Dark Wings, Dark Words
Dark Wings, Dark Words
On the eastern shores of the North, the smallfolk and lords alike had little to fear from raiders. Some Lysene pirates and slavers seeking easy pickings among the isolated northern villages at times. Occasionally ironborn ships, having sailed around the arm of Dorne, would perform some half-hearted raids on their way from Braavos, or having crossed the Neck. Rarest of all, squat and hairy Ibbenese men and their hulking ships were known to come and reave.
To the people of the North’s eastern shores, the raider ships they knew to expect most often were that of the Skagosi. Short, jagged crafts that knew no sails and were manoeuvred by oars alone, they would sail upriver until they came upon a small undefended village in the dead of night, and steal all they could fit on their paddle-boats. They had no warships, no great raiding crafts, when their power was broken by the Starks centuries past, they had destroyed all their great ships and sworn never to rebuild them.
Until that promise was broken.
On the eastern shores of the North, the smallfolk and lords alike had forgotten the fearsome reaving fleets of the Skagosi. They had relegated their malice and viciousness to serve as little more than fearsome stories for children. They had not expected to see grey-sailed ships emerging from the snowstorms of the coast. They had not expected to see Skagosi reavers come ashore in their thousands.
None had expected to see the Skagosi pillage their first holdfast.
Skagosi reavers come ashore.
Varamyr’s invasion of the Karhold had begun in earnest, in a time when snows had begun to pile around castles and keeps, when armies could ill-afford to traverse the North with ease, and a time when even ravens could struggle to find their destination, instead getting lost in the swirling winter storms.
Regardless, the Karhold had empted their rookery, black wings by the dozen, and let their messages fly to near every lord in the north-east of the North and beyond.
“War!” cried every message, “The Skagosi by the four-and-thousands at our gates! Send aid and men!”
Donnel had of course received his own, as had each one of his vassals. To his shame, on the advice of his council, he had ignored them all. Following suit, each of his vassals did the same.
“Rickard has his own army. The Karstarks number twice as many as the Skaggs, and any mainlander can fight for ten of the stone-gutters.” Though no lord had been quick to speak, Edwyn Thelly had been the first. “We worry that his army might threaten the Dreadfort come a war? Then he cannot be so weak as to not defend his own lands.”
“A man does not need to be weak to ask for aid.” Donnel had still been holding his letter then, albeit crushed in a vair-gloved hand. He was facing away from his council, staring into the fire as he was oft to do. “And four-thousand Skaggs is enough to justify such a call.”
“Surely this number is exaggerated?” Lord Dirk spoke directly to the spymaster. “When we fought them on the Seal shore they numbered only half that – and we killed most that came ashore there.” Artos Redberry was examining a separate letter, but looked up to answer.
“By no accounts exaggerated, though it would suggest that all the isles of Skagos are emptied to field such a number.”
Donnel turned and faced the men he summoned to counsel him, tossing the letter onto the table in front of them.
“Four thousand is too much to leave to the Karhold, we would be better to ride their ourselves, and perhaps remind Lord Karstark of the might of the Dreadfort so close to the south.”
“Or let the Regent do so, and let them both bleed against Skagosi spears? If you ride north and the Regent follows suit, he may claim you for a commander – he has that right. Send your riders into the deepest battles, and take the credit himself. Then who would the Karhold thank when it came time to elect a new King?”
“If we do nothing then the Karhold will be the Regent’s.”
“Perhaps not. Karlon Karstark was, if I recall, captured by the Hayes at the Neck?” Redberry smiled delicately. “I doubt the Karstarks will forgive the Regent for such a slight, even if Hullen did ride to their defence. The Karstarks can hold a grudge as old as their House, I've heard it said.”
Lord Thelly slowly turned to look at Donnel with a creeping smile to match Artos’, while Lord Dirk stroked his chin. Donnel sat, losing himself in thought. Redberry continued talking, easing the idea into the open.
“I would not pretend to know how the Karstarks might act, or even how the Regent might. It may be that he is forced into action… but perhaps not. It may be that he considers the Karstarks a danger to him, and he’d be happy to let them get raided just to undermine a future rival at the King’s Council.” Donnel ran his gloved hands through his hair and looked up at Artos.
