Ned XV
He'd never come to enjoy this part of his responsibilities as Prince of the North but there were days he felt more confident than others that he was doing the right thing. That he was making the North a better place.
The man who was brought out of the cells was well dressed, although his garb had suffered the natural effects of several weeks of confinement. His beard had grown out but he'd been given water to clean himself.
"You've heard from my father then, Prince Stark?" he asked, confident despite his predicament.
Ned crossed his arms. "Lord Bolton has written to me, yes."
The prisoner shook his manacles in question.
He looked at the man in contempt. "The Lord of Dreadfort has confirmed that he believes you to be his natural-born son. He has further stated his regrets that he cannot be here to see justice done."
Pale eyes that were very much like those Ned had seen before in Roose Bolton's face went wide.
"Bring him," Ned ordered the guards.
The boys were already mounted. His sons Robb and Crejon, along with Rickard and Brandon. Ned mounted his own horse and checked Ice was secured to his scabbard.
"Let's not be hasty." The prisoner smiled in what Ned recognised as something intended to be winning. "I know things that you'd be interested in."
Ned looked at the guards. "Make sure he's secured to the horse and that the horse is secured to yours. And keep him away from the boys."
The men pulled the prisoner to the horse, an aged gelding that rarely had the energy to canter, much less gallop. The saddle was a special one kept aside for these occasions. Ramsay Snow's manacles were chained to the saddlehorn and another chain was run beneath the horse's belly. The guards wrestled the prisoner's boots off and secured the chains around his ankles. He wouldn't have far to walk now, so boots weren't going to be a requirement.
"Don't ignore me, Prince Stark!"
"Uncle?" asked Rickard. "Is he..."
"You're here to watch, Rick. Not to listen to a rapist." Ned drew on his reins and nudged his horse's sides with his heels, leading the way out of the gates. He paused in the gateway and looked back, meeting Ramsey Snow's pale eyes with his own grey ones. He'd been struck over the years that although the colour of Bolton eyes and Stark eyes was very similar, they really were unalike in every other way. "I can have you gagged, if you wish.".
They rode out under grey and white banner, the wind coming out of the north. A cold wind.
"Winter is coming," he murmured.
"Our blades are sharp."
When Ned jerked his head and looked at the prisoner, the man smirked. "What, aren't we quoting our House's words?"
Ned shook his head silently and kept riding, looking around to watch as men worked to repair and improve the houses of the winter town. A few stopped as they saw him ride past. Only Crejon was innocent enough to wave to them and out of the corner of his eye he saw Robb ride closer to the boy, catch his arm and lean over. Hopefully with an explanation of why he shouldn't do so.
Not when the Stark rode to execute.
If the town was fuller, custom would have had the execution in the market square right outside Winterfell's gates. Through the summer, when few would be there to lay witness, Ned preferred to use a spot outside the wolfswood. There was a weirwood stump there to serve as the block of ironwood in the market square might once winter came and the wintertown filled with clans out of the mountains and forests.
The prisoner looked down on him when he dismounted. "I did nothing my father has not. Or many a lord before, Stark or Bolton. You don't know how I was born."
"Kicking and screaming." Ned walked over to the stump. "I also know how you were sired."
Ramsay kicked at the guards as he was dragged from the horse. "Ah, the honourable Eddard Stark knows. And what will you do about it? Ignore it, because he's the king's friend?"
That stung but Robert had sent a letter with Roose Bolton's and it had provided some perspective. He could see the boys were hanging on every word. "Your father has been granted permission to take the black."
"Then I will do the same. See, we didn't even have to come out here to settle this." Ramsay sat back on his heels and held up his manacled hands.
Ned drew Ice. "The Wall needs men. Not beasts." He nodded to Jory Cassel. "Hold him."
It took two men to hold Ramsay in place. Ned raised the greatsword high. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, on the cousel of Roose of the House Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Master of Laws, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Prince and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."
He brought the sword down.
Blood gushed from the stump of the Bolton's neck, soaking into the roots of the tree-stump. The head rolled almost as far as the horses where the boys watched with dread and fascination. It had been the same for he, Brandon and Benjen.
The body's ruined tunic gave Ned something to clean Ice with. Once the sword was away he walked to the boys. "His isn't the first Bolton blood shed here, or at the block in wintertown," he told them. "For generations, the Red Kings and the Winter Kings fought for dominion over the North. Some of your ancestors fell at the Bolton's hands and their blood was shed at the Dreadfort."
"They were flayed, weren't they?" asked Brandon nervously.
He'd hoped Old Nan would have left that out of her tales. Catelyn felt the boys were too young. But the truth was something they needed to know. "Aye. Some of them. That wasn't their worst sin. Roose Bolton is not the worst of men and his sons may be better yet. We've taught them good lessons over the years."
Ned pointed to Ramsay. "You heard him turn against his father, accusing him of rape in the hope of lessening his own punishment. I don't ever want to hear you turning on each other. Wolves may disagree amongst themselves but the pack must always come first. It was that strength, the fact that we can rely on each other, that won the Starks the North. Failing to understand that brought the Boltons defeat after defeat."
He looked at each of the boys in turn until they had all nodded in acceptance of the lesson.
Alliser I
He'd never seen a wildling camp before but this one made the most miserable smallfolk village he'd seen south of the Wall look like a prosperous market town by comparison.
The leader of the camp wore armour of bone and heavy furs but he had an iron helm. Alliser thought the man - his name was Ryk but his folk mostly called him Longspear - was probably a raider. He had that look. "They're from no grave diggings," he told Mance Rayder. "We burn our dead, you crows would know that."
