Shrouded Destiny

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

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

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

***

Eddard Stark

16th Day of the 5th Moon

Ned groaned tiredly and took a generous gulp from his cup of ale. Juggling Robert, the royal party, and his bannermen quickly became tiring. His lessons with Robb became far rarer and shorter, and Ned even managed to sneak a few sparring sessions in a private yard very early in the morn, relieving some of his tension. "I hope there are no more mishaps."

"I'd hardly call a training yard spat a mishap," Howland chuckled. "Those happen all the time."

"Both the Hound and Morgan Liddle are bruised black and blue," Ned snorted. "Torren's son has a broken arm, while the Hound's nose was smashed, and half of his teeth - knocked out."

"Well, the king should assign someone more capable and, well, restrained to the Crown Prince. You know, like one of the white cloaks."

"That's what I told Robert when he came whinging to me," Eddard sighed. "Could have been far worse if Walder hadn't broken them apart before they could maim each other permanently."

Clegane had managed to break the clansman's forearm with a savage strike, only for the Middle Liddle to headbutt the southerner, knock away his sword, and go berserk with his fists and elbows, broken limb or not.

Still, it wasn't too bad as nobody was dead, and he knew that when you gathered too many armed fools with nothing to do but wait, trouble quickly arose due to restless pride. Eleven days, only eleven days more until the wedding. He was tempted to simply call for another hunt; Robert would be pleased, and the rest would be busy chasing prey in the Wolfswood instead of trying to beat each other to death in the yard.

"I asked around - all that trouble was started by the Crown Prince," the crannogmen rubbed the bridge of his nose. "The boy is incredibly spoiled underneath, and his mother indulges him in everything, big and small. The king needs to be firm with his heir, but it seems that the only firmness in Robert is all about drinking and wenching. More precautions need to be taken before going down to King's Landing."

"I already intend to take a hundred of Winterfell's finest," Ned's shoulders sagged. "Even that much is pushing it as a Hand, and if it were any other king, I wouldn't have been allowed that many."

"I will bring twenty of my best hunters and trackers," Howland proposed. "You plan on asking Wylis to join you already, and he could easily bring another thirty good men from White Harbour without rousing too much attention."

"That would still raise undue suspicion and eyes on us," he pointed out. "Such a might just make things worse instead of better."

"I'll get my men to arrive separately, and Wylis can do the same. Neither will be part of your retinue officially but can be your eyes, ears, and hands outside the Red Keep if need be."

Eddard gingerly wiped the beads of sweat pooling down his brow. He stood up, walked to the alcove, and latched the window open. The crisp northern air felt invigorating. Gods, he dreaded thinking how unbearable the heat would be down in the Crownlands. Ned hated the situation he found himself in - he was not built for scheming and intrigue. But fate had forced his hand, and he had no choice but to endure. And the Starks endured, be it winter or war. For good and for bad, the Lord of Winterfell was no stranger to picking between bad and worse, so he'd make his choice, grit his teeth and walk forward. But regardless of everything, he would pick House Stark first.

Of course, he'd definitely try and help his royal friend if possible - but definitely not at the expense of his family. No, that perilous future Jon had inked with his blood would never come to pass, not while Eddard Stark still drew breath.

"My lord, Ser Wylis is here," Lew's voice came from the door.

"Let him in." Ned strolled to his chair behind the desk and sat down with a sigh.

The Manderly heir, garbed in his sea-green doublet, walked in and bowed, "You called for me, Lord Stark?"

"Aye, take a seat, Wylis," the rotund knight sat on one of the tapered chairs across from Ned. "You've probably heard that the Princess' dowry was quite substantial."

"Indeed," Wylis's eyes gleamed with interest. "Almost unprecedented in history."

"His Grace is generous to his friends," Eddard agreed. "It opened up certain opportunities and made me consider things I had not considered before. House Manderly should have ten warships and nineteen trade cogs, correct?"

"A bit less," the knight jovially patted his bulging gut. "Our small fleet is eight warships and seventeen cogs."

"I want it expanded. The North must become a naval power again."

Wylis hesitantly fiddled with his walrus-like moustache for a moment, and the oaken chair creaked under his sizeable frame as he leaned forward, "How big of an expansion are we talking about?"

"At least forty warships more and double the number of heavy cogs that can be outfitted for battle if need be."