“Is that likely?”
“If I were the Regent-”
“A terrifying thought indeed.” Lord Dirk interjected sarcastically. Artos ignored him.
“If I were the Regent, then I would send you a letter my lord. I would make you commander and command you to ride North with your levy and drive off the Skaggs. He would weaken you, and save the Karhold in one action.”
“Yes, that does make sense.”
“By that same logic, my lord, you must not ride to the Karhold.”
“I… Artos, you’ve left me behind somewhere.” Lord Thelly leaned forward slightly, and took over.
“It weakens you, at a time when you must not be weak. Winter will claim from every lord some thousand soldiers, and this is not a time when you can me leading soldiers into battle. The winds beyond our castle will trap them in their snows and half will freeze on the march home. If any part of you fears a war looming in our future, then you must sacrifice some small shred of honour now and prepare.” Thelly’s eyes were dark in that moment, flashing dangerously, even as Artos frowned and nodded.
Donnel looked between the two, wondering if they prepared such a sentiment in advance, but saw no trace of deception on either of their faces – though he knew them both to be excellent liars.
Fiercely loyal of course. Thelly simply to House Bolton and Artos to Donnel personally, but excellent liars nonetheless.
Donnel closed his eyes again in thought, pondering the question, swirling it in his head, calculating the cost of honour. Weighing it against the possibility of a war… Possibility? He shook his head slowly. To his surprise, and to creeping dread, he found there was no doubt in his mind.
“I fear I do. Greater than any of winter’s storms, I fear a war brewing on the horizon out of sight.”
The decision was made. As the Dreadfort’s council filtered out of the room, the Karstark’s letter was plucked from the table and tossed into the flames.
Such intrigue and plotting did not come naturally to Donnel. Every other day he trained in the freezing courtyard of the Dreadfort with his soldiers and commanders, honing his craft in becoming a better soldier and leader, and every other day he would walk back into the warm keep, face flushed red, and find another letter waiting for him in the hands of his maester, duty denying the pleasures of a hot bath.
Heward Linden oft trained at swords against Donnel, each testing the other, hoping that this day they might be the victor. As children they had wagered against one another: the victor was brought drinks by the loser, who must also then run once around the Dreadfort’s expansive walls. Those were the days of summer however, when icicles the size of spears did not begin to protrude from the castle’s battlements. They were boys no longer, and such games had turned to a fierce training.
Regardless now of who was the victor, the end of their duels ended the same way: Heward would resume his duties as bodyguard, even as Donnel was inevitably handed his next letter by the maester.
“This one, my lord, from Lord Harrion Manderly.” Donnel broke the wax seal of a merman, and read. Harrion had recently been decided as the official leader of the faction that had risen to support the Stark’s return. The Norrey had proposed it in a surprise visit to the Dreadfort, though he had stayed for a little period of time. Hullen’s agents, he had whispered, would be attempting to spy on all actions you take, my lord, you are known far and wide as one of the Stark’s greatest supporters in the North. That is why you should allow the face of our movement to be Harrion. Hayes will not doubt your involvement in what we do – and neither will the rest of the North – but it serves to obfuscate what we do. Makes it harder for Hullen to justify acting against you personally, and furthermore it might win over some lords who may mislike you in some regard. Forgive me, my lord, jealousy no doubt. And he had winked, leaning back. Donnel had doubted the proposal, but Artos Redberry had approved, so Donnel acceded to these two schemers.
“Spies, Norrey,” Artos Redberry seemed content to talk for a long time with the Norrey, leaving Donnel in some surprise at taking a back seat to proceedings, “What do you suspect? What do you fear? I've rooted out some of the more suspect hangers-on in the castle, but with the rising snows it’s harder to justify keeping many people out of the keep.”
