Shrouded Destiny

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

Edited by: yours truly so expect some mistakes; B. Reader: Bub3loka

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

***

2nd Day of the 5th Moon

Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name

The king awoke, and his throbbing head made him scowl. He couldn't help but feel old - ten years ago, he could spend three days feasting, drinking, and wenching and feel as spry as a stag in the morn, yet now only a single night had lain him low.

His feather bed was already empty; the wench from last night had been sent out of his quarters as soon as he had finished. Five years ago, he could have bedded three at the same time for thrice as long, but alas, it seemed that old age caught up even to royalty.

Groggily standing up, Robert called for his servants, who quickly garbed him in his green velvet doublet and black silk leggings and handed him his golden mantle with the black-and-gold squares cloak. It was time to hear Ned's decision; a night should have been more than enough to speak to Catelyn.

As usual, Selmy was vigilantly standing outside of his quarters, although worry shone in his pale blue eyes. Moore, with his lifeless gaze and empty face, joined Selmy at the entrance of the Guest House. One could mistake the Valeman for a corpse if he were not moving. Alas, his skills with the blade had earned him the white cloak after winning a melee a handful of years ago.

The courtyard was swarming with even more guardsmen than yesterday, all tense and wary, but Ned was nowhere to be found. The rest of the royal retinue looked unsettled but otherwise undisturbed. The warm rays of the morning sun just peaked from the east; it was too early!

"There are too many men-at-arms here for a garrison," Moore noted, voice flat. "Even more than yesterday."

"Bah, Ned honours me with this level of protection," Robert waved his concern away, "but mayhaps something happened during the night?"

Even old Selmy was on edge, fiddling with the handle of his sword, "Should I find out what, Your Grace?"

Robert shook his head and gazed at the Stark men before finally spotting a familiar face.

"Cassel!" His voice boomed, attracting the attention of the man wearing the surcoat emblazoned with the ten wolf heads. The captain of Winterfell's guard, if his memory was correct. "Where's Lord Eddard?"

"Lord Stark is at the Godswood, Your Grace," Jory quickly came over, his face grim.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Barristan signalling Greenfield and Trant, and soon there were two more white cloaks behind the king. Ha, the old knight was worrying for nothing again! Winterfell was safer than the Red Keep for him.

"Well, lead us to him, Captain Cassel," Robert urged, and they soon headed towards the wall behind the Guest House. "What was the commotion in the yard about?"

"One of the singers attempted to sneak into the maester's turret in the night," Cassel shifted uncomfortably, "and then another outlaw was caught hiding amongst the bards."

For a short moment, Robert wondered why Ned was worried about a handful of pickpockets; those were always common no matter where. That was no job for the Lord of Winterfell; the bailiffs would chop a few fingers off for thievery or deliver a dozen lashes and let them go.

They reached a large iron gate, and with a nod from Ned's captain, the two sentries there pushed it open, revealing the ancient grove.

The Godswood was undoubtedly a better sight than the usual stuffy septs; the air also lacked their typical heavy smell of incense that weighed on your eyes and had none of the grating septons with their long-winded speeches and sermons.

Robert couldn't help but understand Northerners more; the olden places of worship were far more palpable than dealing with the holy men of the Faith and their endless ceremonies.

His friend was sitting nestled amidst the thick roots of the Heart Tree, but something was wrong, and it wasn't the large grey furball at his feet nor the old carved face above that had budding red sap in its eyes as if it were about to weep. Ned's face had grown even paler, and large, black circles had formed under his eyes, and his tired gaze was listlessly wandering at the still pool of black water across him. Half a dozen burly Stark guards were watching vigilantly over their lord from a distance.

"Ned," the Lord of Winterfell stood up at his words and bowed. But he looked worn out and tired; his usually well-kept hair was tangled and messy. "You look like shite. Did you forget to sleep and keep poor Cat busy all night?"

"We caught him, Robert," Ned's voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't even heard him.

"Caught who?"

"Mance Rayder! We caught him!" His friend let out a choked, raspy laugh.

