Orys Targaryen
Ironrath Great Hall
Orys sat at the head of the long table in the Great Hall of Ironrath. Rodrik Forrester sat to his right, his wife to his left. The murmur of voices filled the chamber, rising as the doors creaked open. All heads turned as Ludd Whitehill and his son, Griff, were dragged in, both in chains.
"Traitors! Bolton lapdogs!" The crowd's jeers echoed through the hall.
Tormund shoved Griff forward, sending him sprawling. Vorrin did the same to Ludd, forcing the old lord to his knees. Orys stood.
"All of you, quiet down." His voice rang through the hall, cutting through the clamor. "Yesterday, we fought side by side, and we won. Ironrath has been liberated. Today, you will witness the judgment of the remaining members of House Whitehill, and I tell you all why I led the Freeflok through the Wall, for those do not know."
The hall fell into a tense silence. All eyes were on him. But before he could continue, Ludd Whitehill raised his head and spat, "Who do you think you are, bastard? You're not my liege lord, and you're no king of mine. You have no right to judge me or mine!"
Another uproar from the crowd. Orys glanced at Shireen, who offered him an amused smirk. He turned back to Ludd, his expression hardening.
"Lord Whitehill," Orys began, his voice cold and commanding, "you are here because you invaded and pillaged the lands of House Forrester. You are here because you slaughtered its people. You are here," his voice rising with anger, "because you took part in the Red Wedding. You betrayed your liege lord and your King, my brother, Robb Stark, the King in the North."
"The King in the North!" The hall roared in unison, even the Free Folk chieftains echoing the cry.
Ludd sneered. "I followed my lord. My lands fall under Bolton's rule. I won't take part in this farce of a trial. I did what I must for my family, for my liege. I put my boot to these high-and-mighty Forresters, as I was ordered, as was done with other Stark dogs. I don't expect fair judgment here, nor do I recognize your authority. I demand a trial by combat."
Griff hesitated, casting a wary glance at his father, but eventually stepped forward. "I will stand with him."
Orys shook his head, prideful to the end. He gave Gwyn Whitehill a sympathetic look. At least, he thought, I might send your brother to the Wall.
Flashback - Shortly After the Battle
"You, Grace, I have one request." Gwyn Whitehill stood before him, her voice quiet but steady. "Let my brother's body be returned to Highpoint. He should be buried there, as honor demands. I know my family is owed little... but I ask this, nonetheless."
"You shall have that," Orys answered. "As for your father and brother, both still live, though I cannot say the same for their futures. Your father's fate was sealed after what he has done. But your brother… if he conducts himself with tact, he may take the Black. The Wall needs men for what is coming."
A storm of emotion flickered across Gwyn's face, relief, sorrow, uncertainty.
"Thank you. For my brothers." She hesitated, then asked, "And what of me?"
It was a question Orys had been pondering himself. Gwyn, the last remaining child of Ludd Whitehill, the heir to a disgraced house. There were options, exile, marriage to a loyal bannerman, or... something else.
"I have considered your history," he said. "We've spoken of it before." Gwyn nodded slowly. Noting their past conversation, after both the Whitehills and Forrester had come to ask for arbitration after the whole Asher and Gywn debacle.
Then Orys turned toward Asher Forrester, who looked on in confusion.
"Lord Asher," Orys said, "I know of your past affections for Lady Gwyn. Do those feelings still hold true, even after your years in exile?"
Asher glanced at Gwyn, and the affection in his eyes was plain. "They do, Your Grace."
"Then, Lady Gwyn, I offer you a choice. Exile. A marriage to one of my loyal bannermen. Or, you may wed Asher Forrester and begin a new cadet branch of House Forrester at Highpoint. The Whitehill name will end, no matter your choice."
Shock crossed both their faces.
"I…" Gwyn began, uncertain. Then, after a breath, she straightened. "I choose Asher. If he is willing to have me."
"I have you, Gywn. It is something I always wished for." Asher said quick after he embraced her, murmured something in her ear. That Orys did not hear.
"Hmm, well then, before the army marches, I would have us organize a wedding so this arrangement can be settled." He stated.
"I shall speak with my brother and mother. Your Grace, thank you for your mercy." Asher added with a smile before looking at Gwen again. Who had stelled into Asher's embrace.
"Very well, I hope the union will be fruitful." He added before he turned away and walked over to Lord Glover.
Flashback ends.
Orys took in a deep breath as he looked at the Lord of High Point. "Very well, then. May the gods judge you in the afterlife." He stated. "Tormund, bring them outside, have the unchained, and give them swords."
Ludd gave a satisfied look, and yet Orys stared back at the man. "You both will face me before you die." Then that look died.
"Jon, you can't. You are the King." Howland and Shireen both said simultaneously. "I can and will. The one that passes the sentence should swing the sword." He stated as he walked away. Soon, Sattin arrived and gave him Longclaw.
Ironrath Courtyard
Snow fell in slow spirals, quieting the world beneath a blanket of white. Orys stood alone at the center of the yard, black cloak whipping in the wind, Longclaw already unsheathed in his hand. The Valyrian steel blade caught the pale light like a promise and a sentence.
Across from him, Ludd and Griff Whitehill prepared themselves, unshackled but unarmored save for a gambeson, each holding a steel sword. They were proud and arrogant once. Now, they were little more than rusted swords, ready to be broken.
Orys felt the weight of eyes on him. Free folk, soldiers, northern lords, and smallfolk alike lined the circle. Rodrik stood just behind, arms crossed, expression grim. Tormund loomed like a red bear at the edge of the ring. Gwyn and Asher watched from atop the steps of the entrance to the keep. Above, silent. Shireen and Howland stood beside them.
But Orys only had eyes for the men before him.
