The year end of 297 AC arrived with a cold that snapped the branches off ancient pine trees.
High upon the Fist of the First Men, a natural ringfort of stone jutting above the endless sea of the Haunted Forest, the wind screamed like a dying animal. But the men standing atop the desolate hill did not shiver. They were numb to the cold, their attention entirely consumed by the horrific, thrashing sounds coming from the three heavy ironwood boxes resting in the snow.
Mance Rayder stood near the edge of the cages, a dragonglass axe gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were white. Beside him, Tormund Giantsbane breathed heavily, his thick red beard crusted with dark, frozen blood. Harle the Huntsman sat on a nearby rock, tying a crude bandage over a vicious, jagged tear in his thigh.
They had taken fifty of their best hunters deep into the dark of the woods. Only twenty had returned to the Fist.
"They don't stop," Tormund muttered, his voice lacking its usual boisterous boom. He stared into the nearest cage.
Inside the box, a thing that used to be a wildling spearman threw itself against the walls of box. Its flesh was pale, pulled tight over frozen bone. Its hands were shattered, the fingers broken into jagged stumps from relentlessly pounding against the wood, yet it felt no pain. It simply threw itself forward, again and again, its terrifying, burning blue eyes fixed on the living men. It did not roar or scream. The only sounds were the cracking of its own bones and the dull thud of dead flesh against timber.
There were three of them in total. Captured at the cost of ten good men, snared in heavy iron chains and dragged kicking and biting back to the high ground.
"We used the glass to kill the others," Harle rasped, wincing as he pulled the bandage tight. "Lord Stark did not lie. The black glass kills them."
"You won't have to," Mance said softly. He looked away from the cages, out toward the southern horizon, where the faint, impossibly distant line of the Wall cut across the world.
He turned to his remaining hunters. They had stacked a pyre of deadwood and pine branches thirty feet high, soaked in whale oil and animal fat.
"Light it," the King-Beyond-the-Wall commanded.
Tormund hurled a burning torch into the base of the massive pyre. The oil caught instantly. A pillar of blinding orange fire erupted into the freezing grey sky, roaring against the wind. It was a beacon that would be seen for fifty leagues in every direction.
Far to the south, standing on the icy precipice of the Shadow Tower, Qhorin Halfhand squinted through the falling snow. He saw the faint, unnatural star of orange light flickering on the northern horizon.
The ranger turned to the black brother standing watch beside him. "Fetch the maester. Tell him to send the fastest raven we have to Castle Black, and another to Winterfell."
The young brother hesitated, squinting through the freezing gale. "But Halfhand... the wildlings light fires all the time."
"Not a fire that big," Qhorin replied grimly, his grey eyes locked on the distant flames. "And never on the Fist. Send the birds. They have our proof."
While the true war prepared to announce itself in the deep snows, a different kind of madness was boiling over in the sunlit streets of the South.
In King's Landing, the Red Keep echoed with the sound of shattering wood.
King Robert Baratheon stood in the center of the Small Council chambers. He had not grown fat in this timeline; the grueling, brutal Northern sports Ned had introduced years ago had kept the King's blood hot and his massive frame corded with heavy muscle. Right now, every ounce of that strength was focused in absolute fury.
He had just driven his legendary warhammer squarely through the center of the heavy oak council table, splintering it in two.
"They dare?" Robert roared, his voice shaking the tapestries on the walls. "They dare march on the North? On Ned?!"
Standing a safe distance from the King's wrath, Jon Arryn looked deeply weary. The Hand of the King pinched the bridge of his nose. Beside him, Queen Cersei Lannister stood perfectly composed, her emerald eyes watching her husband's rage with cool calculation.
"It is not a formal army, Your Grace," Jon Arryn tried to explain, keeping his voice carefully measured. "It is the Faith Militant. The High Septon has formally blessed the rebirth of the Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows. They are calling it a holy cleansing. Tens of thousands of zealots are marching up the kingsroad, gathering more numbers at every village."
"I don't care if they call themselves the Mother's own teat!" Robert bellowed, yanking his hammer free from the ruined table. "Ned Stark bled for me! He saved my life at Stoney Sept! He handed me this cursed throne! And now a flock of barefoot sparrows and second sons think they can march on his home because he trades with some wildlings?"
Robert turned toward his Kingsguard. "Prepare my armor. Summon the gold cloaks. Call the banners of the Crownlands. I'll smash these zealots into the dirt myself."