"That would take years and plenty of coin to accomplish, Lord Stark," the Manderly heir grimaced. "White Harbour's shipyard is quite small, and procuring that much wood would be difficult. Finding and training so many sailors would take quite some time."

"Expand the shipyard," Ned ordered. "Fret not - House Stark shall aid your efforts. We will provide oak and pine, to be shipped with barges down the White Knife. Your yearly tithe will also be reduced while expanding your fleet. Naturally, I want at least five warships to be manned and ready to fly the flag of House Stark."

"I'll see it done," Wylis bowed, a thoughtful smile resting on his face.

"One more thing. After the wedding, I will require your advice in King's Landing."

"It's an honour, my lord."

"Bring a capable retinue, too, I shall need aid down in the capital."

"I shall send my fastest rider back home to inform my father," the merman heir nodded.

Ned dismissed the knight and slumped on his chair. Winter stretched from his corner, softly padded his way, and sat beside him.

"Even if Manderly manages to build a sizeable fleet, your western coast will be exposed to a potential Ironborn incursion," Howland pointed out and poured himself a cup of spiced wine.

"I know," Ned grunted. "But there isn't much that could be done. All the houses that held the Stony Shore faced a perilous task. The western coast has always been the most perilous place in the North. Woodfoot, Greenwood, and Fisher were all extinguished in their attempts to defend it. It doesn't help that the Stony Shore is one of the most unwelcoming corners in the North - windswept by the cold gale from the sunset sea and full of jagged rock."

"There must be something that can be done," the crannogman insisted.

"All the trade routes have to pass through Ironman's Bay, so even if we somehow manage to lay down the requisites for a proper shipyard, any fleet would cost more to upkeep than the coin it could generate through trade or fishing," Eddard shook his head - it was a sad fact that many of the Winterfell Lords had to face before. "There's a good reason why most of the western coast is rather empty. Still, it's not that big of a worry as there are three defensive lines to the west - the Rills with the Ryswell horse that could sweep any reavers brave enough to venture inland, the wolfswood with Glovers and his huntsmen, and the Northern Mountains and the clans."

"Fine," Howland acknowledged with a sigh and downed the cup of spiced wine. "What will you do with the Gift? And what of the Watch?"

"I have some plans about the Gift, but they can wait for the rest of my bannermen to arrive. As for the Watch - any changes or aid would require much more planning than I thought."

***

Val, Greystone village

She stared at the Heart Tree. Lustrous white bark covered the base where the axes had bit into the weirwood. It was a shiny, silvery thing, unlike the dull, pale colour of the rest of the trunk. Still, when she ran her finger over the surface, it was impossibly smooth, just like ice. Amidst the roots, pale bones of the invaders were strewn. They were pristine white like freshly fallen snow - whatever was done to them had sucked away every ounce of blood and gore.

It was just a sennight since her whole world was completely flipped over, and she still felt odd. If the wolf lord's son was so mighty, how strong was the father?! Tales of old, a time long passed, the Age of Heroes, that their mother used to tell had come alive before her very eyes - the lord of wargs, Children of the Forest, nay, Singers of the Earth, they preferred. However, it was hard for Val to call them anything else but children with their short statures.

"Dara asks if we're joining them," Dalla's soft voice sounded from behind.

Val turned and carefully inspected her younger sister. Aside from a few fading bruises, she looked fine; her figure was no longer strained while walking, and her gnarly cane was more akin to a weapon than a means of support.

"I thought she wanted to steal the warg lord," Val snorted. Who wouldn't? Even that scar under his left eye made him more comely in a primal, rugged way.

"Who wouldn't?" Dalla echoed her thoughts out loud, and Val chuckled. "She failed, just like Hyldine and Brella. Two direwolves and four hounds guard his fancy tent at night. So, will we join the others?"

"There's no use going to Mance Rayder," Val shook her head. "He's running away, just like everyone else. I daresay the safest place in the north is with Jon Snow."

"So you think the warg lord slew an Other himself?"

"Aye, the Singers confirmed it, did they not? Besides, I can easily believe it after seeing him fight."

"Indeed," Dalla agreed with a sigh.

"So the rest want to join Rayder?" Val twirled her braid. The dye was beginning to wear off, and she'd have to find more golden roots.

And it was not a one-time thing - Jon Snow would do mock fights with Jarod Snow and Duncan Liddle every day, practising with wooden swords and staves for at least half an hour. The older Snow and the big man were formidable fighters yet lost every bout.

