him, bite him, trample him, or basically in any way cause the death of Mrs. Bean's little boy.
Not Ned looked south down the road, away from the enemy's van which was gathering into a massed column at the northern foot of the rise. He felt a moment of pleasure, even to his untrained eye the terrain screamed bloody murder to an attacker. The deceitful bastard Walder Frey had done well recommending this gold plated bitch of a narrowing, rising front for the North to make their stand against a Lannister assault.
"Any word from Ser Kyle?" he asked loudly, but to no one in particular.
"Everything still clear, my Lord," Bofors responded. "Just a few score more stragglers killed and couple of supply wagons he's liberated and sending up. Hope there's some ale in'em. Thirsty work a battle."
Ser Kyle Condon commanded the last fifty horse troops left to not Ned's force. They were scouting miles to his rear, making sure no unaccounted for Westerlands force was sneaking up on them from behind. Sean wasn't about to let his chance at victory get yanked away by a surprise buggering up the arse.
"Men of the Last Hearth," he suddenly, dramatically boomed in his loudest, firmest stage voice as he at last turned to face them head on. "There!" And Sean yanked out his sword, pointing it toward the Lion banners a mile off. "Our foe. They will charge us, and break like waves against our northern brothers' shield wall." Not Ned swept the sword down the length of the line forming behind the field works on the narrowest point on the slope below. "But they will come again and come again, until the Mountain or the Strongboar or the Old Lion himself makes a breach among our brethren. Then Men of Umber, then, we here shall charge down upon them; to stem the tide and assure victory. If … if by doing so … we are marked to die, we are enow to do our North loss; and if to live, the fewer men, to the Men of the Last Hearth, the greater share of honor. The Old Gods will, I pray thee, wish not one man more to aid us. I am not covetous of gold, nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; it yearns me not if men my surcoats wear. Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive. Wish not one more man! I would not lose so great an honor as one man more methinks would share from me. Proclaim it through my host, that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart. We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us. He that shall live this day, and see old age will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, and say 'Tomorrow is the Green Fork.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say 'These wounds I had at the Green Fork.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot. But he'll remember, with advantages, what feats he did that day. Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words – Ned Stark, Bolton, Cerwyn, Glover, Frey, Hornwood, Karstark, Flint, Manderly, and most honored of all, the giants of Umber – be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. This story shall the good man tell his son; from this day to the end of the world. We in it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother. And gentle Sers in Westeros now-a-bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speak that fought with us this day beside the Green Fork."
A roar, louder than any crowd Sean had e'er before in his life heard, burst forth until his ears rang so hard he could not hear another sound.
Cough. Cough.
The slight, stooped, older man, accompanied by only a white cloak wearing knight and a squire bearing the white parley flag, smiled with nervous expectation down from his horse at the unmounted not Ned. The other two looked more anxious than anything else. Most likely because Sean had taken Robb and Grey Wind to this warm up act for the star performance he anticipated performing later. A dire wolf brought a lot of leverage to a negotiating table.
"And you are?" he said gruffily, eyes narrowed suspiciously
The toff blinked, looking confused and unsure of the situation. "Ahhhh …" Cough. Cough. "Lord Rosby, my … my Lord Stark," he said in tone to imply of course Sean couldn't possibly have forgotten who he was.
"Lord Rosby. I take it you were there at Baelor's Sept when Joffrey Water's ordered tongue-less Payne to chop my head off?"
The consumptive prat didn't seem to know how to respond to the question. His smile grew wider and more nervous until he stuttered out "K-k-k-king Joffrey …"
"Is the illegitimate offspring of the perverse, adulterous union between Cersei Lannister and her twin brother Jaime," not Ned cut in with icy hardness. Then he smiled cruelly, "But we're not here today to talk about the bastard Joffrey's status. I'll leave that to King Stannis when he arrives from Dragonstone. I do, however, want to discuss what is to be done with the Kingslayer."