"You will do no such thing, Robert," Cersei said, her voice smooth and carrying through the room like a cold breeze.
Robert wheeled on her, his blue eyes blazing. "You presume to give me commands, woman?"
"I presume to save your crown," Cersei countered flawlessly, not flinching. "These are not rebel lords, Robert. These are the commons. They are septons, farmers, and begging brothers. They march beneath the seven-pointed star. If you ride out with your hammer and crush the Faith Militant, you will not be seen as a loyal friend defending his Warden."
Cersei took a slow step forward. "The High Septon will declare you an enemy of the Gods. The smallfolk in every city from Lannisport to Gulltown will rise up. You will not be Robert the Victorious. You will be Maegor the Cruel come again. You will lose the realm to save one man."
Robert's jaw locked. He hated the whispers and the maneuvering. But he knew, deep down, that she was right. Maegor the Targaryen had fought the Faith Militant centuries ago, and it had nearly torn the Seven Kingdoms apart.
Jon Arryn stepped in, capitalizing on Cersei's logic. "The Queen speaks the truth, Robert. You are the Defender of the Faith. That is your royal title. You cannot slaughter the faithful without shattering the foundation of your rule. Furthermore... it is not just peasants."
Jon Arryn pulled a parchment from his sleeve. "Young lords are joining their ranks. Second and third sons of minor houses in the Reach, the Riverlands, and the Westerlands. Boys who will not inherit lands, seeking glory and absolution. They have knights now. They have cavalry."
Robert stared at the parchment, his massive chest heaving as he fought the urge to break something else. He looked at his warhammer, then at the Hand of the King.
"I am the King," Robert growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, deadly pitch. "But I am caged by sparrows." He pointed a massive finger at Jon Arryn. "You are my Hand, Jon. You handle this. You find a way to stop this madness without me swinging my hammer. Because if they touch one hair on Ned Stark's head, I don't care if I am called Maegor. The Demon of the Trident will wake, and I will burn the Starry Sept to the ground."
Robert turned and stormed out of the ruined chamber.
Cersei watched him leave, a faint, satisfied smirk touching the corner of her lips. She had not stopped her husband out of any true desire to protect his reign. She despised Eddard Stark—his unyielding arrogance, his cold judgment, and the absolute, unbreakable loyalty he commanded from Robert. She wanted the Faith to march. Let the zealots and the wolves slaughter each other in the mud, leaving her father and the Lannisters as the undisputed military power in the realm. The Crown was shackled, leaving the North to face the fanaticism of the South alone.
A thousand miles north, the air in the solar of Winterfell was warm, heated by the thermal pipes running beneath the stone floors.
Ned Stark sat behind his desk. Before him lay a piece of parchment. A ciphered report from Ashara's spy network in the Kingslanding, detailing the terrifying, rapid growth of the Faith Militant.
Ashara stood by the window, watching the snow fall over the training yards. "They have crossed the point of no return, Ned. The spy reports are staggering in their false piety. The Poor Fellows march barefoot through the mud, whipping themselves for the Father's mercy, while the second sons of the Reach ride right behind them in polished plate armor, looking for lands to steal. They are fifty thousand strong, and they are moving toward the Neck."
"They are coming to plunder, not just to pray," Ned noted with cold reason, his voice entirely devoid of panic. "The South wants our glassworks, our distilleries, our heavy plows. The minor lords joining this 'crusade' are using the gods as a mask to seize Northern wealth."
Ned pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him and picked up a quill.
"What will you tell the King?" Ashara asked, turning away from the window. "Will you demand he ride?"
"If Robert rides, the Seven Kingdoms will consume themselves in a holy war," Ned said, his quill scratching steadily across the paper. "Cersei and Jon Arryn are correct. Even though I think Cersei has plans of her own. If the King slaughters the Faith, the smallfolk will depose him. I will not let Robert destroy his legacy for my sake."
Ned finished the letter, sanded the ink, and handed it to Ashara to read.
Robert,
Keep your hammer down. Let the Faith raise their weapons against the North. Do not issue a royal decree. Do not call your banners. You must remain the Defender of the Faith in the eyes of the commons.
I will take care of this incursion.
Ned.
The raven flew south. It took weeks for the bird to reach the capital, and only days for a furious reply to return. Ashara brought Robert's response into the solar the moment it arrived.
Ned,
You are mad. Fifty thousand zealots are marching on your borders. You have a formidable guard, but you cannot face a horde of that size without bleeding the North dry. I am the King. I will not sit in this cursed chair and drink wine while religious beggars attack my brother. I am marching.
