Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

2nd Day of the 5th Moon

Davos Seaworth, the Isle of Driftmark

Stannis had taken his sweet time to come to a decision, and more than a moon later, they were finally here.

"Driftmark is yours, my lord," Monford Velaryon bowed deeply.

The Lord of the Tides was a handsome, tall man garbed in green silk with fair hair and purple eyes. There was no woman next to him, and if Davos remembered correctly, his wife had died after a bad miscarriage a handful of years ago. According to the rumours he had heard on the docks, lord Monford had not remarried despite having only a single heir because of his fierce love for his deceased spouse.

"Lord Velaryon," Stannis returned stiffly.

Everything about the Lord of Dragonstone was stiff right now, from how he moved his limbs to his face, which reminded Davos of an iron mask. Still, his presence was imposing as always, and his gaze was even more piercing than usual. The Lord of Dragonstone showed no outward signs of pain at all; all his terrible burns were beneath his neck, covered by his garb.

Despite Stannis' dislike for the milk of the poppy, he decided to use it for public appearances to present a position of strength.

"My condolences for Lady Baratheon's passing," the Valyrian lord sounded regretful, but he only elicited a gruff nod from Stannis. Monford then pushed forward a young boy who had the same colouring. "This is my son, Monterys."

The heir of Driftmark hesitantly looked around before bowing.

"This is my daughter, Shireen Baratheon," Stannis' voice grew steely, and Davos could sense a sliver of pride underneath as the shy girl was pushed forward and curtsied. "Enough of the pleasantries. Let's go somewhere private."

It seemed that Castle Driftmark was rarely in use, and the Lord of the Tides preferred High Tide with its pale stone and slender towers.

Aside from the luxuriously decorated entrance and antechamber, the inner hallways and rooms looked less… gaudy than Davos expected. A few delicate myrish vases could be seen everywhere but were sparse at best. Jade, silver, and mahogany were replaced with oak, bronze, and olden, threadbare tapestries whose colours had begun to fade with the passage of time. It seemed that the Velaryons had fallen far from their former glory as the richest House of the realm.

After a nod from Stannis, they were led to a small, private parlour while the young Monterys hesitantly led Shireen towards her quarters, escorted by a pair of guards. Davos barely stifled a laugh at the sight; the shy girl towered over the young boy with a whole head.

Monford bid the guards stand at the hallway entrance, and as soon as the door closed, the Lord of Dragonstone collapsed bonelessly on a tapered chair and began to cough wetly. The Valyrian lord watched with confusion as his liege finally managed to gather his bearing after a painful minute.

"Lord Monford," Stannis wheezed out painfully. "I am in need of your service."

Eddard Stark

Usually, the Lord of Winterfell would deal only with executions and arbitration, not petty thieves or poachers. But he was already up and about, so he might as well handle it, lest the court thought House Stark was neglecting the king's security.

"What do we know?"

"The man entered with the royal party. He refuses to say anything," Rodrik shook his head as he descended into the dungeons, lantern in hand. Winter had decided to accompany them and curiously trailed after Ned.

Like the stairway, the dark hallways were narrow, cold, damp, and lined with undressed granite. Most of the cells were hewn directly into the stone, making any prisoners stuck in perpetual darkness.

At the end of the passageway, a pair of braziers flickered, scarcely illuminating the four wary guardsmen.

They stopped at the first oaken door. It was very thick and so generously lined with iron that it took two strong men to push it open.

The flickering lantern revealed the insides of a small cell, where a thin, short man with sandy hair and dark eyes had his hands and feet clasped in irons. He was clad in a gaudy cotton tunic and breeches, and Ned vaguely remembered his face from the feast. A bard, mayhaps?

The prisoner blinked in confusion for a few heartbeats, then warily eyed the adolescent direwolf, stood up, and bowed deeply, despite the manacles.

"'Tis a mistake, m'lord! I meant to visit one of the serving maids!"

Eddard Stark squinted his eyes; the man had just lied; he could feel it. He shook his head and pushed the odd feeling into a corner of his mind.

"Not only a thief but a liar as well," Ned snorted and nodded to the guardsmen outside.