Cough. Cough. "Yes, his Grace .." Cough. "… has instructed me to verify whether the prisoner you hold is," Cough. "as your herald announced, Ser Jaime. And if so," Cough, "… to discover your terms for returning his Grace's most beloved uncle to him." Upon finishing his little speech, the puffed up lordling dabbed at the dots of yellow phlegm his lung wracking exertions had retched up onto his lips.
"And are you satisfied?" not Ned demanded.
"Well …" Cersei's easily replaceable diplomat tarried.
Sean rolled his eyes and turned to the white cloak. "You, which of Cersei's honor-less lapdogs are you?"
The blond haired man scowled. Touchy honor besmirched the tool reactively reached for the pommel of his sword.
Grey Wind snarled, exposing very large, very sharp teeth.
The gauntleted hand quickly slipped off the blade handle.
"Well … ?" the actor asked quietly, with enough cold in his breath he thought he might see ice vapor slipping out his mouth. 'Damn, I'm getting good at Ned,' he congratulated himself.
"Ser Preston Greenfield," the armored knight answered, trying to sound haughty but coming across more as a petulant child.
"Ah yes. Forgive me, since the Old Gods reattached my head to my shoulders, my memory's become a bit spotty. Now take a long, hard look up there. If you don't recognize him, I'll have Lord Bolton cut off one of his fingers and bring it to. Maybe you can recognize your brother that way."
The backstabbing brute gazed up at the figure on the scaffold and frowned.
"Bring him closer to the edge!" Sean shouted.
Clasping the Kingslayer firmly by the neck, the Greatjon brought the prisoner to, and then over the edge. To the credit of his gigantic, and undoubtedly still very sore, balls, Jaime Lannister didn't kick or fuss at all as he dangled twenty plus feet in the air.
Preston Greenfield gulped and then regaining his compsure announce, "That's him. I recognize Ser Jaime."
"That's enough then Jon," the Lord of Winterfell commanded his strongest bannerman.
"But I was just starting to enjoy the view, Stark," the Kingslayer called out with amusement.
Sean did his best to ignore the bloody, but recklessly brave, arse. His own skull still ached from their encounter that morning.
Cough. Cough. "I shall advise his Grace that your prisoner …" Cough. "… is in fact his esteemed uncle. Now what terms do you …" Cough, "… propose as sufficient to exchange Ser Jaime?"
Not Ned waited, not answering. He just kept staring over the city wall at the distant image of the Red Keep atop its hill. He knew the answer, but nothing like some dramatic tension; however unnecessary to the plot line, to grab people's attention and put bums in the seats.
Cough. "My Lord … Stark," the toff prodded.
He lowered his gaze to give the phlegmatic wretch 'the look.' He enjoyed the power of watching the man quiver. "My first condition is that I will only negotiate with members of the Small Council."
Lord Rosby spread his hands. "My Lord," Cough, "the Small Council is very busy."
Sean resisted rolling his eyes. "Which is why I will give Lords Baelish and Varys until sunset to arrive, or come morning I'll have Lord Bolton gift Cersei one of her brother's fingers. Or better yet, something she might have an easier time recognizing, his cock."
"My Lord!" Rosby spluttered in protest while every one of the actor's banners in listening distance guffawed at the threat.
Sean ignored the commotion and bore straight on with his demands. "As such high ranking dignitaries, they'll need an appropriate escort. Have Clegane bring them. That's my second condition. I hear Joffrey's promoted his hound to the Kingsguard. I want to see what a white cloak does to a dog. Now be off with you and report to your mistress."
"My Lord!?" Rosby wailed in complaint.
Not Ned deliberately continued to ignore the man and turned to walk back to his flock of lords gathered around the Kingslayer's platform.
"My Lord!?"
"Oh by the Seven, Rosby!" shouted Jaime Lannister, "Go tell my sister before I kill you myself."
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