"Who's that?" The name sounded familiar, but too many names had passed through the king's ear to remember even half of them.

"The King Beyond the Wall!" Ned's hand balled into a fist.

Ah yes, the fabled deserter and a self-styled king of savages; Robert vaguely remembered Jon mentioning him some moons ago.

"How'd you find him?"

"After one of the singers tried to steal something from the Maester's turret, I had the rest of the suspicious bards brought in for questioning," Ned's eyes hardened into two chips of stone. "One of them tried running but failed. Turned out he was more than a bard."

Robert tried to remember the faces of the men from the feast, but all he could recall was the thick ale, his wife's eternal sour face, and the well-endowed serving wenches. The grey furball at his friend's feet uncurled, revealing a wolf who lazily stretched and obediently sat beside Ned.

Ha, so those silly rumours had some truth in them? Mayhaps Robert should try and catch a young buck for himself during the upcoming hunt?

Barristan cautiously stood forward.

"Lord Stark, if I may?" Ned nodded at the old knight, who continued slowly, "Why did nobody recognise him at the feast?"

"Few look too closely at the jesters and the bards, Ser," his friend tiredly shook his head. "Rayder has gone grey and has grown a thick beard. I scarcely remember his face after seeing it once ten years ago. It was him running away and his weapons that gave him away. Sword and dagger both bearing the mark of Shadow Tower's smith."

"The man certainly has stones," Robert chuckled. Well, that definitely explained the scores of worried guardsmen.

"Why would he risk his hide to sneak into Winterfell?" Selmy asked, voice heavy with suspicion.

"I know not," Ned straightened up. "He refused to say a word, and my brother and Ser Rodrik are interrogating him right now. But it matters little; deserters from the Watch have only one fate. At noon, he will lose his head."

"Lead us to this King Beyond the Wall," Robert said, intrigued. "I want to see another king for myself, even if clasped in irons."

Maybe another royal presence would loosen the man's tongue?

"Your Grace, it might be prudent to get more men to accompany us," Selmy cautioned. "What if more of his ilk have sneaked in?"

"No need, there are plenty of leal swords here," the king dismissively waved his hand. "Even a chicken can't fly through this keep without alerting the guardsmen."

The Lord of Winterfell wordlessly led them in a different direction, seemingly towards the outer keep. Jory flanked Ned to the left while the adolescent wolf calmly trotted to his right, and the other six Stark guardsmen trailed behind the kingsguard.

This, this, was what Robert needed. Capable, loyal men to run the kingdom in his stead, not those stupid twats that couldn't find their arse unless someone kicked them on the bum. Jon Arryn had been such, but old age had slowly whittled away his foster father. Robert should have summoned Ned South long ago.

They eventually reached the wall and entered the outer yard through an ironwood door.

Scores of vigilant men-at-arms could be seen at every corner of the yard, and the Lord of Winterfell led them towards the enormous curtain wall where a lone tower was nestled. At least half a hundred sentries were near the entrance, all vigilant and armed to the teeth.

"These are not your dungeons," Robert observed as they climbed the narrow stairway.

"Aye, 'tis the maester's turret," Ned coughed. "Had to get Luwin to patch him up lest he bled out before we could ask some questions."

They finally arrived at a small hallway with a door on each side, guarded by a pair of sentries. And a figure cloaked in black was leaning on the wall.

The cloaked man spun, revealing a tired Benjen, who bowed deeply.

"Rayder has nought but silence and vile curses for us," the First Ranger shook his head. "Not that it matters. Without him, the wildlings would either slaughter each other or scatter to the winds."

"If he still refuses to speak, I have a skilled torturer in my retinue," Robert hummed thoughtfully. "Give Sevius a day or three, and this Mance Rayder will sing all his secrets for us to hear."

"There's no need for further indignity, Your Grace," Ned warily declined. "His words cannot truly be trusted, torture or not."

The king conceded with a shrug and motioned for the guardsmen to open the door.