Heward brought an ironwood stump while Wayn and Jacks held down the man and forced him to his knees with the thief's hand pressed to the bloc. Winter obediently sat down on the ground to the side and observed with his shining yellow eyes.

"W-wait! What are you doing?!" the chained man cried out as Rodrik handed him a sharpened steel blade. A pity Ice was too large to be used in narrow places like this.

"Your right hand is forfeit for thievery," the master-of-arms supplied, "and so is your tongue for lying to the Lord of Winterfell."

The bard began to shiver and struggle, but it was futile against the iron grip of the two burly guardsmen. Ned gave the blade a few waves to test the balance before lifting it and aiming for the outstretched right hand.

"I-I'm innocent!"

Ned stilled; he could tell the desperate plea was genuine, and this time, the man had spoken truthfully.

"Innocent? You were caught sneaking inside the Maester's Turret in the middle of the night," Rodrik snorted. "Doubtlessly to steal some parchment, candles, or even precious books!"

"If not to steal, why sneak like a thief in the night? Speak truthfully, and you can keep your hand," the Lord of Winterfell offered after a moment of contemplation.

"I w-was sent here b-by the l-lord Littlefinger to deliver a wooden box to the m-maester's tower w-without being seen," he uttered hoarsely.

Truth.

"Littlefinger?"

"L-lord Petyr B-Baelish."

Truth. That Baelish again, what would the master of coin want with his family? Ned liked this not.

"There was no crate on him, my lord," Rodrik supplied.

"It's in my room at t-the tavern, I swear," the bard's cries became desperate. Truth. "I tried to scout first to see if I could sneak past the guardsmen…"

There was no lie in his words, and the Lord of Winterfell found himself frowning. Even ignoring the odd feeling on the back of his head, he saw no deceit in the trembling man.

"Do you oft do tasks for the master of coin?" Ned returned the blade to Rodrik, who put it away in its sheath and signalled for the guards to release the man.

"He pays good s-silver to bring him rumours from afar, m'lord," the bard stood up, still burdened by the chains, and trembled. "A-and even b-better coin to deliver things."

Truth.

Eddard Stark sighed inwardly.

"Get five more men, quietly escort him to the tavern, and bring me back this box."

The visiting bards, fools, and the more important merchants were usually housed in the tavern in the Outer ward, and it had been re-opened to accommodate those too lowborn to stay in the Guest House but would be needed close by in case the nobles required entertainment. He should have foreseen that the royal retinue and their camp followers would not be trustworthy.

Eddard Stark tiredly ran a hand through his hair as he waited in a large room in one of the inner towers; Winter curled in a grey ball at his feet. The whole day was long, troublesome, and tiring, and he now found cursing himself at his decision to visit his wife's chambers instead of simply sleeping. Staying awake was becoming a struggle.

Soon enough, the bard entered, escorted by Rodrik with half a dozen men-at-arms, and the direwolf at his feet perked up.

A delicate, intricately carved box was presented on the small table before him. Made of polished ebony and small enough to fit into the palm of his hand. 

"Do you know what's inside?"

"No, m'lord," the bard vigorously shook his head.

This time, Ned ignored the feeling in the back of his mind and carefully observed the fair-haired man before him. All visible signs only confirmed the vague feeling that he had spoken truthfully.

"Your name?"

"Corwyn, m'lord."

Beads of sweat were pooling heavily on the bard's brow, despite the cold night.

"You'll keep your tongue and hand, Corwyn," Ned decided, and the man let out a relieved sigh. "But trespassing inside my halls is not something I can forgive, nor was attempting to lie at the start. Five lashes."

"B-but you promised!"

"To keep your hand, not to free you from punishment," he flexed his fingers. "Take him out and flog him in Winter Town. And Corwyn is now barred from Winterfell."

The guardsmen dragged the reluctant bard out, leaving Ned alone with Rodrik, both looking at the intricate box. Winter was also circling curiously around the table.

"Let me," the master-at-arms cautioned. Ned nodded, and the old knight took the miniature chest and carefully latched it open. "A tube?"

Rodrik blinked a few times in confusion and fiddled with the box for a handful of heartbeats before handing it over.

