Chapter 12 – Gift of the Old Gods
It had been some time since the battle.
Our camp still smelled of blood and steel, but the air was quieter now — the groans of the wounded replacing the clash of arms. We rested, recovered, and counted the living.
The Northern lords gathered in council, maps and reports scattered across the table. Lord Glover, now in charge of the Reach prisoners, stood to speak.
"From the prisoners, I've learned troubling news," he began. "Lord Robert has been defeated at Ashford. His host crushed by Lord Randyll Tarly. Most of the Stormlands army has fallen back into their own lands — now besieged by Tarly and the Reach. Rumor says Robert himself escaped in another direction, holed up in Stoney Sept with barely three thousand men left to his name. A bitter loss for our cause."
Jeor Mormont leaned forward. "Aye, but his failure is not the whole war. We broke the Reach in the field and hold their paramount lord in chains. The Stormlanders may be bottled up, but the Reach will trouble us no more — and that was the greatest threat to our cause."
The lords murmured in agreement.
I waited until the noise faded before speaking. "We're in a strong position, but there's another matter — the fate of our prisoners. They cannot be pampered. We must decide their punishment. Tyrell will live — his value as a bargaining piece is too great — but the others… I see no reason they should walk free when this is done."
"We can't simply kill them all," one lord protested.
"No," Jeor Mormont said, stroking his beard. "Those who can wield a sword — knights and lords — should take the black. The Wall is always in need of strong men. The rest… well, the Old Gods may not mind if they meet the headsman's axe."
I nodded. "Aye. The weak and useless lords will be beheaded, save for Tyrell and a few of his kind."
Lord Karstark frowned. "Wouldn't it be dangerous to send so many enemies north? They'd be at our backs."
Jeor Mormont looked around the table. "Don't trouble yourself, Rickard. I'll be there. I've planned to take the black for some time. My son is grown and ready to lead Bear Island. At the Wall, I'll keep them in line."
A ripple of surprise moved through the lords.
"Are you certain?" I asked. "There are other arrangements we could make. I'd rather not see you sacrifice yourself needlessly."
The Old Bear gave a rare smile. "No sacrifice. Just purpose. This was always my path. Now it will serve the North twice over."
The hall filled with murmurs of respect. Artos nodded his head towards Jeor in respect.
"Then it's settled," I said at last. "See to your duties."
One by one, the lords departed — save for Lord Howland Reed.
When we were alone, I leaned forward. "Howland… I've heard you visited the Isle of Faces not long ago."
He tilted his head warily. "Aye. I went. But don't ask me what I saw. I swore an oath to the Old Gods never to speak of it."
"I understand. But I intend to go myself. I hoped you'd come with me — you know the way."
Reed's expression hardened. "I wouldn't advise it, Artos. The Isle isn't meant for outsiders, and it has no love for uninvited guests."
"I know the risk. But since we arrived here, I've felt… drawn. As if the Old Gods themselves were calling."
I hesitated, then fixed him with a steady look. "Swear on the Old Gods you won't repeat what I'm about to tell you."
Without pause, Reed swore.
"I am a warg," I said simply. "I realised it during the battle."
For a moment, he just stared — then a slow grin spread across his face. "Then the Old Gods favor you more than most, my friend."
He grew serious again. "I'll take you there. But I will not set foot on the Isle again. I was allowed once — I won't presume twice. You'll have to cross alone."
"Even that is more than I hoped for. We leave tonight."
---
Riverrun
In Lord Hoster's solar, the Riverlords and the Vale's representatives gathered.
"We've raised fifteen thousand men," Hoster Tully said. "My brother Brynden will lead them."
"Then we march," Jon Arryn declared. "Robert and Artos both are vulnerable. If the Crown strikes with a large host, they'll suffer heavy losses. We must move quickly."
Eddard Stark nodded. "Aye. The sooner we're in the field, the better."
Later, as the host prepared to march, Catelyn Tully — now Stark — took her husband's hand. "I will pray for your safe return, my lord."
Ned embraced her briefly. "And I will return to you as quickly as I can." Then he mounted and led the Northern banners south.
---
King's Landing
The Mad King raged in the Red Keep. "The Reach are fools! Letting that traitor escape, bested by a green boy. They should burn for their incompetence!"
His eyes fell on his new Hand, Jon Connington.
"You. I'll give you the chance to prove yourself worthy. Raise a host from the loyal lands. March to Stoney Sept. Kill Robert Baratheon. Bring me his head — or I'll have yours."
Connington bowed stiffly. "As you command, Your Grace. I will lead the army myself."
But in truth, his loyalty was not to the king. This was his chance to prove to Rhaegar Targaryen that he was the prince's greatest champion. If killing Robert would do it, so be it.
---
The Isle of Faces
That night, I slipped from camp without a sound, meeting Howland Reed at the water's edge. A small boat waited.
We rowed across the still black waters toward the Isle. It was… different. The air was thicker, the silence deeper. The weirwoods seemed to watch me before I'd even set foot ashore.
At the bank, Reed stopped. "This is where I leave you. The rest is between you and the Old Gods."
I went on alone.
What happened on that Isle is not for any man to know — not even Howland Reed.
---
Morning in the Northern Camp
Panic had begun to spread. My tent was empty, my guards baffled. Search parties were being prepared when someone spotted movement at the treeline.
It was me — walking back into camp alongside Reed.
And in my arms was a great eagle.
Not an ordinary bird. A massive beast, feathers streaked black and grey, eyes were grey like that of Stark. It radiated strength and Coldness — and something else. Intelligence.
Those who came close swore it studied them in return, weighing them like a lord judging his bannermen. It was proud, moody, and near impossible to handle.
Even I found myself struggling to master its moods. But it stayed with me.
---
Beheading
Artos was in the open ground and was ready to announce the judgement and start beheading the prisoners of war .
"Should I do it ,My Lord." Lord Jeor Mormount asked.
"No , My father has taught me to do it myself. A Stark should be the one who executes his own judgement."Artos
All of the prisoners were now in middle.
One of them spoke" You can't do this to us . We are Lords of our Lands . They will never forgive you. "
Artos didn't blink a eye.
"We should be treated fairly. You should respect the laws " another said.
"We want a trial." One of them spoke
Artos flinches at that ." Very well ,My father wasn't given one nor my brother. But I will provide you with fair trial."
He continues" You are prisoners of wars . You can only demand trail by combat. I will give you till evening choose your Champion. Only One for you all. He would be fed Good before fight and would be in optimal conditions."
They thought over it and accepted.
Northern Lords groaned " It's war . It wasn't necessary My Lord. "
Artos silenced them all." My father wasn't given a fair trial. I shouldn't do the same . But either ways result will be same."
Many Northmen and Lords asked for to be a Champion.
" A Stark fights his own battle." Artos says and silenced them.
---
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