Inside, a battered man garbed in only a grey roughspun robe sat on a thick, heavy chair, tied by chains and clasped with manacles on both his hands and feet. Rodrik Cassel was uneasily standing to the side, keeping an eye on the prisoner.

Mance Rayder's hair was tangled, caked with dried dirt and splattered with sweat, and his bruised face was twisted into a pained grimace, possibly because of the linen bandages on his ankle.

"Not very impressive for a king," Robert voiced his disappointment out loud.

"That makes two of us, king kneeler," the deserter spat, heaving.

The kingsguard tensed, but Robert let out booming laughter, "Insolent! You'd make for a fine jester, Rayder. Come now, tell us what are you doing here?"

Gods, it had been quite some time since someone dared to speak to his face like this, and Robert found it refreshing.

"Why would I do that?" The old deserter let out a pained, raspy chuckle. "There's nothing for me but the block."

"Come now, Rayder," the king coaxed. "Swear fealty to me and bend the knee. Speak of your purpose here, and I shall consider sparing you."

Ned and Selmy were about to object, but Robert raised his hand, and they swallowed their words. After all, he was interested to hear the reply but had only really promised to consider.

"Even if I wanted to kneel, I couldn't." Mance spat on the floor and glared at the direwolf beside Stark. "That vile mutt made a cripple out of me with a single bite. You should be wary, your direwolf lord and his progeny are all wargs, and wargs are not to be trusted."

Robert saw how everyone in the room shuffled uneasily, but he could easily see this foolish slander for the ploy that it was. Hah, and it seemed that Ned trained his wild pet very well!

"You were right, Ned - his words are not to be trusted," Robert snorted. "The cold has addled the poor man's wits. Next, he'll tell us how grumpkins and snarks are back!"

"I might have made the mistake of entering the direwolf den, but you'll all be fucked soon enough," Mance Rayder let out a hoarse, vindictive chuckle. "A pity I won't be here to see it myself."

The king glanced at his friend, who looked even paler and more tired.

"I tire of this pointless charade. Off with his head!"

***

The news of the upcoming execution attracted attention very quickly.

The square in Wintertown was rapidly being filled by the royal court at one side and smallfolk at the other. They stood on an elevated wooden platform, but it was only large enough for House Stark and the Royal family. Benjen was solemnly standing to Ned's other side, not uttering a word. Soon enough, the square was packed full; after all, it wasn't nearly every day that something as interesting as an execution of a wildling king happened.

Myrcella arrived, ever curious, shadowed by Arys Oakheart, and Robert considered for a moment sending her away but decided against it. If his plans were to be realised, she was to be the next Lady of Winterfell; it would do her good to see some Northern justice. Not to mention Catelyn and her daughters were already here. Even Cersei had decided to show her face, possibly out of boredom; he was more than aware of his wife's distaste of everything not Lannister.

Joffrey, who was rarely interested in the trivialities of rulership, had found his way here, followed by the Hound.

Cersei attempted to protest their daughter's presence, but a meaningful glance silenced her. Robert had no patience for her endless complaints right now.

An enormous man wearing dark ringmail and plate adorned with direwolf livery, almost the size of the Mountain, was effortlessly carrying a large granite block that must have weighed at least twenty stone. In his youth, Robert wagered he could do something like this with nary an effort; Gods, he was strong back then!

"A strong man," he noted, "Was this the man who split Lord Volmark in two after killing two dozen reavers at the battle of Harlaw?"

"Aye, it's him," Ned confirmed.

The stone slab was slammed in the middle of the square.

"What was his name again? Waldon?"

"Walder," his friend sighed quietly with a shake of his head. "A most stubborn and leal man and a devout follower of the olden way. Declined knighthood and land so that he could serve House Stark in person. His family have been leal Stark men for generations; his great-grandmother has raised at least four generations of Starks, including my children. I plan to ennoble him soon, land or not."

"Leal service must always be rewarded," Robert agreed and curiously looked at his friend, who was standing still. "Did you finally grow tired of doling out justice yourself and employ a headsman?"