The insides were padded with purple velvet, and a lone bronze cylinder lay in the middle. The small, delicate tube had two polished lenses on each end. A far-eye. Ned cautiously picked it up and closely inspected it in the flickering light of the nearby torch. The glasswork was smooth, without any visible blemishes. The bronze was also polished like a mirror, with a few intricate circles and stars inscribed along its length. Only the myrish craftsmen could make glasswork so fine. It would be rather costly to buy for a common merchant but within the means of even minor lordlings. He held up the cylinder and gingerly looked through the lens, seeing the table far closer and in greater detail. A far-eye indeed.

The cylinder was left on the table as he fiddled with the box curiously. Yet there seemed to be nothing exceptional aside from the intricate carvings.

Why would the master of coin go through all this trouble just to send a far-eye to Winterfell's maester?

At that moment, Winter rose on his back legs, poked his snout at the ebony box in his hands and whined.

Ned placed it on the ground and watched as his direwolf circled around it uneasily and poked at the bottom with his paw. Clearly, the canine's sharp senses found something the Lord of Winterfell couldn't. Winter suddenly bit the box and wildly shook his furry head.

"Stop it, boy," for the first time since he began training the beast, the direwolf ignored his command. But before Ned could even get angry, something cracked with a click, and Winter stopped before paddling softly to him and placing the box in his hand with a wagging tail.

Barely adolescent, his bite had still cracked open the hardwood like an egg. A small compartment had popped out from the bottom, containing a tightly-rolled parchment, sealed by wax bearing the blue falcon of House Arryn. Ned absentmindedly scratched Winter behind the ear as he checked the mark and frowned.

Rodrik turned to leave, but the Lord of Winterfell waved him to remain. Cassel was leal and would keep his secrets. The old knight averted his gaze.

The message was marked not for him but for Catelyn Stark, his wife.

There was nothing wrong with sisters trying to write one another. But the Arryns lacked neither ravens nor trusted riders to carry a message. Why all the secrecy, and why was the master of coin used as an intermediary?

He hesitated for a few moments but decided to open it regardless. He trusted his wife, but not Lysa Arryn, let alone this meddlesome Petyr Baelish.

With trepidation, Ned broke the seal, and his brows furrowed. The letters and words were all jumbled and made little sense. He spun it around, but it was still meaningless gibberish. A private language, mayhaps?

Surely, his wife would be familiar with it, as the message was intended for her. He rubbed his tired eyes, rolled back the parchment, tucked it and the far-eye in the inner pocket of his cloak and slumped on the chair. His quarters were too far away for his liking, and Ned simply felt tempted to sleep here.

Rodrik hesitantly approached; the swinging lantern in his hand made the shadows dance.

"My lord," the old knight tugged at his greying whiskers, "I had the guardsmen observe the royal retinue during the feast. There were a few other suspicious characters amongst the entertainers. Jugglers, jesters, dancers, and bards, among other men."

Damn Robert and his hide, did he have to bring the whole pit of vipers with him?!

Ned tiredly rubbed his brow and held in his groan. He struggled with the desire to leave these woes for later, but no. His sleep was already gone; it was better to deal with problems now. What if they did some mischief in the night, just like the Corwyn fellow?

"Bring them in for questioning."

"In the middle of the night?" Rodrik asked.

"Aye, now."

The knight bowed and left the chambers. Ned's heavy eyelids slowly closed as he sat there waiting, and didn't notice how the grey direwolf curiously paddled through the open door and into the darkness outside.

Abel the 'Bard'

A loud yell awoke him. He stood up instantly, grabbed his sword and lute, struggled to fasten his cloak in the darkness, and creaked the shutter slightly.

Abel cursed inwardly, the surrounding yard was swarming with guardsmen, and the darkness made everything hard to see, but he could count at least two dozen torches streaming towards the entrance.

Had they found him?

His heart beat like a drum, and the sound of heavy footsteps coming from the hallway forced him to come to a decision. The sounds of doors opened one by one, and the confused and drowsy voices of the patrons quickly banished his drowsiness.

Deserters of the Watch were executed, and his head would roll if he was caught. But Mance couldn't afford to die here. He finally had his sweet taste of life and freedom and wanted more.

