Rodrick Forrester
Ironrath (Three Moons before Orys/Resurrection
"Those fucking Whitehills," Rodrik groaned, watching from atop the walls of Ironrath as smoke curled into the sky. Below, his village burned.
Just hours ago, he had dared to believe the war was nearing its end. Asher had returned with 400 skilled warriors at his back. Victory had felt close until the Whitehills ambushed them on the road. Only luck and grit had let them survive. Now, bruised and battered, he and Asher had managed to retreat behind the walls with just 200 remaining sellswords. The worst part? Asher had lost his left hand, saving Rodrik from a mortal blow during the retreat.
Rodrik had barely pulled his brother back behind the gates before everything fell apart.
"Ryon is still with them," a voice said behind him.
He didn't turn. "Aye. I've no doubt they brought him with them to their camp, as leverage. To keep us docile while they lay siege to us. Thankfully, Roland and I prepared the stores for winter. If we ration carefully, we'll have food for a year. It would've been more if not for the Red Wedding. The Whitehills have been raiding us ever since."
His mother stood beside him, jaw clenched. "Ever since they murdered Ethan and took Ryon, they've grown bolder. And crueler." She stated as she laid a hand on his arm. "And you're certain we can hold out?"
Rodrik finally turned to her. Despite everything, he managed a small, confident smile. "I am. Winter is coming, and we have a legacy to protect."
He embraced her gently. "I don't know how yet... but I swear to you, I'll bring Ryon home."
Three Moons Later
A white flag fluttered over the scorched battlefield beneath Ironrath's gates. The land was littered with the corpses of dead Whitehills. Three assaults had been beaten back, one under the cover of night, two others in light of day.
Now, at last, the enemy raised the banner of truce. A small group of Whitehill riders waited just beyond bow range.
"They're coming to talk," Asher muttered beside him. He stood tall despite the sling binding his severed arm. The stump still bled sometimes, but he never complained. "We should kill them now while they're stupid enough to come close."
Rodrik gave a grim smile. "Tempting."
"But?" Asher asked with a frown.
"But we're not like them. They killed father similarly. What is the point of victory if we become like them?" He turned from the battlements. "Open the gate. Bring them in under guard. I want eyes on every man who breathes near them."
Asher frowned. "You think they'll offer terms?"
"They'll offer something. Whether we accept it…" Rodrik looked back at the smoldering land beyond Ironrath. "Depends on the price."
The gates creaked open, and the Whitehill party rode forward slowly—three men on horseback, one of them unmistakable.
Grif fucking Whitehill rode in three other riders, all clad in armor. Asher tensed beside him. Rodrik held him back with a quiet word. "Not now. You'll have your justice. One day."
Grif dismounted, sneering. "So, the famous sellsword Asher is now a cripple."
Rodrik stepped forward. "What do you want, Grif? Or are you just here to be an ass?"
Grif's men reached for their hilts. Rodrik raised a hand calmly.
"Easy now. You don't want to leave with arrows sticking out of your chests, do you?"
Grif snarled at his soldiers. "Stand down, you idiots."
Then he turned back to Rodrik. "To begin, Lord Bolton has defeated Stannis. The so-called King has fled back to the Wall. No one's coming to save you. My father offers terms. Hand over 90% of your Ironwood. Lord Rodrick swears his loyalty to the Night's Watch. Marry our sister to your brother Asher, who will become Lord of Ironrath. In return, Ryon comes home."
Rodrik saw the grin on Grif's face and hated him for it.
"Fuck off, Whitehill," Asher growled. "You've seen the strength of Ironrath. Three moons of siege, and you still haven't broken us. Go back to your father. Tell him there can be peace when he leaves our land."
The people of Ironrath shouted their fury from the ramparts and the courtyard.
Rodrik said nothing for a long moment. His thoughts went to His wife and unborn child, and if he left, his child would grow up without a father, like Ryon and Talia.
He met Grif's eyes, voice steady. "Leave, Whitehill. Your father will have our answer in two days."
Grif smirked as he swung back onto his horse. "Very well… Lord Forrester."
Once the gates closed, Asher approached, furious. "You can't be considering this. Even if they do keep their word, giving up that much Ironwood will ruin us."
"I know that, and can we trust that there were words. After what happened with Ducan, the Starks, and all the other shit they have done so far." He lamented.
"Then, brother, we have to hold on, win this siege, and make sure we win it. Iron from Ice." Asher stated as he clasped his hand.
Chapter 13 Orys Targaryen
Orys Targaryen
The Wolfwood, near Ironrath
A moon later
The wind whispered through the trees of the Wolfwood, rustling the branches above like ancient voices murmuring secrets. Beneath their shadowed canopy, a small encampment of black tents huddled close, the largest of them glowing dimly with firelight.