“Hmm. Though I hear you've certainly seen some looser lips reside now in the town of Weeping and not within your walls – a few, a might note, that spoke to me more than Winterfell – I agree that you cannot keep yourselves isolated from those who might overhear certain conversations. My counter, my dear Artos, would be that travel simply isn't as easy as it used to be. You think Hullen will be employing runners between here and Winterfell? A laughable notion. He’ll be using birds, and birds sent from a town’s rookeries and not your own. Do not trouble yourself with ears in the courtyard my lords, but dark wings in the sky that aren't your own. And when they are yours, I would take measures to ensure they reach their destination unheeded.”
“Hmm.” Artos gently tapped a finger to his lips in thought. “Poachers are a growing concern as the game grows scarcer in winter. Might be passing innocent that some take to hunting birds, and ravens taste as good as any in a broth.”
“Might be indeed, my dear Artos. Might be that some poachers do not mean to bring down a raven, and might release them too, with their messages intact! Might be that some have their own ravens to release.” Artos nodded in response to this, and looked up at Donnel smiling conspiratorially.
Donnel, for his part, looked between the Norrey and his spymaster, wondering where they had hidden that passing secret at which they both smiled.
“Poachers?” Artos nodded, and smiled again.
“Do not worry my lord, I’ll have the guards of the Dreadfort keep out an extra eye. I doubt it would arouse suspicion of course, poaching is illegal, especially in winter when the game is scarcer.”
“…As you say, Artos.”
“Tomorrow, lord Bolton, I must leave you.” Donnel had allowed the Norrey to warm his bare feet at his hearth, and the little man had been very quick to capitalise on that. He grinned, and stretched his toes in anticipation of his future journeying, hanging his hands behind his head. “I'm headed for the Last Hearth – too much activity along the Karhold I hear, and I've no intention of coming across a Skagosi raiding party, no thank you! Lord Umber knows of my coming and he’ll have riders looking for me.”
Donnel nodded.
“I am glad of your coming lord Norrey. You continue to bring good advice.”
“And news, too.” He smiled. “I have another nugget to share, by the way. Bad news travels faster than any raven, I've heard it said, and I might be able to guess at the contents of your next letter.”
“Then by all means, guess away.”
“I've heard that the Regent, or should I say ‘the Queen’, has formed a greater lordship of the Stony Shore, binding the lordships of Sea Dragon Point, Blackpool, and the Stony Shore itself under one lord.”
“Indeed?” Donnel furrowed his eyebrows. “My father-by-law, Lord Eddard Fisher rules over the Stony Shore… I would count well on him as an ally. I take it you have not brought the good news that he has been raised to this greater lordship?”
“Ha!” The Norrey dropped his hands and slapped his thigh, laughing. “No, Lord Bolton! That would be good news! But when is the news I bring so good? The Regent is granting the vassalages of the Stony Shore to Lord Ryswell. That would make him lord of the Rills and the Stony Shore.”
“Ryswell? The Regent would hand him two higher lordships? Twice the sworn vassals?”
“Well,” The Norrey grimaced, resting his hands again behind his head, “Lord Benfred already had the Rills, but I take your point. Yes, odd turnabout. I suspect that if it should come to a war, much of the western North would be against us. It does certainly call into question the motives of Lord Ryswell. You and I no doubt well remember that he brought his army North before the war with Dorne was concluded.”
“I rode north with him, Norrey.”
“Aye, you did. It also means that the Ryswells currently command one of the larger armies in the North – fewer of his men died in the south than most other lordships.”
“You suspect Hayes’ involvement in that?” Artos raised an eyebrow and looked between the two. “I do not recall mention that the Rills were involved in the Flint rebellion. Surely it would be impossible for Hullen to manufacture the Rills strength years before he knew he would have to rely on it?”
“I wouldn't say impossible. Unlikely to be sure, but we've underestimated the man before.”
“Impossible, Norrey.” Donnel looked darkly at the little man. “This only proves Benfred's treason to King Stark.”
“I wouldn't go that far, my lord Bolton. Not yet, at least. I've seen no indication that Benfred knew of the Flint rebellion; if Hayes’ hand was in this, then it was likely done without Benfred's knowledge.”
Donnel raised his chin, the hint of a sneer curling at his lip.