"There's not much left for them here, and none are willing to risk hunting for the cold shadows," her sister pointed out. "The village was already struggling before, and with our best hunters and raiders dead, it's just children, green boys, and a handful of spearwives. Although there's no guarantee they would reach Rayder's army alive."

"Following Jon Snow won't be easy either," Val shook her head. "Are you well enough to keep up?"

"I am," Dalla smiled slyly, "I even managed to secure three of the village's garrons for us two."

"How did Arda even agree to part with any horses?"

Arda was the oldest spearwife alive in what remained of the village.

"The warg lord promised to tell them the secret of slaying the cold shadows."

"So the horses are his," Val coughed. "Let's go then. The southrons should be leaving soon."

She prayed for luck for a final time at the heart tree, and together, they headed for the small clearing in the middle of the village.

Her eyes wandered towards the old wharf - the boats were long gone now, probably far south. A score of the free folk had decided to join the unchained men. Promises of warm green lands, freedom and abundance had swayed many, but that rang like empty words to Val. They weren't strong enough to even keep their freedom, so she suspected that, sooner or later, they would end up in chains again.

The lake shore was lined with spears, and a head was impaled atop each one. It was a pleasing sight - their expressions were all frozen in terror. At first, Val had thought that those Southron invaders were just unwashed and dirty, but after a closer look, it turned out their skin was indeed the colour of clay.

They finally arrived at the clearing. At one side stood Jon Snow, flanked by Jarod Snow and Duncan Liddle to his right and an enormous white direwolf as tall as her to his left. Ghost was the great beast's name, and with his silent, calm demeanour, Val would think him harmless. But she knew better; the memory of him pouncing, ripping off limbs, and killing men with laughable ease was fresh in her mind still.

On the other side were the remaining villagers. Little more than two dozen, and mostly children at that, led by a handful of fledgling raiders and spearwives.

"- bone, bronze, and steel do little against the Others, but this," Jon Snow showed a dagger, hewn from black stone. "This can harm them. Obsidian."

"And where can this obsidian be found?" Arda's voice was laden with suspicion.

"Not too rare," the Singer called Leaf spoke. "It should be abundant near mountains and hot springs, although not impossible to find a few pieces scattered across the hills and forests."

The other Singers of the Earth were out of sight, somewhere in the forest.

"I can spare you a dozen daggers and spears each, along with two quivers of obsidian-tipped arrows," the warg lord offered.

"Fine, we'll take 'em," Arda grunted. "Can we have some steel too?"

"Half a dozen daggers and two axes," the terse reply came half a minute later.

It was clear to Val that she wanted more, but in the end, the old, weathered spearwife reluctantly accepted under Jon Snow's steely gaze and turned to the sisters, "Are you two comin'?"

"Nay, we're following the southrons."

Arda nodded wordlessly and turned around. Duncan Liddle handed them the obsidian arms and some daggers while the spearwife led over three of the older garrons.

The tattered, inexperienced group slowly trudged west through the slush with a handful of horses loaded with furs and supplies. Val wouldn't miss them, not much. There was no love lost at the cold parting. While they were accepted because of Valla and then Dalla's skills with herbs and poultices, they were never truly welcome. Simply because of the odd hair colour Val was born with, they were considered cursed by the gods.

Val and Dalla found themselves under the intense gaze of Jon Snow. His eyes were serious, yet there was a weight to them, reminding her of those weathered raiders that rarely survived to turn grey. Yet, he was not domineering, aggressive, or cruel as other chieftains and Southron lords were rumoured to be. His messy dark hair was cut below his neck, and his sharp, young face sported a slight stubble. If just looking at the pleasing-to-the-eye face, one could easily mistake him for a green boy. Yet, he was anything but - his stride was powerful and dignified, always with a purpose, his spine was straight, and his words were clear and sharp, and it was easy to just listen to and follow.

Jarod Snow reminded her of old Varok - wizened, experienced, and powerful, yet he deferred to the younger man. Duncan Liddle was large and strong enough to think he'd have a giant ancestor, yet he also easily followed.

Truth be told, she was tempted to try and steal Jon Snow for herself, just like the other spearwives. But, there was a sliver of stubborn pride inside her, and Val was content to simply observe from the side for now. Still, if Jon Snow tried to steal her away, she wouldn't try to fight him off too hard.

He stepped forth, making Val realise she was gawking at him.