Inside, Orys Targaryen sat hunched over a war table, his dark eyes scanning the map spread out before him. The flickering firelight made the inked lines of rivers and roads dance, but his gaze was steady, fixed on the carved stone tokens that marked the advance of his forces.
One token had recently been moved. Last Hearth, the seat of House Umber, is now taken and marked with the dragon banner. The first of the Boltons' footholds had fallen. Soon, he thought, the Whitehills would follow.
In his hand, he turned over the pommel of his sword, a direwolf wrought of polished white bone. He smiled sadly as he thought of the Old Bear. May he find peace, the world will know the threat, and his murder avenged.
A faint rustle of canvas announced a presence. One of his guards stepped into the tent and bowed quickly.
"Your Grace," the man said, voice taut. "One of our scouts has returned. He's seen something… you'll want to hear."
"Send him in," Orys replied without looking up.
Moments later, a figure stepped inside, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak stiff with frost and snow. The scout dropped to one knee, face shadowed by his hood. Orys set, laid down his sword, and waved his hand.
"Rise," he said, his voice low and quiet. "You've ridden hard. Take a moment."
He poured a cup of ale and handed it to the man, who accepted it with both hands. The scout drank deeply, his breath clouding in the cold air of the tent, then exhaled and nodded his thanks.
"We sighted them at dusk, moving north toward," the scout began, steadying his voice. "A column of men, three hundred at least. Marching under the banner of a white bow on red, and the white fist."
Orys's expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed.
"The Clemores and the Glovers," he murmured.
He rose and stepped around the table, boots crunching softly on the frost-laced ground. Behind him, the fire cracked and popped, casting long shadows against the canvas walls.
"Thank you for the report," he said to the scout. "Take your rest. Report to Lord Howland in the morning."
The man gave a respectful nod and quietly withdrew.
A moment later, one of his guards entered the tent. "Your Grace," he said with a small bow.
"Martin," Orys acknowledged him. "Send for Lord Reed. I want his counsel."
The guard departed, and before long, Howland Reed stepped into the tent, his cloak dusted with frost.
"Your Grace," he said with a slight smile. "Good evening."
"Lord Reed, welcome," Orys replied, gesturing to the table.
Howland looked around, noting the empty space beside the fire. "The Queen not here?" he asked with a raised brow.
"No," Orys said, his tone softening. "She's tending to the dragons. Rickon is with her, too. Nightwing and Silverwing don't take well to distance. She's keeping them calm."
He saw the flicker of concern in Howland's eyes and added, "Don't worry. They have two hundred Free Folk guards with them. They will be safe."
"I suppose you heard about the arriving scout?" He questioned, and Howland nodded. "Well, The Glenmores and Glover have been spotted. A force of around 300 men marching toward Ironrath."
"Hmm, Glabert must have sent some of his men there. After he heard of the situation. The Forresters are their own vassals. I suppose the Glenmores arrived either at Deepwood Mott hoping for support now that Rodrick has married Elaena Glenmore." Howland stated as he looked at the map.
"I thought so, yet even so, I doubt they would have marched without the support of the Glovers. They are minor houses. Yet the Forresters have been under siege for four moons. That must have weakened both forces. So either Glemmores are hoping to win by surprise attack. Or perhaps wanting to rescue Elaena." He noted.
"So what do you intend to do?" Howland asked.
"Tomorrow, we ride out to meet them, and in two days, we fall on Ironrath and crush the Whitehills." He proclaimed.
Next morning.
Orys's host now numbered nearly five thousand strong, Northern mountain clans and bannermen, Free Folk, and ten towering giants from beyond the Wall. Their collum quite awhile stretched beneath the bare trees of the Wolfwood.
One of the outriders galloped in from the south. Mud caked on his boots, and his breath misting in the cold air.
"Your Grace," the rider called out as he dismounted. "We've sighted the banners of House Glover and House Glenmore. They're approaching from the South West."
Orys nodded. "Good. Send two riders ahead of our line, white flags raised high. Let them know we come in peace."
He suspected they'd already scouted him, or at least he hoped they had. He'd chosen open ground for his approach, inviting their eyes. Still, caution was wise in the North these days.
Not long after, the supposed allied forces came into view. Their banners flapped in the wind, the Glenmores' white bow on crimson and the Glovers' white mailed fist on the same blood-red field. The northern wind tugged at cloaks and stirred the gathered riders, but Orys kept his gaze fixed ahead as he rode out to meet them, flanked by Howland Reed on one side and Vorrin Flint on the other.
"Howland," Orys said quietly as they approached, "what's the name of Lord Glenmore again?"
"Lord Devin Glenmore," Howland replied without hesitation.
