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…
Chapter 12 – A Royal Feast 21st day of the 4th Moon, Year 298 AC Benjen Stark The king was a shadow of his former self.
Benjen had heard stories from both his brothers regarding the man who had brought the Targaryens low, the man who had ended a three hundred year old dynasty.
The man sitting at the head of Winterfell’s great table was not that man.
Robert Baratheon now was a fat and loud King, already deep into his third flagon of ale with crumbs of food stuck into this thick dark beard.
There was a restlessness to him, one who spent fifteen years looking for something he could not find other than in a fight.
Benjen had spent years at the Wall, keeping company with men who had seen the world strip something fundamental away from them, and he recognized the shape of the loss, even in a king.
It was a shame.
Benjen would have wanted to cross blades against the Demon of the Trident, who was said to be a peerless warrior like any other.
They had shared a cup earlier in the evening — Robert, Karlon, and himself.
Robert had wanted to hear about the Greyjoy Rebellion from the men who had fought it, and Karlon had obliged him with the sea-fight off Pyke in enough detail that even Benjen, who had not been there, could see the shape of it.
The Ironborn coming on at dawn, the magnificence of the Iron Fleet, Victarion Greyjoy bellowing from the command deck of the Iron Victory as Karlon matched him sail for sail atop the Frostfang.
Benjen remained quiet, content in merely listening.
It was when the King pulled one of the serving wenches to his lap and fondled her for all to see did the stories stop.
The Queen’s face turned sour the moment it happened, and neither he nor Karlon had any interest in earning her ire.
So they bid Robert goodbye and seeked another table to sit.
They had drifted to one of the lower tables, where Jorah and Tyrion Lannister sat together.
Jorah had the particular resigned ease of a man who had been drinking at a measured pace and intended to remain that way, while the Imp had no such intention.
The moment they settled, Jorah turned towards Benjen as he recounted the days of the execution.
“What of the sellswords of that business in Wintertown?” “They took the black,” Benjen said.
“All three of them.
I’ll take them back to the Wall when I leave.” They were all currently waiting by Winterfell’s dungeons.
Benjen at least took solace in the fact that the three black brothers that came with Benjen were still in Wintertown.
It spared him from escorting the sellswords himself.
“Rather than being useful for anything, they’ll spend their time freezing their balls off on the top of the world.” Tyrion raised his cup in something that might have been a toast.
“The Night’s Watch, where men go to repent, if they’re lucky, or to die slowly if they’re not.” He tilted his head at Benjen.
“No offense intended, First Ranger.” “None taken,” Benjen said, snorting.
“That merchant was rather bold.” Karlon said, tearing a piece of bread and smothered it in butter before taking a bite.
“Dropping Baelish’s and Slynt’s name in a northern courtyard as though they meant something.
The North has nothing to do with either of them.” “Baelish and Slynt are names with power in King’s Landing,” Jorah said, “The fact that a Maidenpool merchant has enough ease to mention their names should mean that he has grown used to acting the same away and getting away with it.” “So much for the ‘King’s Justice’,” Karlon scoffed under his breath.
“Ah, I heard about that incident after speaking with the locals.” Tyrion Lannister chimed in.
Benjen heard Karlon snort.
No doubt the ‘locals’ were the whores of Wintertown.
Even in the Wall, the famed escapades of Tywin Lannister’s youngest son was well known.
“Is it true you northerners do not employ a proper headsman?
I find it rather interesting that you chop criminals’ heads all by yourself.” “Ours is the old way,” Karlon said forebodingly.
“Something our father taught us.
He who carries the sentence must swing the sword.” Tyrion was quiet for a moment, eyeing his goblet.
“A dreary philosophy,” he said at last, “but one that would produce rather fewer executions if more lords were required to perform them personally.
I can see the appeal.” He took another drink.
“Your nephew seems to have taken to it well enough, from what I’ve heard.
Certainly beats my nephew in anything.” Benjen raised a brow at the last part.
Ill-saying the Crown Prince was a punishable offence, one that Benjen believed Tyrion Lannister partook in from his wine-addled tongue.
Neither he, Karlon, or Jorah commented on it.
The feast continued to go by exactly in that way.
The Royal Family continued to gain the most attention at the head table, where even his nephews and nieces were holding themselves well.
Arya had wanted to be a little rebel, but Ned had spoken to her prior to the feast that she would be allowed to train in the yard with Karlon should she behave, and she was doing remarkably well at that.
It seems even his wildest niece could stay still if she put her mind to it.