"Val and Dalla," his voice was clear and pleasing to her ears. "I said it before, and I shall say it again. If you follow me, I want your full trust, loyalty, and obedience."

"Aye, do you want us to kneel to you and swear some vows, warg lord?" Dalla's voice was somewhat scathing.

"Nay," his reply was as cold as snow. "Your word is enough."

"You ask for a lot," Val observed.

"Maybe," Jon inclined his head. "But it is you who wanted to follow me. I don't know you, and I don't trust you. You can still catch up with the other group if you wish."

"Heh, it might seem that he might be asking for too much," the old man laughed. "But we'd have to entrust our backs in fighting to you. As for trusting Jon Snow - the blood of the ancient Kings of Winter never disappoints."

Dalla looked at her hesitantly, and after half a minute of contemplation, she nodded with a sigh. They had already made up their mind earlier, and this changed nothing. She had seen how Jon Snow fought, alone or with his pack of wolves, and could think of no place safer than following him. Skinchangers alone were a force to be reckoned with, and most, if not all, free folk were wary of them. But Val had never heard of anyone claiming more than six skins, let alone three dozen.

"Fine, we'll give our word," her sister muttered. "Do you expect us to lay in your bed too?"

"Where or whom you sleep with is none of my concern," Jon Snow snorted. "You're also free to leave anytime. I have no time to coddle you two either - if you cannot keep up or follow orders, you'll be left behind regardless."

Val sighed inwardly but nodded, "My spear and knife are yours, Jon Snow."

Dalla also pledged her bow and skills as a woods witch to the warg lord. It took the two sisters ten minutes to gather their meagre personal effects and secure them to the weathered saddles.

"So, what now?"

***

20th Day of the 5th Moon

Benjen Stark, Beyond the Wall

The haunted forest was more ominous than usual. Ten of the finest swords and trackers in the Watch had joined the ranging, trudging through the cold, muddy ground – the snow had begun to melt a sennight ago.

Benjen took his time picking the men, as he wanted not only skilled veterans but also ones who would follow orders and work well together. It was not an easy thing - skill and experience went hand in hand too oft with pride and arrogance.

"I don't like this," Jaremy Rykker said.

The knight's face was serious, lacking his usual sardonic smile.

"There are very few things you like," Thoren Smallwood snorted, "And almost all of them reside in the whorehouse of Mole's Town."

Rykker ignored the man's jibe and cautiously looked at the darkening surroundings.

"What exactly do you mislike so much?" Othor's hand was on his ax, and his gaze was warily roaming around the twilt forest.

"The loss of the Gift," Rykker flexed his hand. "The Watch is already waning, and now we lost half of our land."

He was not the only one; many black brothers were far from happy with the King's decision. Thankfully, any ire was pointed more at Baratheon than Stark.

"Not a big loss," Alan of Rosby rubbed his chin, "I accompanied Mormont to Winterfell two years ago. Most of the Old Gift was fallow, and the New one was little more than wilderness."

"My brother will not abandon the Watch," Benjen said. "Nor will the North."

"If things continue as they are, in thirty years, we'll struggle to man even a single castle, let alone guard the Wall," Rykker grunted.

"We'll see," the Fist Ranger shrugged. Hopefully, Ned would manage to reel in more support for the Watch as promised. "We should focus on our mission now."

"I don't like this mission," Jafer Flowers rasped out. His voice was grating ever since a wound to the neck two years ago. "Looking for legends and myths? What's next, grumpkins and snarks? Madness!"

"It's our duty to follow the Lord Commander's orders," Jarman Buckwell grunted. "At worst, we'll find nothing and return in a moon or two."

"Still, dragging those glass-tipped arrows and daggers is a waste," another sighed.

Indeed, the additional supplies were cumbersome to carry, but nothing they couldn't handle.

"Mormont should have called for a Great Ranging to slaughter Rayder's army instead of making us chase old wives' tales," Smallwood motioned towards their group with a scowl.

"Fool, they would just scatter the moment they hear of Mance's demise, and we'd chase after the wind and catch snow at most," Rykker let out a peal of joyless laughter.

"Whitetree, Stonehill and Redhollow were all abandoned," Ebben, a burly and experienced ranger, added with a tinge of fear.

"The wildlings in Whitetree and Redhollow had left, probably to join Rayder's men," Stonesnake pointed out, "But the ones in Stonehill were slaughtered. Their small dwellings were all wrecked, yet we found no bodies."