“You ascribe too much to the Regent.”
“You ascribe too little.” The Norrey’s brown eyes glinted for a moment beside the fire. He was still sitting with his feet stretched out, his face and chestnut hair bathed in the orange of the flames. “Never forget that this is the man who cheated a King out of his crown. We cannot afford to relax now, or he’ll cheat us again.”
The Norrey; older than he looks, but spry and fitter than half the North. Cleverer too...
Those were the words that hung over Donnel when he saw the Norrey out of the Dreadfort the next morning. As the sun began to rise, he found the Norrey already downstairs and strapping on his huge pair of walking boots. They were thick leather things, bound by laces as thick as small rope, and packed with more padding that some horses saddles. Lord Dirk had woken early to join Donnel from the Dreadfort’s ramparts as they watched the Norrey and his few clansmen retainers begin their long trek north.
“Lord Dirk.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“The men you’re drilling, the riders and swordsmen. How fares their training?”
“Well enough. Some hundred men have been gathered, and taught better riding. I’d say they’re near ready to be counted among our cavalry. Why, my lord?”
“Double the number. Two hundred, drawn from our holdings.”
“My lord, the cost, horses and steel-”
“Damn the cost. The master-of-coin will find it, and if he doesn't, come find me.”
Donnel turned, pulling his cloak tighter about him, and stormed back into the keep. Inside, he found Marna and Lucias sitting beside one-another in the breakfast hall. They were talking in hushed tones, and Donnel saw Lucias smile, and then laugh. Alleras was passing by, fresh scrolls and scribblings in his arms, but Donnel caught him by the arm.
“Alleras, how close are those two?”
“Lord? Lucias and your sister? I’d say fairly so, now. Lucias speaks highly of her in our lessons together.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh yes, they’re often together, and at odd hours, bumped into the two together in the most unlikely of places, appearing around corridors I shouldn't expect, and so on.”
Donnel turned to look at them both, then turned back in an instant, the beginning of a thought starting at the tip of his tongue, something important in what was just said, but before he could vocalise it, or even examine what it might be, Alleras interrupted his silence.
“Oh, lord, I have letters amongst here. Two more from Winterfell, and well-wishing from your daughter Serra in the Dornish Marches.”
Donnel frowned, and turned to Alleras in distaste at the moment stolen, but instantly lost himself in the mention of his eldest daughter. Absent-mindedly he took the letter and read the first few lines to himself. Smiling, he took all the letters and brought them into the Hall.
Two more letters from Winterfell. The first, sealed with the Queen of the North's own seal, contained what the Norrey had suspected, and celebrated the Lord Ryswell being granted the lands of the Stony Shore, Blackpool, and Sea Dragon Point. Donnel had Alleras take down a letter of well-wishing to his father-in-law of the Stony Shore, in these trying days.
The second was addressed to Donnel by the Regent directly, but had been no less anticipated by those who counselled Donnel. It was a call to arms from the Regent, calling on him to raise up a force of men at arms and riders, and strike north to drive off the Skagosi attacking the Karhold. ‘Honour’, the letter called it. ‘The honour of command’. Donnel scoffed. He had commanded armies for King Stark twice over, but he would not willingly take command for the Regent.
This letter too, was burned.
The Lord’s Chair in the Dreadfort was a cold one. Smallfolk gossiped loudly and often that it was carved to resemble a stone skeleton, and that the torch sconces that lined the halls of the Dreadfort were carved to look like the grasping hands and arms of dead men and skeletons.
It’s not to say that this was not the case – Donnel knew that such sconces certainly existed, and in the dungeons these sconces often were made of the bones of those who died within a long, long time ago, a legacy borne of the Red Kings of old – but this was not so in the lord’s hall.
Not under Donnel’s rule, at least.
His torches were held by shaped iron same as any keep, and the ancient throne of the Red Kings was a large thing made from stone. The chair’s back was marked by a large engraving of the Bolton sigil, and all across it – and leading away on small tent poles – were long strips of pink cloth. The impression it gave was no doubt chilling, the fabric’s folds and curtains angling to look like the chair had been flayed and skin pulled in decorative directions, it was inviting and yet coldly cruel all at once. This, near-alone in the hall, was kept from the Red Kings’ legacies.