"Nay, House Stark keeps to the Old Way."

At that moment, Robb Stark arrived, garbed in a fine gambeson with a padded surcoat depicting the grey direwolf on top with a white cloak waving on the wind behind him. His face was solemn, and his steps were slightly hesitant. Behind him trailed Jory Cassel, carrying the monstrous greatsword that could only be Ice.

Boos and angry yells erupted from the gathered smallfolk across as a dozen burly men-at-arms dragged Mance Rayder towards the stone slab.

Walder effortlessly pushed the deserter's head down onto the block. Any trace of hesitation disappeared on Robb's face as he used both hands to unsheathe the Valyrian Steel greatsword that was only slightly shorter than him. Ned's heir looked at Robert, and the king nodded.

"Last words?"

"Fuck you," Rayder spat on the ground. "But you kneelers will be fucked soon enough when the Others come for you too."

A wave of dark murmurs passed through the crowd, and Robert squinted at the self-proclaimed king savage; the damned man kept making trouble.

"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon," Robb's powerful voice cut through the whispers, "the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Robb of House Stark, Heir to Winterfell, sentence Mance Rayder to die!"

The rippled greatsword rose in the air, and with a single sure strike, Mance Rayder's head rolled on the mud.

Ned's lad was good; there was no mistake about it. Although he looked a tad unsettled, his sword arm was sure, and he conducted himself with dignity. The more he looked at Robb, the more he liked his future good-son.

Robert took a deep breath, "Put that head on a spike for all to see on the main gate. Let buzzards and vultures peck it clean!"

As Robb cleaned the blood from Ice with a cloth, the smallfolk erupted into cheers, chanting 'Stark' and 'Baratheon', making Robert laugh boisterously.

Slowly, the crowd began to disperse.

"Ned, I'll be leaving for Castle Black," Benjen said. "Lord Commander Mormont must be notified."

The First Ranger seemed even wearier than Ned now.

"Send a raven, Benjen," Robert snorted. "Or at least take a good night's sleep. Why rush back to that icy Wall of yours?"

"Who knows what preparations Rayder has made, and ravens can get lost in the North."

Tsk, those Stark men spoke with far too much reason!

"Bah, you Northmen, always duty, work, and no fun." The king couldn't help but pity Benjen; the poor man had decided to swear off women and warmth at scarcely five and ten.

"Take all the horses you need, and pick ten of my outriders to escort you," Ned hugged his brother tightly and patted his back.

"Take care, Ned," the First Ranger turned to Robert and bowed, "Your Grace."

And just like that, Benjen Stark was on his way to the stables. The king looked at his friend, whose eyes were tired, and a yawn attempted to escape his mouth, only to be covered by his gloved hand. Good, Robert knew that tired men were far easier to agree to persistent requests, as this was a strategy Cersei heavily employed on him.

"So, Lord Stark, what is your decision?"

"Too many ears here. Let's head to the Godswood," Ned's tired face twisted into a grimace.

Most of the men-at-arms were dismissed; only Rodrik Cassel, two burly Stark guardsmen, and Selmy followed them into the ancient grove. Eddard's steps had grown sluggish, so their way there took far more time than before.

They reached the Heart Tree, and Robert motioned to the men to move away and give them some privacy. The Highlord's eyes hardened into two chips of stone.

"I'll accept, Your Grace, but I have some conditions."

"Conditions, Ned?" Gods, why was his friend trying to bargain like a fishmaid at the market?! "Fine, name them!"

"Halved tax for the North until the next spring."

Robert struggled to remember all those endless sums and ledgers, but his head began to pulse, and he waved his hand away in the end, "Granted!" Who cared about copper counting anyway? Soon enough, it would be Ned's problem again, not his!

"I want the Gift returned back to the North."

"Done," Robert generously declared. Let none say that he was not an open-handed king! What the dragon took, the stag would return!

"And lastly, larger support for the Night's Watch from the South."

"I can't force free men to take the Black. You should know that Ned," the king shook his head.