Saying a quiet prayer, he opened the shutter, climbed onto the window sill and looked above. His earlier caution to memorise the layout of the tavern had paid off as he had chosen a room with a view to the backside on the lower floor.

Thankfully the Stark men hadn't surrounded the building. Abel pushed the shutter closed from the outside as he jumped down to the ground. With some luck, they would think the room empty or that he was visiting some scullery maid and wouldn't look too close in the darkness. Taking a moment to massage his now numb legs, the bard cautiously looked around.

No guardsmen could be seen, and the thick darkness would work in his favour. But he'd now have to sneak to the hundred feet wall, climb it, swim through the cold waters of the wide moat, and climb the second wall without being found.

A curse tore from his lips; this castle was a fucking death trap.

At least the skies were dark and cloudy; the moon had waned fully. He quietly moved under the thick veil of darkness, from building to building, staying away from the braziers and torches, hoping nobody would spot him. Maybe it would be better to cause some sort of distraction and try to make for the gate.

Yet, there was still the drawbridge and the outer gate. What if the former was raised? And Abel had counted the gate guard when entering with the royal procession. What distraction could draw half a hundred vigilant guardsmen from their posts?

At that moment, a low growl sounded behind him, making Abel freeze.

His hand made for the grip of his sword, and he slowly turned around, only to be faced with a pair of yellow eyes shining like lanterns through the darkness. With squinted eyes, he could barely make out the silhouette of the hound; it wasn't particularly huge, just above his knees.

"Good boy," he whispered loudly, trying to placate the dog, but it continued growling even louder. "Come now, I mean no harm. I was just about to leave, you see."

If only he had grabbed a piece of jerky from the feast. Abel cursed his luck again, slowly unsheathed his sword, and stepped forward. He had to silence the shaggy mutt before it alerted the numerous guardsmen.

Yet the dog stepped back, and a powerful, high-pitched half-bark half-howl tore through the night. Abel cursed and charged towards the damned pest, but it turned tail and dashed away, barking up a storm.

"Others take this fucking mutt," a stream of angry curses escaped his mouth; the voices of guardsmen had begun to approach along with the light of their torches.

The hound was too fast, and there was no point in chasing it in the dark. Abel gritted his teeth and made for the outer wall as fast as his legs could carry him. But the thrice-damned barks followed right behind him, giving up his location for all to hear.

A sharp pain stabbed into his right ankle, dragging his whole foot, and after a moment of weightlessness, his face met the ground.

Someone began to scream, and it only took Mance a few moments to realise that the sound was coming from his own mouth. His leg was throbbing with crippling agony, and he vaguely heard the shouts approaching.

The Lord of Winterfell

"-lord, my lord!"

Ned groaned, cracked open his eyes, and blinked in confusion at Rodrik's worried face flickering on the lantern's light. The taste of hot blood filled his mouth.

What was happening?

Blurry memories of chasing after bad men in the night clouded his mind. It took him a few moments to remember that he was in one of the towers, evidently fallen asleep. The more he tried to remember the odd dream, the faster it slipped away. Shaking his head with a sigh, he rubbed his weary eyes and focused on his master-at-arms.

"We caught the men," the old knight recounted. "Two bards and one jester, all in the dungeons. But there's some… trouble."

"Trouble?" Ned stood up and stretched, but his body still felt stiff and tired.

"Well," the master-at-arms hesitated for a few moments, then motioned towards the ground with his hand. Winter sat there, snout covered in blood and tail wagging vigorously, looking at Ned expectantly. "We rounded the suspicious folks, but one was missing."

"What's with the blood?" he asked, massaging his temples to fight the rising headache.

"Winter hunted down the runner as he was escaping, barking up a storm. Bit through the man's ankle as if it were made of straw, crunched through bone and all. When we arrived, the bard was moaning in pain, and the direwolf was cautiously circling him while growling."

Looking at Winter, who was eagerly gazing at him, Ned could hardly imagine the young direwolf capable of such damage.

Dangerous beasts, indeed.

But uncannily smart and loyal as well; just tonight, Winter had greatly helped him twice. He didn't regret taking the pups in; he'd just have to continue making sure they were well-trained.

"Do we know why the bard ran?" Ned scratched his beard.