Donnel was seated amongst the pink folds. Men were leaving the hall, and few remained. Artos, in his capacity as spymaster, had requested the privacy. When given peace, Artos smiled up at the Lord Bolton.
“Poachers.”
Lord Thelly rolled his eyes.
“This is why you called us Artos? Poachers?” He tutted once, turning to Donnel dismissively. “Have them hanged and move on, I say. What matters this to us?”
“Poachers,” Artos repeated again with a patience, looking only to Lord Bolton. “as predicted by the Norrey when he came by.”
“You think these men are…”
“The Regent’s, I'm certain.”
“Spies?” Thelly’s interest recaptured, he turned and gestured. “Well we have torturers for this, let’s see what they know and move on.”
“We have gaolers, Edwyn, not torturers.” Thelly scoffed, ever so slightly, disagreement in subtle degrees.
“Your father used to say, quite often in fact: a naked man has few secrets, but a flayed man has none.”
Edwyn had many virtues. He was a smart man, a hard worker, a very favourable seneschal and advisor. He was fiercely loyal to House Bolton, as had been all his family for generations. He was not, however, a proponent of Donnel’s more moderated opinions regarding the Bolton legacies.
“I know well what my father’s opinions on the matter might have been.” Donnel scowled. “I shall visit these poachers. They are in our dungeon now, I take it?”
“They are, my lord. Bound securely, and guarded by men I know to be more loyal above others.”
“Very well.” Donnel stood, revealing the flayed man carved into the chair's back. It screamed silently down the hall as Donnel left it there. Artos followed close behind, but Edwyn remained.
This is very much how I imagine the chair: draped in folds of cloth and silk;
both heavy curtains and thin gossamer dyed pink to resemble folds of skin.
A flayed man brought to life, seemingly torn open from the seat.
There were three of them. Donnel had had his gaolers interrogate each one, for an hour. He had held back from torture – and was kept exceedingly conscious of the reactions of his guards. The gaolers all tried to hide their surprise at the command, and Donnel noted that though his bodyguards were younger, having served beside Donnel himself, and often at war, the gaolers were older men, his father’s servants. Bound to the Dreadfort.
The Dreadfort's great crosses.
Of the poachers, none were keen to talk and all seemed resigned to the cells under the Dreadfort. For now the gaolers had bound all three to the great crosses that the Boltons keep in their dungeons – used formerly to bind prisoners before they were flayed, no longer. None even seemed particularly terrified of their fates, or of Donnel – to his anger.
This was how Marna found him.
“Brother, what games are you playing down here alone?”
“Marna?” Donnel turned, surprised at seeing her in the dungeon's doorway. “Sister, what are you doing down here?”
“I came looking for you, of course. Do you know how boring your Dreadfort is? In Winterfell there were the Spring Baths, heated water pumped up into the castle. There was gossip and conversation, important visitors from all across the North! Here, I just find wispy old men, and gruff fighters. Course, not all your fighters are awful.” Then and there she winked at one of Donnel's men, and he saw the man as he realised he was staring and quickly look down at the floor, away from her.
“Marna!” Donnel’s anger was from the poachers, he knew, not truly at her. Though they had long been rivals, he did not hate her truly. He also knew that she was not a lustful woman, like to leave her husband’s bed, but she was a keen and fierce manipulator. Donnel did not trust his men not to accidentally spill secrets in a fruitless attempt at winning her favour.
Her favour was like water, or the wind. Beyond fickle, it danced ever out of reach and could never be kept for long. Only Mallador Stark, her husband, could claim to have truly succeeded in winning and keeping her affections.
And Donnel had enough worries of spies within his walls as it was, without adding his own sister to that list of enemies.
“Then entertain me brother! Keep me distracted! These men here, they’ll serve.” She smiled and walked up to Donnel, running her arm through his, and resting her head on his shoulder. “Poachers, was it? Hunting down ravens in our lands?”