Robert.
Ned read the scrawled, angry handwriting. He felt the genuine love and loyalty radiating from the ink. Robert was a flawed King, but he was an unmatched friend.
Ned took another piece of parchment. He had to be blunt. He had to use the one argument that would force Robert to stay seated on the Iron Throne.
Robert,
If you march on the Faith, you will not be fighting an army. You will be slaughtering farmers, cobblers, and septons. They will label you another Maegor the Cruel. Your reign will end in riots and assassinations.You think I am bleeding the North? You have forgotten the very lands of my kingdom. Let them come. They must pass through the Neck. They must face Moat Cailin.Tell the High Septon you will not interfere in his holy crusade. Wash your hands of it. Let the North handle the Faith. The wolves are hungry.
Ned.
Ned sealed the parchment with the direwolf stamp and handed it to a waiting guard. As the man hurried from the solar, Ned turned back to his wife.
"Send another raven to Greywater Watch," Ned commanded quietly. "Tell Howland Reed the southern zealots are marching. The Neck is closed. Tell him to dip his arrows in bog-rot and move the castle. Let the heavy horse of the Reach sink into the mud before they ever see the towers of Moat Cailin."
When that raven reached King's Landing, Robert Baratheon threw his goblet against the wall. He raged, he cursed the Seven, he cursed the North, and he cursed the Iron Throne. But he did not march. Reluctantly, bitterly, the King yielded to his Warden's strategy, leaving the matter entirely in the hands of Jon Arryn, who desperately tried to slow the zealots with parley and envoys—an effort that failed completely.
While kings and lords plotted in castles, the true mastermind of the holy war sat in dimly lit, lavishly furnished chambers hidden above one of King's Landing's most costly pleasure houses.
Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, sat behind a polished mahogany desk. The room smelled of sweet incense and expensive arbor gold.
Before him lay three heavy leather-bound ledgers. They were not the official accounts of the Iron Throne. These ledgers were written in a personal, intricate cipher.
Petyr dipped his quill in ink, making a precise notation in the third column.
Ten thousand golden dragons to the Starry Sept. For the provisioning of the Warrior's Sons. He set the quill down and leaned back in his plush leather chair. With a slow, deliberate movement, he unbuttoned the top of his silk doublet, reaching a hand inside his shirt to trace the thick, jagged scar that ran across his chest.
It was an old wound. A wound given to him in the courtyard of Riverrun by Brandon Stark.
The Starks had taken everything from him. They had humiliated him, leaving him bleeding in the dirt while Catelyn watched. Though Brandon was dead, and Catelyn was married to the rigid, joyless Stannis Baratheon, Petyr's hatred for the direwolves had not cooled. It had simply distilled into a pure, patient poison.
Tywin Lannister thought he was clever, quietly encouraging the Faith to test the North. Olenna Tyrell thought she was brilliant, selling grain to the zealots at a premium.
But it was Petyr Baelish who was truly arming them.
He had used his position as Master of Coin to manipulate the Crown's debts. He had quietly borrowed heavy sums from the Iron Bank and the magisters of Pentos. To ensure Lord Varys and his whispers noticed nothing amiss, Petyr routed the gold through hidden intermediaries—minor Gulltown merchants and devout lords of the Reach like the Florents—who made the massive donations to the Starry Sept in their own names.
It was Baelish gold that bought the heavy warhorses for the young knights of the Reach. It was Baelish gold that purchased the steel swords for the Poor Fellows.
"They think you invincible, Eddard Stark," Petyr whispered to the empty room, a cold, empty smile spreading across his face. "They look at your glass and your stone and your ships, and they fear you."
Petyr closed the ledger, locking the brass clasp.
"But you cannot fight faith with swords," Baelish murmured, pouring himself a glass of wine. "Let us see how your Northern discipline holds against fifty thousand men who believe the Gods have commanded them to burn your home to ashes."
Petyr raised his glass in a mock toast to the North. The board was set. The zealots were marching. And the Master of Coin had ensured they were perfectly equipped to bleed the wolves dry.
What Petyr Baelish did not know—what no one in the South knew—was that the Lord of Winterfell was not looking south at the advancing horde of zealots.
Eddard Stark was looking North. Toward the fire burning on the Fist of the First Men.
The Faith Militant was marching into a trap, totally unaware that the North they sought to conquer had already mustered its swords for a war against Death itself.