"The man only cursed and moaned at us," Rodrik snorted. "But he wouldn't run if he was innocent," the greying knight hesitated for a moment, "there's something familiar about him, but I just couldn't bring it to mind."

"Let's go," the Lord of Winterfell stood up with a sigh and followed after Rodrik. Outside, Desmond, Wayn, and Jacks followed as escorts.

"I sent him to Luwin so the catspaw doesn't bleed out before we could question him," the old knight explained as they made their way to the Maester's Turret.

Now that Rodrik mentioned that, it made sense. A bard would be a very good catspaw; men were far more busy feasting and drinking at celebrations than worrying for their life.

Two braziers illuminated half a dozen men-at-arms at the tower's entrance, one of which led them up the stairs in front of a small oaken door guarded by four more guards.

The smell of poultices and herbs hit him as he entered the room. A score of candles and two oil lanterns illuminated the room as if it were day. In the middle stood a wide wooden table, and a still man, face covered with dirt, clothes changed into a plain roughspun robe, was tightly strapped by chains on top of it. Luwin stopped busying himself around the bandaged foot and bowed.

"How's our runner?" Eddard asked.

"Passed out from the pain, my lord," Luwin tugged at his chain nervously as he looked at Winter, who had followed and was now sitting peacefully with his tongue lolled out. "His leg will be crippled, the ankle is mangled too badly. I can force him to wake if you wish."

"Not yet," Ned tiredly rubbed his brow, deep in thought for a moment. "What can you tell us about him, any oddities?"

"Strong, broad chest and shoulders, he has the body of a warrior, not a bard. The way his palms are calloused suggests he trained at arms from a young age," the old maester straightened up. "And there's plenty of old scars, all marks of blades and arrows."

He carefully gazed at the knocked-out man chained to the table. Thick beard aside, there was something distantly familiar in his dirty face, but Ned couldn't put his finger on it.

"Aside from the usual knives and daggers, he also had a short sword with him," Rodrik added grimly. "The man somehow managed to smuggle it inside through the guard."

Gods, what did a man have to do to stay protected in his own keep?!

"Tighten security even more." The master-at-arms grimly nodded at his words. "We cannot afford any accidents with the royal family in our halls."

"Mayhaps we can see the maker's mark on the arms?" Luwin suggested with a cough. "It could give us a clue about where the man came from."

"Bring them here," Ned ordered, and the master-at-arms headed out of the room.

A minute later, Rodrik returned with a short sword and a dagger in his hands. He unsheathed them and looked at the base of the blade, where the smiths traditionally left their marks.

"Both bear the same mark. Looks familiar, but I can't recall," the old knight grumbled and carefully handed one hilt to Luwin and the other one to Ned.

The Lord of Winterfell carefully inspected the marking. A simple half-circle with two-crossed lines-

"This is Arlyn's work," Luwin supplied. "The Shadow Tower's master smith."

They all looked at the man chained on the table. His hair was mostly grey, with a few strands of brown valiantly resisting the inevitable onslaught of time.

"So either a deserter or a wildling," Rodrik concluded.

"A wildling won't be able to blend so easily in the North," Ned shook his head. "Nor know enough of our songs to play at a royal feast."

The room fell silent as they were all lost in thought. Gods, what a mess!

"It's also possible that one of the black brothers sold some of their arms for coin and claimed it was lost," the maester cautioned.

The feeling of familiarity strengthened. Eddard had seen this man before, but where? Damn his tired mind!

"Luwin, clean his face and shave his beard," he ordered.

The maester used a clean rag and a basin full of water brought by one of the guardsmen, and soon the grime was gone, revealing a weathered yet sharp face underneath.

A familiar face, a bard, a deserter of the Night's Watch. A deserter of the Night's Watch…

As the razor trimmed through the tangled beard, it finally clicked.

"Mance Rayder!"

Salladhor Saan, Beyond the Wall

Alas, all the coin made in selling fruits in Gulltown was gone in their heavy fur-lined clothing and thickened wool cloaks for the crews. Sailing through the treacherous waters east of Skaagos was but a simple feat for a man like Salladhor, so they had reached their destination with little to no trouble.

Yet it seemed that their troubles had just begun.