"Nay, there's no need for any force. I plan to reform the Watch and need your support for it."

"Why bother?" Robert asked, genuinely confused. "The King Beyond the Wall is dead, and the wildlings will continue squabbling amongst each other again. Don't tell me you believe that old wive's tale about the Others? I know the likes of Mance Rayder, and they would say anything just to spite you!"

"Aye, that might be true, but what if someone manages to gather the wildlings under a single banner again? They are already gathered in tens of thousands; even half would be a problem. The Night's Watch simply doesn't have the men to patrol the Wall, let alone beat back an incursion. And I cannot deal with them if I am in King's Landing."

Robert opened his mouth, then thought better and closed it. While Robb was a capable lad, he was too young to lead a war. And the southern banners would take at least half a year to muster and march all the way into the northern heartland. Damn his friend, he was making far too much sense!

Bah, it was not as if Robert would be the one to deal with this either, beyond stamping a few letters or decrees.

"You can have as much support as you can gather, Lord Hand," the King agreed. "But I want to see Myrcella and Robb wed before we leave south. She's a maiden long flowered. There's no point in waiting. Go rest now, and tomorrow we'll celebrate with a hunt!"

***

Jon Snow

They had about two or three more days until they reached Craster's Keep. The fabled earth singers were scarcely affected by the cold, slow to tire, quick to move, and did not slow their pace in the slightest. In fact, they aided them greatly; half a dozen ones with dark spotted skin were very skilled hunters, a handful of them could easily cook or forage for edible roots and herbs, and there was even a skinchanger. A thin brown-haired Singer that Jon called Deer, with a grey owl companion.

Even now, a few were of them scouting around or hunting.

Yet, for all their agility and endurance, they were quite weak. Jon estimated that a trained boy of three and ten could overpower most if not all of them. The only other downside was that none but Leaf spoke the Common Tongue; only a handful could understand the Old Tongue, and even fewer spoke it. Their names were too long and cumbersome to be reproduced in common speech, so Jon had to make up a handful of names for himself.

They cautiously rode into a settlement; the Singers of the Earth trailed warily behind them. It could barely be called a village, with a simple dilapidated hall and a handful of drab thatched huts nestled around an old, twisted heart tree with a terrified face.

"This place has been recently abandoned," Jarod ominously pointed at the dry firewood under the crude roof to the side. "It's the third settlement like this."

"We've not seen a single human ever since crossing the Wall," Big Liddle added.

As Jon had known, the Others were already adding thralls to their ranks, one group of free folk at a time.

"I'm afraid we'll meet with some soon enough," he turned to the earthsinger, "Leaf, send one of yours to scout carefully."

A short conversation in that odd, melodic tongue that sounded like a gentle song, and one of the darker-furred singers that Jon named Blackstep cautiously began to check building by building. Jon honestly doubted that there was anything here, Red Jeyne and Maude seemed far too calm, and it was not cold enough for the 'ice singers' to be here now. The unnatural chill their presence brought was not something easily forgotten.

"Has something happened to Ghost?" Duncan worriedly rubbed his thickening stubble. "We haven't seen him in five days now."

"Ghost is a few hours away to the southeast, hunting for his own food and scouting the nearby woods," a chuckle escaped his lips as he remembered looking through his companion's eyes earlier. "He has found some friends."

"Friends?" Jarod echoed, curious.

"Aye, of the canine kind." Six more wolves had begun to follow the direwolf; if Ghost kept it up, he'd have his own large pack of wolves in a few moons. There was even a young, motherless direwolf pup, weaning at one of the bitches.

After a handful of tense minutes, Blackstep returned, body bereft of tension, and nodded. Jon could understand that easily enough, even without Leaf's translation.

The Others had definitely slain the inhabitants here. There were some signs of struggle, a few broken doors, but other than that, nothing. Although hungry predators could have broken the doors in search of food, it mattered little. After a round of cleaning, they settled in the hall and hung a heavy bearskin on the open entrance to bar the cold outside. There was even a large bronze cauldron left behind, which was carefully scrubbed and used to make a stew of the pair of deer two of the singers had just caught. Despite having deer-like dappled skin, it seemed that they were not deterred from eating things that looked similar to them.