Princess Myrcella was a beauty to behold with her long golden curls and emerald eyes, and he noticed that she looked rather smitten and was giving doe eyes at Robb, who laughed at something Bran said with an easy smile.
The announcement of the betrothal was met with cheers by everyone in attendance, as even Catelyn looked radiant as she will have a princess for a good daughter soon.
Sansa looked glum initially considering she wouldn’t be subject to a royal match, but that changed when the Crown Prince’s personality became more apparent.
Joffrey was not the most pleasant of boys, but then again, few children were at that age.
He could still remember Brandon being much wilder in his youth than Joffrey ever was, so he reserved judgement.
Not that he could give much as a Black Brother.
Benjen had sworn to keep away from the politics of the Seven Kingdoms.
Not that that had ever stopped him.
No matter what, Benjen swore he would always be there for his family.
Princess Myrcella, on the other hand, was everything her brother and father was not.
She was composed, curious, and charming.
She had been speaking with Wynafryd Manderly for the better part of an hour, which was a promising sign for a girl who would need allies in the north if Robb was to be her husband.
The music picked up as the bard at the far end of the hall struck into The Dornishman’s Wife, making the southron knights begin to sing along.
Half the hall’s knights were on their feet before the second verse, and even Tyrion, his face flushed pink, had joined in the dancing.
Benjen watched him for a moment and had to look away before the laughter escaped him.
Even Benjen was starting to feel the flush, thus he excused himself, made his way to the privy in the far passage, and came out into the cold air of the yard feeling considerably clearer in the head.
The yard was dark and quiet, the noise from the hall reduced to a muffled cheer and the faint competing sounds of the bard.
At least a score of guards remained vigil on the wall.
A stable hand crossing between the outbuildings.
He almost missed Jon at first.
The boy was at the far edge of the yard, at the practice range, loosing arrows at a straw target.
The boy had a scowl on his face, and it seems he was just going through the motions instead of doing actual practice.
It wasn’t hard for Benjen to understand why.
Catelyn had barred him from sitting at the high table earlier, to avoid insulting the royal family, and it seems he’s had enough of the drinks and came out here to deal with his frustrations.
A sudden movement beneath him had Benjen noticing the direwolf lolling on the ground.
Benjen had to blink, Ghost looked near indistinguishable from the snow.
He was about to step forward to console his nephew when something stopped him.
A servant crossed the far end of the yard, carrying a silver tray from the direction of the kitchens.
He had dark hair cut to the chin, clean Stark livery, moving with the practiced invisibility of household staff going about unremarkable business.
Benjen’s ranger instincts snapped to attention.
The scarred nose.
He had seen that nose before.
He stood very still and let the memory come, slowly and in pieces.
A man’s face at the gate of Castle Black, six years ago.
A name on the rolls that was removed two weeks later with no explanation.
A note in the steward’s hand that said deserted.
That was it.
Torwyn, a deserter who left the watch, but was cunning enough not to get caught.
What was a man like that doing in Winterfell?
The Watch did not often bother chasing after deserters.
It did not have enough men to send after the ones who left, but rather relied on the lords of the North to do so.
His mind ran as he considered the situation.
A man like Torwyn did not end up serving in a lord’s household by accident.
It would be too risky, too dangerous.
And the timing of it with the royal visit, the full household gathered in one place, was either a coincidence or it was not.
“Jon!” Benjen called out, earning his attention.
The boy lowered his bow and turned.
“Uncle Benjen?” “Come with me.” He kept his eyes on Torwyn as he said it, watching the man move between the torchlit circles without deviation or haste.
“Now.” Jon was at his shoulder within seconds, which was gratifying, because it meant the boy had read enough in his uncle’s voice to recognize urgency.
Benjen moved quickly, angling across the yard to cut off Torwyn’s route, and was within twenty feet of him when the man glanced up and their eyes met.
They widened, and he ran.
… 21st day of the 4th Moon, Year 298 AC Karlon Stark The feast had concluded just as the hour of the bat had approached.
All at once the lords and ladies excused themselves in ones and twos until the hall held only the most committed drinkers and the servants who were waiting for them to finish.
Karlon had said his goodnights to Jorah and Tyrion, who surprisingly remained capable of conversation despite all the drinks he had in the night.
Instead of leaving for his quarters, Karlon had asked Ser Wylis Manderly whether they might speak briefly before retiring.
Wylis had agreed after sending his brother, Ser Wendel, to escort Wynfrayd and Wylla back to the guest house.
They walked through the quieter corridors of Winterfell, their steps unhurried, the castle settling around them into its nighttime sounds.