“My lands.” Donnel frowned. “How did you know they were hunting ravens?”
“Oh, really brother, a castle this small and you think there aren't secrets floating around for just anyone to sample?”
“Small? The Dreadfort is comparable only to Winterfell in size!” Donnel snapped, then paused angry at himself that she could so easily distract him. “Marna, how did you know?”
Marna laughed, a high and cold laugh that seemed welcome only in the dark of the Dreadfort's dungeon.
“Oh you poor dear. Very well, I’ll tell you. Your seneschal Edwyn Thelly ‘accidentally’ let it slip. A very good man, that one, very keen on our House! I just had to remind him that I’m also a Bolton.”
“Edwyn? He’s quick as any to call you a Stark – not half as quick as yourself mind.”
“Hmm, perhaps. But he remembers me well enough. Both of us, as young children, running around our father’s feet. Do you remember? Oh the trouble we got ourselves into.”
Donnel scowled, and waited. He could not match his sister for wits, but knew well enough that she was building to something – why else would she have found him now. Why else would Edwyn send her down here…
“I remember well enough Marna.”
“Do you, Donnel? I'm not so sure.” She turned, and smiled up at him, detaching herself from his arm and looking at him evenly. “All of it? Really? What about when he brought us down here?”
“…Marna.”
“No?” From the inside of Marna’s white-and-grey dressings and cloak she drew a short blade, one that Donnel recognised instantly. It was valyrian steel, the rippling metal of the flensing blade glimmering cruelly in the torchlight.
“Where did you-”
“Because I do. All too well. What were we, eleven? Twelve? So young, and made to see so much blood.”
“Sister, a moment.”
“Hid it from mother, of course, why wouldn't he? He liked to keep so many little secrets about the place. The maester guessed right though, didn't he. I always suspected you told him, you know, the poor thing.”
Marna turned to the closest prisoner. The man was near-naked, save for a clothsack hood covering his head. “Is his mouth gagged? Good. It’s the screams I really remember, you know. Gods be good but they were terrible.”
He twirled the blade once in her fingers, and with a quick flick of her wrist it bit down into the man’s arm.
He screamed, suddenly and at once, realisation hitting him like lightning, even as Marna delicately ran the blade cleanly once in an arc.
“Marna!”
“WHAT, brother?” She whirled, her shawl twisting, and her face contorted fiercely. Her fingertips were spotted with droplets of crimson, and behind her a thin strip of skin dangled from the man’s arm. Only valyrian steel could produce such a fine cut.
“Stop this! I won’t have this!”
“Won’t you? Really? THIS is what drives my brother to anger? Our father’s son? Don’t pretend you don’t remember, every time he brought us down here, his eldest two, and he made us cut! He made us flay, and practise, and draw, and every time we would do it! Even when we fought, even when we cried, we would do it, because it was necessary, because it was Our Way. Our words, brother, have you forgotten? Our Blades Are Sharp, and you, what, forget that? Throw it away? You don’t get to!”
The blade danced again as Marna twisted, sliding once more down the prisoner’s arm. Through his gag another scream was strangled, even as the other poachers began to realise what was happening and cried out, all of them, momentarily drowning the cell in muffled noise and chaos.
“Marna, stop!” She twirled again at Donnel’s words, the blade danced once more in her hand, the hilt of the blade sliding about her palm before she grasped it again.
“You think I have? All that time in Winterfell made me forget our time here, who our father raised us to be?"
She slowed, bringing the knife in close, taking her time in the peel.
"Where is your fire brother? Where is the man who I rode east with? Where is the man who drew his sword at Brandon’s death? Who swore beside me that we would kill them? They sit in my husband’s castle, they wear your king’s crown, they butcher your friend! And what? You leave them to it? Gods, had I been made the lord I’d have their skins already! THAT’S what I remember from here! When you were squeamish at flaying I begged father to make me the heir to the Dreadfort, because I would do what’s necessary. Even as children I knew you were the weaker of us.”