A few leafcloaks were stationed on the roof and trees outside as lookouts. Jon sparred a few quick bouts with his human companions before heading outside. Snow crunched under his boots as he restlessly walked around the small settlement while waiting for dinner to be ready. Red Jeyne faithfully trotted after him as usual, and in the end, he ended up face-to-face with the thick, twisted Heart Tree.

Jon knelt in silent prayer before the carved face that was forever frozen in agony. Long ago, he used to seek guidance, peace, and luck before the weirwood. But as time passed, those things slowly lost meaning amidst the snow and death. Now, he prayed not for himself but for his kin's and kith's wellbeing instead.

Now that Jon was here, beyond the Wall and not alone, things changed. Should he continue on his planned course or try something completely different?

For a short moment, he sensed someone silently approaching behind him and tensed. Yet Red Jeyne turned, and he could easily see through her eyes; it was no foe.

"No wonder the gods chose you," Leaf's soft, sad voice sounded behind him. "In all my life, I've seen few as genuinely devoted as you."

Was it truly devotion? In the end, he had little but duty, and the Old Gods left, and Jon had latched onto both like a drowning man to a straw.

He turned to look at the short, child-like being behind him. As always, sadness and melancholy clung to her closer than her cloak of leaves.

"You mentioned me being chosen before?"

"Yes," the singer was heavily amused. "The Gods picked you as their champion."

Jon rubbed his brow in confusion. This was the second time Leaf mentioned this.

"And what does being a champion of the Old Gods entail?"

"Nothing more than a blessing, a mark for potential greatness, or even a reward for a grand deed," her cat-like eyes blinked curiously, "Raw weirwood sap from a Heart Tree is very strong, very poisonous, without any preparation, lethal to even greenseers. Only those chosen by the Gods can survive it; your eyes, nose, and mouth bear its bountiful mark. Your skinchanging powers have been altered. I assume you can only slip into the mind of your direwolf and hounds?"

"Aye," he confirmed. "I attempted to bind a raven or a snow shrike but 'twas in vain. Though it could be my inexperience more than anything else."

"It is as I thought," Leaf tugged on a tangled strand of her hair. "I might be mistaken, but your powers are forever bound to warging. Your talent for it has increased a thousandfold, but your ability to connect to other beasts is gone in exchange."

"How do you know all these things?"

"I have lived a long, long life, and seen many things, Jon Snow," a forlorn sigh tore from her. "Mayhaps too many. The True Tongue lets you connect to nature itself if you delve deeper into it. We singers have very sharp senses, and I have learned to see and to hear."

Jon couldn't help but imagine that if the Old Gods had deemed to choose priests, Leaf would be one of them.

"Is that why Ghost grows so quickly?"

"Perhaps. I am not too well-versed in the art of skinchanging, but I do know a few things. Just as the beast bleeds into the man, so does the man bleed into the beast," her liquid golden eyes inspected him with great interest. "More so with such a strong connection like yours, Jon Snow. And even without the Old God's blessing, you're… more, and in turn, so is your direwolf."

"Stew's ready," Jarod's cry echoed from the shabby hall.

The waxing moon softly illuminated the night sky as Jon stood vigil on the hall's roof. Sleep had not come easy, and he had decided to take the first watch with two other Singers; after all, he couldn't let them handle all the trivial tasks forever. One was nestled on a sentinel tree to the North, and the other had climbed an old oak to the southwest.

Suddenly, the air became a familiar deathly cold, and his hand instinctively found the pommel of Dark Sister. Red Jeyne whimpered below, and Jon agilely jumped to the ground and entered the hall where his followers slumbered.

"To arms! They are here!" Jarod and Duncan immediately jumped at his cry, and so did the Singers. "Light your torches. The wights will burn like kindling at the smallest flame. Archers to the roof, the rest retreat to the hall and avoid fighting the Others up close."