[Blackwater Bay, late 10th moon, 298AC]
The rocking of the deck woke him.
At first, it was only a dull motion beneath his back, the slow lift and fall of wood against dark water. The smell came next, salt, pitch, wet rope, and blood. Too much blood.
Harald opened his eyes.
Lantern light swung above him, dim and yellow. He lay on rough planks near the stern of one of the Stark ships, a cloak rolled beneath his head. Men moved around him in low murmurs. Someone groaned nearby. A bucket clattered softly.
For a moment, he did not remember how he had come here.
Then the pain returned.
It tore through his shoulder like a hooked blade, hot and relentless. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, his hand jerking instinctively toward the wound. Bandages wrapped the arm tight beneath his mail shirt, stiff already with blood.
A crossbow bolt.
He remembered the sound of it striking.
Harald forced himself upright with a grunt. The deck tilted beneath him, the Blackwater rolling dark and wide beyond the railing. The city lights were distant now, King's Landing shrinking into a cluster of dull embers against the night.
The Red Keep still rose above it all.
He stared at it without speaking.
Men sat in small clusters along the deck, Greycloaks, Winter Guard, a few sailors moving among them. Some had their armor off, others still wore it, too tired or too shaken to strip the blood from it.
Too few men.
Harald knew it even before anyone spoke the number.
He shifted, leaning against the rail. The motion pulled at his wound and sent another pulse of pain down his arm. His fingers felt thick and slow.
He ignored it.
Instead, he searched the deck.
He saw Smalljon Umber near the bow, sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring down at the water. Ser Desmond was speaking quietly with a pair of sailors. Several men lay wrapped in cloaks near the mast, the shapes too still to be sleeping.
Harald swallowed.
Then he asked the question.
"Did he make it through the gate?"
His memories of their flight from the Red Keep were still hazy at best. He remembered Ser Torrhen taking a stand and himself leading men out of the gate, after that, though, he was too caught up in the fight to notice what became of his kinsmen and good-brother.
The last thing he remembered was losing consciousness while in the streets of King's Landing.
No one answered him, their faces sullen and looking down.
Smalljon looked up first. The big Umber met Harald's eyes, and the silence stretched a long moment too long.
That was answer enough.
Harald lowered his gaze.
For a time, he said nothing. The water slapped against the hull in a steady rhythm. Somewhere farther forward, a man coughed weakly.
Seven hells.
He should have known the moment he woke.
Still, a small part of him had hoped.
He pushed himself slowly to his feet. The deck swayed under him, and the world tilted, but he locked his jaw and waited for it to steady.
Across the deck, near the stern rail, Alaric Stark stood with his back to them all.
The young lord had not moved since Harald woke.
He stood tall even in stillness, Ice strapped across his back, dark hair loose around his shoulders. Tempest and Cinder paced near him restlessly, their massive shapes moving like pale shadows in the lantern light.
Harald watched them for a moment.
Then he turned away.
His shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat.
A boy, one of the sailors, scarcely old enough to grow a beard, approached him hesitantly with a waterskin. Harald took it with his good hand and drank deeply. The water was warm and tasted faintly of wood, but it washed the dryness from his throat.
"Thank you," he said.
The boy nodded quickly and moved away.
Harald rested his forearms on the rail, staring at the black water sliding past the hull.
For a while, he saw only the water.
Then the memories came.
[Within Ser Harald's memories]
He remembered the first time he had crossed blades with Torrhen.
It had been in the training yard at Winterfell, years ago now, back when Lord Rickard still ruled. Snow still clung to the edges of the yard that day, packed hard beneath the boots of men sparring in the cold.
Harald had been younger then, barely 10 years of age, agile and full of youthful arrogance, though he had not known it at the time.
Torrhen was 4-and-10, not yet a man but close.
They had faced each other with blunted swords, a ring of Stark men watching, Brandon and Lyanna were at the edges, cheering them on, taking bets, and being all around rowdy.
"Again," Torrhen had said after knocking Harald flat the first time.
Harald had climbed to his feet with a scowl.
"Again," Torrhen had repeated, his voice far too firm and commanding for a boy his age.
They fought until both of them were breathing hard in the cold air.
Torrhen had beaten him twice more before finally lowering his blade.
"Not bad," he had said, pushing sweat-damp hair from his brow. "But you swing like a southron tourney knight."
Harald had spat snow from his mouth.
"And you talk too much for someone who just got lucky."
Torrhen had laughed then, a deep, easy sound.
That had been the start of it.
Years later, they had stood side by side at Pyke, fighting alongside a young Alaric against the foolish squids, salt wind whipping their cloaks as the Ironborn arrows rattled against their shields.
Harald could still remember the smell of smoke and the roar of the sea below.
Torrhen had glanced at him between charges.
"If we survive this, I'm telling your boys that you hid while I fought off all of the squids."
Harald had barked a laugh.
"Ha, then I'll write to young Rodrik and tell him that his father slew half the men I did."