“They killed him. They killed your friend, and who else? They threw Donnor Stark from his own tower. They stole your king’s crown, took Brandon's head, what else must I repeat? Are you not you a Bolton, brother? Why do you shy from this?” Her eyes, so cold and cruel, transfixed Donnel’s, even as she approached with the blade. From the corner of his paralysed eyes he saw his guards awkwardly put their hands to their hilts, unsure, as Marna stepped closer, and closer, and closer to their lord, holding the knife's blade clearly outstretched.
“Take it brother. It’s yours, isn't it? You know how to use it, I've seen you use it, all those years ago. You can’t have forgotten. I haven’t forgotten.” She span the blade in her palm again and caught it, the handle jutting out before Donnel. Slowly, painfully slow, he took it, weighing it in his hand. It was so light. So thin.
So sharp.
He didn't speak. Perhaps he couldn't. The ripple patterns of the blade seemed to be soaking in the thin sheen of blood that covered its edge.
“I can’t. I'm not that man.” Her hand appeared on his, closing his fingers around the handle.
“Yes, Donnel. You are.”
He glanced up, her pale icy eyes were gazing up at him. Despite himself, not knowing why, or how, he felt that fiery spark alight once more in his chest. From behind Marna’s eyes there was a determination, a will, and somehow Donnel felt it too. An anger, a hatred began to coil about him, inside him, something burning cold.
Slowly, she moved behind him, and led him to the bound man, still struggling, where strips of skin still dangled uselessly from his arm.
“A naked man has few secrets, but a flayed man none.” She reached under the sackcloth hood, and plucked the gag unseen from the man’s mouth. He screamed out wordlessly, but already a gaoler appeared and punched the man deep in his guts, winding him, silencing him.
“We need his secrets. So let’s learn what he knows.”
She drew his hand close, resting just beneath her own incision. And together they began to ease the knife's blade beneath the man’s skin.
Our Blades are Sharp; or had you forgotten the House this story follows?
******************************
Lucias was so very quiet. Even as a young man, he knew all too well that the Dreadfort could suffocate sounds like nowhere else in the North. When one screamed in the Dreadfort, even those sleeping above or below would hardly hear a sound, and all sorts of secret rooms and tunnels within the castle were especially quiet, even when those within were making plenty of noise.
And the dungeon? The silence there seemed to Lucias to be half-mystical in nature. What happened below was never known to those above. A dragon could roar in the dark down there, and though the earth might shake, it would do so without a sound.
The Dreadfort's quiet cloaked the room now. Even the fire paid heed, its crackling and spitting muted in the moment.
Donnel’s eyes were hard, and Lucias knew he was being measured in the moment. He cast his mind back to the years Donnel was describing, and he remembered a change in his father then. He had not known of course, what games were being played behind closed doors, but he remembered stealing glances at his father on the lord’s table, or when seated on his stone chair, and seeing him subtly shift, becoming hard and cold.
Those were the moments, he knew, when his mind had turned to the war that was coming. To the Regent, the Queen, the fate of the North.
Donnel was not the same man he was then, but he still had those moments. Lucias could see it in him now, when the cold took over. When he was weighing the future in his mind.
“The letter, father, from Winterfell. The call to arms.”
Donnel relaxed, leaning back in his chair.
“Yes?”
“No Dreadfort men answered the call?”
“No.”
“Did anyone?” Donnel smiled to himself, glancing away. The fire seemed to pick up on the shifting tension and sputtered once, as if choking on a log and belching a gout of flame.
“Some did, yes. Few though. Hullen called a small portion of the levies of Winterfell and on his 'advice' the Queen Rowena did the same. The Ryswells of the Rills sent a small portion east, along with the Dustins of Barrowton and the lords of the Flint’s Finger. The Karstarks of course had called all of their banners just to protect their lord’s castle. Aside from Rickard Karstark, however, no lord actually called the amount of men expected of them. Hullen had called to the northern lords expecting to receive an army to attack the Skagosi, instead all he received were a few thousand soldiers – and those few remaining too weak to help with the harvest. The same ravens with which he had dispatched his letters often returned carrying new ones; gripes and moans about the scarcity of men and food, about the difficulty in travelling in winter. Some lords even had the gall to request aid instead of sending him soldiers.” Donnel smiled, but it withered into a grimace.