The two columns slowed and came to a halt, facing one another across the snow-covered road. From the opposing host, a man rode forth, his beard shot through with grey, his face broad and weathered from years of wind and war. His cloak was trimmed in wolf fur, and though his expression was stern, his eyes lit with recognition when he saw them.
"Howland," the man greeted with a smile. "It's good to see you again, old friend. And it seems you've had some success."
Orys met his gaze. He recognized the man instantly, Galbart Glover, Lord of Deepwood Motte. He remembered him from years ago, during a visit to Winterfell when Lord Galbart had come to honor Sansa Stark's eleventh nameday.
"Lord Galbart," Orys said, pulling up beside him. "I hoped it would be you riding with the Glenmores. I take it Lord Devin Glenmore stands with you?"
A second man rode up alongside Glover, roughly his age, with a stern bearing and deep-set eyes. "Indeed, we do, Your Grace," the man declared. "It's time the Boltons were broken, and justice demanded for the North."
Orys nodded solemnly. "I heard of your son's death, Lord Devin. I swear to you, Ramsay Bolton will pay for what he's done. I've heard firsthand accounts of his cruelty. A girl named Jeyne Poole still wakes in fear, even now."
Lord Devin gave a slow, grateful nod, his voice thick with emotion. "We will see it done."
Then, Orys turned his attention back to Galbart. "Tell me, my lord. The plan was for you to remain at Deepwood Motte and wait for our arrival."
"Aye, it was," Galbart admitted. "But when I heard my vassals' plea and the Glenmores' march, I knew I couldn't sit idle. I left my brother in command of the forces still gathering at Deepwood. Maege Mormont arrived shortly before I departed. She told me to trust you, even if you brought Wildlings to our side."
"Lady Mormont spoke true, Glabert. The King had his reasons to bring them. They have been good companions when one gets to spend time with them, and they are loyal to our King." Vorrin Flint noted with pride in his voice.
Galbart studied Vorrin, then looked back at Orys. "I trust Maege," he said at last. "And if a mountain clansman is willing to stand beside Wildlings, then so will I. I would've wanted proof, anyway."
"You'll have it," Orys said, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "You'll see it after we bring down the Whitehills together."
Chapter 13 Asher Forrester
Asher Forrester
Outside the walls of Ironrath
The towering walls of Ironrath loomed above Asher's head, a silent reminder of what was at stake. He and his handpicked men had slipped through the siege lines under the cover of night.
"We're here to save Ryon," Asher reminded them in a low voice. "And if we can, we'll burn the Whitehills' supplies."
With that, he signaled for silence. They melted into the shadows, the tension sharp as a drawn blade. Asher gave Beskha a quick nod, and they moved forward, their footfalls hushed against the damp earth.
The first pair of Whitehill guards came into view as they approached the camp. Asher raised his hand in one sharp motion, and within moments, the guards were dead. Two of Asher's men stripped their surcoats and donned them in silence.
"Stay here," Asher instructed. "If anything happens, raise the alarm. But if it gets too dangerous, fall back. Don't be heroes."
The men nodded, fading into position.
Slipping deeper into the enemy camp, Asher and his team moved with deadly precision, skirting tents and supply wagons. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, the sounds of the enemy blissfully unaware. Soon enough, Whitehill, a soldier, was walking their way. Unaware of the danger.
With a quick and decisive motion, Asher struck, his blade striking the man's neck. Beskha acted quick and clamped a hand down the man's throat before a sound escaped his lips.
As he moved on, he saw his men removing the man from the way, hiding him under branches.
As they moved on, they arrived at a group of larger tents. Then he spotted someone who made his heart stop. Someone who had caused him to be sent into exile. "Gywn," he mouthed.
Asher then remembered something Rodrick had said: Gwyn had promised to look after Ryan. If she had, then wherever she went… Ryon would be there, too.
"We wait," he whispered. "See which tent she goes into."
They crouched in silence as Gwyn crossed the camp and entered one of the larger tents. Asher motioned for his team to follow, circling toward the back. They couldn't risk the front entrance.
At the rear, Asher pulled his dagger and sliced quietly through the tent wall. He slipped inside first, eyes scanning the dim interior.
Two beds. One held Ryon, his little brother, asleep under a wool blanket.
The other, Gwyn, sat on its edge, facing away.
Pain flickered in Asher's chest, but he steeled himself. Quiet as a breath, he crept up behind her and pressed his blade to her back. "Scream," he said softly, "and we'll both be dead."
Gwyn gasped but didn't move. "Very well," she murmured, her voice touched with sadness.
At the sound, Ryon stirred, blinking awake. He saw them, eyes wide, but Asher held a finger to his lips. Ryon nodded, understanding.
"I'm sorry, Gwyn, for all of this." He muttered. "I know, I also know, that offer wouldn't have been accepted. If one part of it, I would love to be a part of." Gwyn stated. Her words stirred something deep in his chest, a dull ache of what could have been.