"Worth the risk."
Of course, they had little risk of not surviving Greyjoy's doomed rebellion, but they japed nonetheless
They had been distant cousins, and good-brothers twice over through their sisters marrying their older brothers, and yet, since they were boys training in Winterfell, they had been brothers in all but blood.
'Brothers,' Harald had thought more than once.
[Memory ends]
The ship lurched slightly as it caught a stronger current.
Harald blinked, and the memory faded.
His shoulder burned.
He closed his eyes briefly, breathing through the pain. The bandage felt tight against the wound. Someone had cleaned it well enough, though he could still feel where the bolt had torn through mail and flesh alike.
He opened his eyes again.
The Red Keep was smaller now.
He wondered how long Torrhen had stood.
A man like that would not fall easily.
Harald could picture it clearly, the archway, the iron bars lowering, Torrhen planted in the center of it with his sword rising and falling.
More and more, his memories came back to him, of Torrhen's last stand, and the breakout of the Red Keep.
He could see Torrhen, cutting down man after man, red cloaks surrounding him.
Holding the line.
Buying them time.
Buying Alaric time.
The thought twisted something deep in Harald's chest.
He gripped the rail harder.
"I should have been there," he muttered.
The words came out rougher than he intended.
He felt someone beside him then.
Harald turned his head.
Eddard Stark stood there, quiet as always.
The older man wore a simple cloak over his armor, the fabric dark with dried blood in places. Red Rain hung sheathed at his side, the great beast, Tundra, his direwolf, lying at his feet
For a long moment, Ned said nothing. He simply rested his hands on the rail and looked out over the water.
Harald inclined his head slightly.
"My lord."
"Ned," the older Stark said softly. "Tonight I think we can set titles aside."
Harald nodded.
They stood together in silence for several breaths.
Finally, Ned spoke.
"You asked about Torrhen."
Harald's jaw tightened.
"Aye."
Ned looked toward the distant lights of the city.
"I saw the gate fall."
That was all he said.
It was enough.
Harald lowered his gaze to the deck.
"He should not have had to stand there alone."
"No," Ned agreed quietly.
The simple answer surprised Harald enough that he looked back up.
Ned continued after a moment.
"But he chose it."
Harald frowned slightly.
"You think he chose it?"
Ned's expression did not change.
"I know he did."
The older Stark shifted his weight, leaning a little more heavily on the rail.
"I have known Torrhen Stark since we were boys training in my father's yard," Ned said. "I have seen him ride into battle when wiser men would have waited. I have seen him hold a wall with half the men he needed."
He paused briefly.
"And I have seen the way he looked at Alaric."
Harald followed Ned's gaze toward the stern.
The young lord still stood there, unmoving.
Ned spoke again.
"Torrhen would have stepped into that gate even if a hundred men stood beside him."
Harald considered that.
He remembered the look in Torrhen's eyes in the final moments before the portcullis fell.
Not fear.
Calculation.
Decision.
Seven hells.
Harald exhaled slowly.
"He always did have a stubborn streak."
Ned allowed the faintest hint of a smile.
"That he did."
The silence returned.
After a time, Harald said quietly, "He told me once, after Pyke… that if the day came when we had to die for our lord, we should die standing."
Ned did not answer right away.
When he did, his voice was low.
"Then he kept his word."
Harald swallowed.
His throat felt tight suddenly.
"He was the best of us," Harald said.
Ned shook his head slightly.
"He was the finest knight I ever knew."
Harald stared at him.
Both men sharing a quiet moment
Ned continued.
"Men speak often of honor," he said. "But it is easy to speak of such things when the cost is small."
His eyes drifted again toward the distant city.
"Torrhen paid the full price."
Harald followed his gaze.
Far behind them, the Red Keep stood dark against the sky.
He imagined the bodies still lying beneath the gate.
Torrhen among them.
Standing even in death.
Harald's hand tightened around the rail.
"We'll bring war to them, like true northerners," he said quietly.
Ned did not argue.
After a moment, he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I think we will."
They stood together a while longer.
Finally, Ned placed a hand briefly on Harald's uninjured shoulder.
"Rest if you can," he said. "You'll be needed soon."
Harald watched him walk away across the deck.
Needed.
The word lingered.
He glanced again toward the stern.
Alaric had not moved.
Tempest lifted its head then, pale eyes catching the lantern light. The direwolf looked directly at Harald for a moment before turning its gaze back toward the dark horizon.
Harald pushed himself upright.
His shoulder protested, but he ignored it.
Torrhen was gone.
The man who had led the Winter Guard in his final moments.
The man who had trained half the fighters on this ship.
Someone would have to take that place now.
Harald straightened slowly.
"A pack loses one wolf," he muttered under his breath.
The words felt strange in his mouth.
Then he finished the thought quietly.
"The others grow sharper teeth."
He turned away from the railing and began walking toward the men gathered on the deck.
There was work to do.