"Then they're recently slain."
"Our hunters don't return from the Frostfangs. Not even one." The man tugged his braided beard. "You ken what that means."
"I've heard the legends. I didn't put much weight on them."
"Legends don't kill men. Some of the villages have been abandoned. Not all of them went east."
"Or south?" asked Alliser.
"There's a Wall in the way, crow. I can't name those whose banners are along it but I saw their banners."
Mance gave Alliser a stern look. "If this is... them, then it seems that they're targeting Wildlings to turn them into wights. King Robert isn't happy about living Wildlings attacking the Wall. I doubt he'd be pleased by dead Wildlings doing so."
"Probably not." Ryk frowned and then gestured towards Mance's belt and the dagger sheathed there. "For someone who doesn't believe in legends, you're all well-equipped with dragonglass."
"I'm not sure our King places weight on legends being real," Ser Tyrion observed drily. "But he knows they can be used to inspire men. These daggers are supposed to just be an honour for men who come to the wall." He paused and muttered something under his breath.
"What was that, little man?"
"Just a idle thought. Those dead men - wights, I suppose the word is, they slew half our number even though we outnumbered them. If you were all to be turned in that way, the threat to Westeros would be considerable. I think Robert is practical enough that he'd be willing to come to a compromise."
"It might add new weight to the offer I was sent to bring here," said Mance drily.
"What offer?"
Alliser had to agree with the Wildling. This was the first he'd heard of any offer.
"King Robert is willing to provide you to access to richer lands than those north of the Wall. There are conditions, and he will hold you to them, but better that than being wights, no?"
Ryk grimaced. "He demands we kneel, Rayder? The free folk don't kneel."
"That must put a terrible crimp on some activities," Tyrion said and waggled his eyebrows.
There was a laugh from some of the wildlings listening and Ryk smirked. "Not that I've noticed."
Tyrion's eyebrows stopped waggling and he arched them. "Interesting."
"What lands are you talking about, Rayder?" growled Alliser. The Usurper was seven kinds of fool but fool enough to unleash Wildlings south of the Wall?
"They aren't lands he rules, Ryk," Mance explained, gesturing to Allister for quiet. "You won't owe him obedience, or kneeling. But by the same measure, all he'll do is send you there. Taking those lands and holding them will be your problem, not his."
"Enemies of his, no doubt."
"Well it's not the sort of thing one does to friends." Mance shrugged. "You and any tribes you can convince to follow you, are offered transport to these lands from Eastwatch-on-Sea. King Robert can have a hundred ships there to carry you, along with your families and any livestock and possessions that can be crammed aboard. If there are more people willing to leave the North behind then we can send the ships back and do this again."
"You might need to do that more than once," Ryk warned.
"What are you saying, Ryk?" called a woman among the wildlings.
"I'm saying the kneeler king may be the best option we have."
She spat onto the ground. "How do we know he won't have us in chains as soon as we're on his ships. You know what happens to those captured along the shores by ships."
"Not in the west, I hope." The Half-man smirked. "If the Ironborn have a ship left to raid with then they'll be buried in men looking for more glory than they found on the Wall."
"Not the west, of late. Not since Euron the Crow." Ryk glared at Mance and Alliser.
"Here, he wasn't of the Night's Watch. He called himself that."
"His ship was seen off the Wall only months ago."
Tyrion's grin spread wider and he buffed his fingernails against the folds of his cloak. He glanced at Alliser and Mance with a twinkle in his eyes.
Alliser gritted his teeth. Damned if he'd sing the praises of a turncoat Lannister.
Mance was less reserved. "The Greyjoys died almost ten years ago. The ship has a new master now, and I think slaving is one depth he hasn't sunk to."
"A man must have standards," Tyrion proclaimed smugly. "Euron Greyjoy was last seen heading for the bottom of Ironman's Bay. It's deep water, and so far as anyone knows, he's still down there. Perhaps he found something interesting down there."
The wildlings looked at him. "Is he joking?" Ryk asked.
"He's the one who hooked Euron to an anchor."
"The dwarf killed Euron the Crow."
"I think he might have been the first man I ever killed," Tyrion said thoughtfully. "The battle's a bit of a blur, honestly. But to address your first point, Westeros has laws against slavery and King Robert is notoriously enthusiastic about enforcing them."
"And you think he'll believe in wights?"
Alliser snorted. "We didn't kill all of them. Two of them are wrapped in chains and Barristan Selmy is taking them south on what's left of our ships, along with the wounded. It'd take a brave man to question his word, even if he didn't have wights to show them."
"Fine then." Ryk looked around. "If the wights are attacking so close, we should move anyway. But I doubt many will believe me unless I have Crows with me to swear to it." He put his hands on his hips. "And maybe the dwarf."
"You want me to walk all the way to the Shivering Sea?"
"Too much for you?" asked Ryk.
"Thank the gods, I brought paper and ink. I'll want to take extensive notes."
"He's written books," Alliser explained to the puzzled looking wildlings.
"And I feel another one coming on!"
Alliser shook his head. It's all coming together for Baratheon again, he thought, touching the dagger at his own belt. He arms us against the wights before anyone knows about them and has a plan to remove the Wildlings to... where? Mance avoided giving a definite answer. Either the gods smile on him with especial favour or...
The knight ground his teeth. Or he knew. But how would that be possible? But it's too much of a coincidence. Someone is pulling strings, Baratheon or... But who else could? Who else would? Is he up to something or is it madness, like Rhaegar's?