“I don’t know whether he saw these letters and believed that the kingdom was indeed in dire trouble, or whether he took them all to be a slight against his rule and authority… But he took them all, and soon after he gave his reply to the whole of the North.”
Donnel sighed.
“But we’re not quite there yet.”
Lucias nodded, smiling. From the depths of his cloak, he drew out a single cold coin. On it was engraved the Hand of the Reach’s ruling House, the Gardeners. He ran it down his fingers expertly, years of idle practice. It twinkled gently in the firelight.
Donnel noticed it, and gave a half-smile.
******************************
Right, so if you made it through all that, then congrats! Bit of a doozy that one. I trick myself into thinking 'there's nothing to chat about right now!', and then it turns out, duh! There is!
And THEN I let myself get caught up in a scene and make things too long and probably quite dull. Sorry about that.
I'm going to spend a few days with this up, and edit it down a bit.
For some reason all my practical and sensible editing comes a few hours after I've posted it...
There's a lot of narrative in here, I'm sort of hoping that if you've read this much you're invested in more than just the story, but the characters too. If that's not the case, you want me to cut back on the characterisation/narrative, and streamline things a little... then comment and let me know.
If, however, you love to see me trying to bring to life these CK2 sheets... then comment and let me know! Really, I have no idea what I'm doing and would love the feedback
Anyway, time for a break down of what's happening.
So Harrion is leading the faction - that's true. It deeply annoyed me, but Harrion founded the faction before I could. Here I was deciding to roleplay being a true loyalist, and that shrewd lordling founded it first! A fear there, because the AI is, let's face it, infamous for lacking the shrewd tactical and strategic thinking of us human players!
And if anyone here doubts that, allow me to remind them that the reason for this WHOLE mess, is because King Brandon Stark decided to back his son to be the new King of Dorne. DORNE!
Speaking of silly ruler decisions, the Regent creates the High Lordship of Stony Shore, and grants it to the duke-tier-lord Ryswell.
I mean... aside from the fact that he's already a duke, that's surprising. Hullen's little AI programme was consolidating power in friendly lords, since it was so aware of high faction powers rising in opposition.
And then there's the narrative consequence. Donnel / I had two rivals in-game. Marna Bolton (hilarious, I know) and Benfred Ryswell. And the Regent granted Ryswell a second high lordship. I was incensed.
Seriously, I don't know how much life and cleverness CK2 ai actually get, but I swear this was a deliberate and calculated move by the AI to screw with me - Ryswell would join whatever faction he felt necessary to impede my power and screw with me!
He's my version of Barbrey Dustin (née Ryswell!) in A Dance with Dragons! An awful enemy to have...
So all of Skagos commits to this huge war for the Karhold. I found it hilarious - and insanely fortuitous - that they invaded the Karhold and not the Last Hearth, but I guess when you are event-gifted 100 ships, you're not bound by land-crossings, and can sail anywhere. They could've picked Braavos all things considered.
So Donnel, by which I mean 'me', decided not to aid the Karhold. I mean, you might've seen the winter attrition mechanics for CK2. No-one wants to field a full army in the North during winter.
A tough, calculated decision, but one I knew would have serious consequences if another war was to come about in the near future.
Mechanics-wise, we all know that you can't intercept messages and ravens. I still don't know where Hullen decided to deploy his spymaster... Anyway, it serves as a point. I've admitted far earlier in the narrative (and in 'Skagos') that Donnel began flaying people again - in stark contrast to the 'him' we saw earlier in the narrative. How did he get there?
Now you know some of it.
Before I go, a word to anyone picturing the Norrey differently. I honestly pictured him as a simulacrum for Tom Bombadil, walking around imparting wisdom and advice... but his CK2 picture is of... well I'll just show you.
Taken during the war with Dorne, a few years before the events of 'now':
Screenshot taken from an old save (when I had it), during the war with Dorne, so a few years before the events 'now'. An honourable schemer indeed.
Alright, happy reading all! I'll get back to you again with the next update.
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