He shivered again; the cold was not deterred by his thick woollen undershirt, his fur-lined tunic, or the heavy double cloak. In the beginning, it wasn't that bad, but as they sailed northwards, it slowly seeped into his clothes and skin, and even his bones felt as if they were going to freeze.

Salladhor felt cheated. It was the height of summer back home, where you could go naked in the night and still feel warm!

Where was the summer here? The land was full of ice and snow, with no summer in sight. How people even lived in this cold wasteland was beyond him. If it got any colder, even piss would freeze before it hit the ground!

Salladhor was glad he only took two of his ships and his hardiest men. Any other would have mutinied.

With his shivering hands, he struggled to uncork his wineskin. Even his fingers were freezing, despite the thick leather gloves. Salladhor finally succeeded and took greedy gulps of the pear brandy.

The strong drink set his throat on fire, and warmth began to spread from his belly.

"Fuckin' snow," Denzo swore, his deep breaths forming small misty clouds. The fierce scowl had been a permanent fixture on his face since they reached the snowy shores. "Saan, gimme some of the brandy."

The manhunter was tall and strong, muscled like a bull, with olive skin and a bare head covered by a fur-lined hat, and also shook like a leaf from the cold, despite his thick clothing. Salladhor laughed inwardly at the man's stupidity; the Tyroshi heavily regretted his decision to shave his head after they departed. Not only that, but Denzo had only brought that weak pale-green piss from Myr they called nectar. So sweet it would make your teeth ache and did little to warm up your insides.

An unpleasant, petty man, but Salladhor still needed him and his ilk to catch those mammoths. After a moment of hesitation, he threw the Tyroshi his spare flask.

"Use it sparingly, Hartys," the sellsail warned. "This is all you'll get."

Salladhor had eight more in his cabin, but they were saved for his own throat, not for some slaver.

Denzo grudgingly took a small gulp and belched loudly. Hah, at least the fool stopped shivering.

"Hundreds of miles of shore and not a single soul in sight," the manhunter grumbled as he strapped the wineskin to his black belt and gazed at the coast.

There had been a few small villages, all abandoned. Now there was nobody to trade with or ask for directions, let alone capture like Hartys wanted. It was a rugged, lonely place full of bare drab rocks and coarse sand; the songs of seagulls were replaced with the ominous cries of crows and ravens. The foreboding forest looming above the shore was little better; despite the white veil of snow, it looked dark and haunted.

A tinge of regret began to swell within him, but he quickly squashed it. A little bit of hardship and Salladhor would make enough coin to live as a prince for the rest of his life!

"We came here for weirwood and ivory," he clicked his tongue. "No goods, no coin."

Although both of the materials would still sell with ease, none would be willing to pay even a tenth of what the magister had promised.

Salladhor tried to stay calm, but worry had begun to gnaw at his gut.

They had arrived a sennight ago, and the lyseni smuggler thought everything was in the bag, yet they had found nothing along the shores. No wildlings, no mammoths in sight. There were a few handfuls of the red-leafed trees, but they were too young and small, trunks thinner than a girl's waist at the root, all useless. And it wouldn't do to chop sacred trees and provoke some divine wrath for nought.

The Archon of Tyrosh's wedding was in less than two cycles, and with a moon of sailing back south, they had less than twenty-five days to procure all the materials.

"Always coin with you smugglers," the burly man shook his head with a dismissive snort. "Your head is too filled with dreams of gold to think. Didn't the savages live around their bone trees? Two ducks with one rock," he cracked his knuckles, "and elephants don't drink seawater, mammoths should be little different. We'll have to either venture into the dark forest or sail up that big river we passed yesterday. Even the savages need to drink; there will be at least some living in the surroundings."

As unlikeable as the manhunter was, Salladhor could grudgingly admit that Denzo was good at what he did.

Worse, they had to hurry; he doubted Magister Sarrios would give them a single penny if they arrived after the wedding.

"According to my map, there's a large lake upstream," the smuggler said. "We can use it as a base and spread our search from there."

"Let's go. I'm sick of this damned cold," Denzo Hartys wearily rubbed his gloved hands. "The sooner we're done, the sooner we can go back."