But before he could answer, the camp erupted. The alarm bell clanged, sharp and sudden, ringing through the darkness like a blade through still water. Shouts rose, torches flared to life, and chaos bloomed around them.
"Soldiers are scrambling toward the southern edge of the camp," Beskha said, her voice low but urgent.
Before Asher could respond, the tent flap was thrown open.
Two Whitehill guards stepped inside. "My lady," one began, but that was all he managed.
In an instant, Beskha lunged. Her blade drove deep into the first guard's throat, silencing him with a wet gurgle. Before the second guard could react, Amaya surged forward, her spear sinking into his shoulder. He cried out, but only briefly.
Bloodsong followed, fast and silent. One clean slash across the throat, and the man collapsed beside his comrade.
"Amaya, hold her," he ordered before he looked at Ryon, who was now awake and gaping in shock. Asher sighted. The things Ryon had already seen were that he was far too young. He thought with pity.
"Ryon," he said gently, kneeling before him. "Stay with Beskha. She's a good friend of mine, and she'll protect you, no matter what."
Ryon nodded slowly, blinking back the threat of tears. Asher wrapped him tightly, holding him close for just a moment longer than he should have. Then he rose, jaw clenched, eyes hardening.
The noise outside was rising now, shouts, screams, the clash of steel, and the roar of men.
Asher strode to the front of the tent and pulled the flap aside.
He froze. The camp was in chaos.
Firelight danced against the canvas of tents as men screamed and steel clanged. The banners of House Whitehill had begun to fall, trampled underfoot or burning in the flames.
In their place, new banners surged forward, grey direwolves of House Stark, crimson fists of House Glover, and the white bow on red of House Glenmore and others he didn't recognize. "What the hell." He mouthed.
"Outside now, and form a circle." He ordered, and slowly they. "Hold your blades. We are of house Forrester." He cried out as he showed his momento to the upcoming group of Glovers.
"Asher? Is that truly you?" A man asked. Asher squinted his eyes. "Glabert Glover?" The man nodded. "Fucking hell, I didn't know you were here, Asher. Last I knew, you were in Essos."
"Long story, now what the hell is happening here?" He asked, but before Glabert could. Then a scream from his side and a shout from Beskha, as a white blur sept in front of him, taking with him a screaming man. He heard Gywn scream and looked at he what just happened. A white Direwolf had just saved him. "What in the hell," He mouthed as he looked at the giant wolf.
"No, Sven, you fool." Gwyn sobbed as she fell to her knees in the mud and snow. Asher sighed deeply as he looked at the bloodied wolf. "Ghost, to me," came a calm, commanding voice.
From between the advancing men that looked like mountain clans rode a man on a black warhorse. Clad in dark armor styled in the Stark fashion, black leathers and a grey cloak of a direwolf cloak flowing behind him. His features were familiar to the late lord Eddard Stark, but his eyes were not the Stark gray. They were a deep, haunting violet that bordered on black.
"Your Grace," Galbart said, bowing his head. After the man dismounted. "We've found Ryon Forrester, luckily unharmed. It seems the Forresters had the same idea as we: rescue their kin. May I present Asher Forrester."
At the words, your Grace, Asher dropped to one knee.
"Galbart told me you were in Essos," the King said. "Seems you made your way home when your family needed you most."
"Rise, Asher." He stood. The King extended a hand, Asher grasped it firmly, grateful.
"Well, I can't say I'm surprised to see you both safe," the King continued. "But I am glad for it. We hope to find you alive. We have suffered losses similar to yours and mine. I will always mourn the murder of my father and brother."
Asher blinked as he knew how this man was. "Jon... Jon Snow?"
"Aye. Once. Now, I will answer with a different name. Jon Stark, it is now." The King said with a smile.
"Your Grace," Asher said with a respectful nod. "Thank you. If you hadn't come when you did..."
"We owe you," he added, glancing toward his men and Ryon, who now stood beside Beskha. Gwyn had knelt by her brother's broken body, silent tears falling. Asher saw the King looking at Gwyn. "That's Gwyn Whitehill, Your Grace, and the person your wolf just mangled is her brother. Sven Whitehill, heir to Highpoint."
The man sighed and shook his head. "War is never fair. Even so, the man was foolish in his attempt. I saw him coming for you. Maybe a final chance to sour the victor we just claimed." At that, the King stepped forward, Gywn.
"My Lady, I'm sorry for the loss. I know what it's like to lose a brother." The King said as he placed a hand on Gywn's shoulder. Gwyn looked at him, grief-stricken, yet her eyes widened as she knew who it was. "Jon Snow?"
"The very one, it has been a while, Gywn." The King replied. How do they know each other? Asher mused.
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