There was the distant bark of a hound from the kennels, and even the soft footfalls of servants carrying the last evening’s things back to the kitchens.
The wind howled through the gaps of the stone.
“My son is set to arrive in Winterfell in four days, Ser,” Karlon said, in answer to the question Wylis had asked about Alaric.
“He should be through the Wolfswood now.
My lady wife sends good reports.” “I am glad to hear it.” Wylis’ walrus mustache moved with his smile.
“I would love to take measure of my future good-son before meeting with my Wynafryd, if your lordship has no objection.
We find the informalities often reveal more than the ceremonies.” “No objection at all,” Karlon said.
“I’d expect nothing less from a sensible man.” “Your father was a sensible man, Lord Stark,” Wylis said, eyeing the mounted antlers of previous hunts lining the walls with appreciation.
“Lord Rickard came to White Harbor once you know, before the Tourney of Harrenhal, to ask my father about building a fleet there.
My father thought him mad.” He chuckled.
“He was also right — he said, if you ever make it work, Wyman, you will regret not having done it sooner.” “He was right about most things,” Karlon shrugged, “Not all.
But most.” “And now here we are.” Wylis spread a hand with the gesture of a man indicating the accumulated work of many years.
“The eastern fleet and the western fleet.
My daughter and your heir.
My father would have liked you, Lord Karlon.” “I’ve met Lord Wyman a handful of times, when I was still a child.” Karlon chuckled.
“I would think I had made a good impression.” The corridor they were walking turned, where the old tower stood dark against the lighter dark of the sky, visible through the open window.
It was quieter here at the Bell Tower, away from the guest house, away from the Great Keep, the sounds of the castle thin and distant.
The cold was sharper away from the fires, the breath misting between them.
A clamour erupted from ahead of them as they heard shouting.
Both Karlon and Wylis paused as a man in a clean tunic came from the corner and panically ran in their direction.
There were no weapons visible on his person, as all men were checked at the gates prior to entering Winterfell’s walls, but a single small box was clutched in his hand.
Ser Rodrik followed not a second later, sweating and shouting.
“Lord Karlon, he’s a thief!” Karlon reacted, and stepped into his path.
The man tried to dodge and Karlon caught him with a shoulder, using the full weight of him to drive the man into the wall with enough force to rattle the torch in its sconce.
Wylis moved at the same moment with surprising speed for his size, one heavy hand closing over the man’s wrist and the other finding the box and stripping it away in a single practiced motion.
Ser Rodrik Cassel appeared around the corner a moment later, breathing harder than he wanted to, with three men-at-arms behind him and clasped the man in chains.
“Many thanks for the help, my lords.” Rodrik said, bowing.
“Apologies for the lacklustre showing.” “‘Tis fine, Rodrik.” Karlon said, watching as the guards lifted the man up, revealing a gash in his scalp where he hit the wall too hard and was now unconscious.
“Who is he?” “We’ve caught him sneaking into the Maester’s turret, and started running the moment we called out.” Rodrik replied.
“Only guilty men run, which is why we made chase.” “He might need a Maester,” Wylis chimed in, gesturing to the wound.
“Else he might not be able to answer questions.” Rodrik pursed his lips at that before nodding.
“I’ll take him to Maester Luwin.
Hopefully he’ll wake before the day is done.” Another guard that Karlon recognized as Porther, a brave and headstrong man who had been a guard since his father’s time, rushed up to them.
He pulled up short when he saw Karlon and Wylis.
“Ser Rodrik, apologies, milord.
Another incident erupted at the stables.
Lord Benjen Stark and Jon Snow caught a suspicious man posing as a servant!” As the report left the man’s lips, Karlon just lamented at the chaos.
The mere fact that all this happened when the Royal Family arrived was not lost on him.
Oh he just knew the damn southerners were at fault for this.
He turned to Wylis.
“My apologies, Ser.
I suspect we will need to continue our conversation tomorrow.” “Quite right,” Wylis said, in the tone of a man who had already catalogued this evening as one of the more interesting in recent memory and was reserving full judgment for the morning.
… AN: Feasts and parties are always hard to write for me since you gotta take into account everyone who attends it.
I’m sure I missed a lot of people, like Theon, Torrhen, Robett, Rickard Liddle, and a bunch of other characters that should be here.
But I realized putting in things that they do are just random filler so I deleted them.
In the end, I think what I wrote down was good enough.
Anyways, chaos erupts in Winterfell!
More details as to what’s going on will be revealed in the next chapter.
Check it out if you’re interested, at least chapter 18 (long form, which is around chp 34 in webnovel) should be available by the time this chapter was uploaded.