"It wouldn't be the first time; savages kill each other all the time," Smallwood waved his hand dismissively.

"But why would they take the corpses?" Jarman Buckwell asked.

"How would I know what goes in the head of those wildlings? Half-mad, half wild, the lot o' them!"

Benjen began regretting taking Thoren Smallwood. The man was too prideful and quarrelsome for this mission.

"They could have burned them," Buckwell insisted.

"But we found no bones or traces of pyre or ashes."

Their group fell into silence as the horses slowly continued through the forest. Benjen tried his very best to look confident, yet was feeling… unsettled. His hand found Longclaw's grip, and he felt a small measure of relief. The pommel was changed to a black wolf head, and the wrapping was redone with new leather strips.

Still, his eyes darted warily to the surroundings; his senses were telling him something was wrong.

"What will we do if Craster is gone as well?" Othor's rumbling voice broke the silence.

"Nay, old Craster wouldn't leave for anything," Thoren said. "He has more than a dozen wives to tend to!"

"We'll see soon enough," Benjen rubbed the bridge of his brow and looked to the west. "Even if he's gone, we can spend the night at his hall. Though, we must hurry if we want a roof over our head tonight."

The sun was almost fully swallowed by the Frostfangs, and the daylight was quickly waning.

They urged their steeds into a moderate trot, still wary of the surroundings. Any faster, and they'd have a mishap with the rugged terrain in the quickly dwindling light.

A cold gale struck Benjen's face like an icy whip, making him shiver. The air grew still then, yet more and more frigid. Behind him, he could feel the chattering of teeth.

"Is it me, or was it warmer last evenin'?" Ebben asked.

The ground beneath the hooves began to crunch. Benjen looked down, only to see the muddy slush covered by a layer of frost. The sun was now hidden beyond the Frostfangs; only a faint tinge of orange illuminated the mountains to the west like a halo.

"It was," Alan of Rosby noted as they rode into a small clearing. "It's the height of summer, and the Wall was weeping when we left."

"Bah, there's no summer here," Smallwood said. "The cold comes and goes as it wants."

The horses began neighing, and Benjen felt his garron shift uneasily against the reins.

That feeling in the back of his head that told him something was wrong only grew. They could ride hard towards Craster, but it was far more likely to cripple their horses and have a mishap in the icy darkness. After ranging for more than thirteen years, never had the weather turned so suddenly.

If his fears were correct, things would get ugly real soon. Worse, they couldn't really ride away in the night either.

"Dismount!" He leapt off his horse and took the leash in one hand, and the other arm found Longclaw's handle. The other rangers grumbled but followed his orders. "Light your torches."

A few moments later, eleven lights flickered, illuminating the clearing.

"Why is it so cold?" Jafer asked behind him. Benjen could see their breath forming misty white puffs.

The horse began to neigh even harder and struggled fiercely in his grasp.

One of the garrons kicked one of the rangers, slipped the reins from his rider's grasp and disappeared into the night.

A terrible screech tore through the twilt forest, making chills crawl up Benjen's spine, and the horses began to struggle harder.

"What the fuck was that?"

"I hope not grumpkins or snarks," Rykker grimaced.

"Ebben, tie the horses to that stump," the First Ranger pointed at the trunk of an old fallen pine in the middle of the clearing. "Othor and Jafer help him. Stonesnake and Alan, I want you up the tree."

His orders were hastily followed, but not before they lost another horse into the darkness.

A tinkling, skittering sound tore through the ominous quiet.

Five enormous icy spiders, blue and hairy, easily the size of a horse, charged out from the haunted forest. For a heartbeat, Benjen froze at the sight of the tall, gaunt, pale, and icy beings riding atop the beasts.

"F-f-father a-above g-g-give m-me strength-," he heard someone's teeth chatter behind him. "W-warrior g-g-grant-"

The First Ranger furiously shook his head as his heart thundered like a war drum. The horses began neighing even louder; another tore away from his leash and ran away.

"Use your spears," he cried out as he grasped his pike, "Aim for their blue eyes."

The icy foes were nearing rapidly, yet arrows began to flutter through the night from above. Alan's famous skill in archery proved true - with a horrible screech, two spiders crashed into the frozen ground, arrows embedded into their eyes. Their pale riders, however, were quick to leap on their feet and gracefully glide forward through the hoarfrost.

Benjen braced himself as the other three spiders were upon them. At the same moment, a symphony of howls reverberated through the darkness.