He had taken the mantle of King to protect the world's men and bring justice to his family. Now, here he stood, executioner.
"The one who passes the sentence should swing the sword." He remembered his uncle saying those words when he explained to Robb and him. When he had taken them for the first time to an execution, when he had executed a deserter. When honor still seemed like something whole and solid, not a thousand shattered pieces you had to gather up in your hands just to feel like yourself again.
"You demanded trial by combat," Orys said, voice carrying across the courtyard. "Now you face me. Both of you, as told before."
Griff snarled and charged like a maddened boar. Reckless. Wild.
Orys didn't move. "Let them see it. Let them see what a humbling looked like." He rumbled.
Griff swung overhead, screaming, wanting to end the fight with a rash, quick move, and Orys just sidestepped with practiced ease, bringing Longclaw across in a single, devastating arc.
Valyrian steel sheared through flesh and bone.
Griff's head flew from his shoulders, landing in the snow with a soft thud. His body stumbled, then collapsed beside it. The blood that followed steamed in the cold.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, but Orys heard only the wind and the silence that came after. As he focused his gaze back toward Ludd. Giving the man a small, satisfied smirk.
Ludd stared at his son's body, the fight draining from him like wine from a broken cask. But pride still clung to the man like rot.
"You bastard," Ludd growled, stepping forward. His blade came up. His breath came hard. His eyes burned with stubborn fire.
"You brought this on yourself," Orys said.
Ludd fought harder than Orys expected and with a brutal rage. Yet he dogged or parried every swing of spite and desperation Ludd sent his way.
After a time, tiredness broke over the Lord of Highpoint and then came the opening he was looking for.
With a quick undercut, Longclaw sank into Ludd's belly. Ripping through cloth, flesh, bone, and guts.
Ludd let a painful gasp and stumbled forward, trying to hold his guts in with one hand, sword wavering in the other. Ludd dropped to his knees, panting, face pale.
"Do it, then," he spat, defiant even in defeat. "Be the butcher you pretend not to be."
Orys raised Longclaw, his grip steady.
"I, Jon Stark, King of North, sentence you to die, Ludd Whitehill," he said. "For the Red Wedding. For the burning of Ironrath. For the sons and daughters buried beneath your ambition."
Longclaw came down, clean, sharp, final.
Ludd's head rolled from his shoulders, falling into the snow beside his son's. Two generations ended.
The courtyard was still. Orys lowered Longclaw slowly, breath fogging the winter air. He looked down at the bodies, then past them, toward the silent crowd.
"Have their bodies prepared to be sent to High Point. We gather again in another hour." He stated as, he walked toward the godswood, without another word.
Ironrath Great Hall
The hall was filled to the brim, and there was a sense of unease around him now. People had seen him fight before, in battles, and ever since his return, it had unsettled them. There was a ruthlessness in him when he fought, something cold, almost inhuman. Nothing like his late uncle. Orys didn't know where it came from. Was it his bond with Nightwing that had changed him? Or was it because he had died and returned?
What had happened to him wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't natural.
He sighed and looked up just as the damn crate arrived.
Lord Glover, Glenmore, and Forrester were watching intently. Although he knew the Forrester would follow him now, no matter the truth, he saw the gratitude in their eyes. They were free and alive because of him.
He knew they had heard the tales of his men and the other lords. The problem was that, without proof, no one would believe the Others had returned or that they were using the dead as their puppets. Trying to convince anyone without solid evidence made you sound like a madman. Even if a hundred people told the same tale, it would still be dismissed as madness.
"My Lords. For those who do not yet know what lies within this crate… be warned. It will shake your belief in what is possible in this world." He announced as he rose from his seat.
He looked at each of them, one by one.
"What you are about to see is not a tale. It is not a northern legend, something our wetnurse told, or your parents. It is a warning of what will happen to all of us if we do stand together as one."
He raised a hand.
A guardsman moved forward and began unfastening the iron clasps that held the crate shut. The sound of the locks snapping open echoed like thunder in the silence. People leaned forward, seeing what was inside. The unsettling part that the damn corpses the Others rose, they didn't rot, and it always unsettled him. Sam had noticed it for the first time with a corpse that almost killed Jeor. It had no smell, no rot.
Two guards rolled the crate forward with a groan of wood and iron, their boots scraping against the stone floor. Out of the crate came a heap of meat and chains. With grim expressions, they grabbed hold of the thick chains bolted into the sides.
Then the damn thing rose.
With a shriek that scraped against the soul, the corpse lunged, its mouth gaping, its limbs stiff and jerking like a puppet pulled on tangled strings. The sound it made was neither man nor beast, something cold and hateful that did not belong in a hall built by the living.
Chaos broke loose in a breath. Several people cried out. Steel rang as Lord Rodrik Forrester and others drew their blades with instinctive fear. The wight threw itself toward Orys, arms outstretched, teeth snapping, eyes wide with that pale, lifeless light.
But before it could reach them, the guards yanked hard on the chains, dragging it back with all their strength. It shrieked again, fighting them, its feet dragging across the stone.
Orys didn't flinch.
He turned to the room and said, his voice steady, "That is Ohtell Yarwyck. One of the men who killed me."
A murmur ran through the hall, startled, confused, horrified.
Lord Glenmore's voice broke through the noise. "Your Grace," he said uneasily, "forgive me for being blunt… but you are standing here alive, aren't you?"
Orys turned toward him, his eyes hard. "Like that thing," he said. "Walking. Screaming."
Lord Glenmore glanced again at the wight, now being forced back into the crate with spears and iron hooks. His face had gone pale.
Orys continued, louder now, so all could hear, "That thing is one of thousands. The Others have armies beyond the Wall, armies of the dead. That is why I let the Free Folk through the Wall. That is one of the reasons why I was killed."
"Because I remembered my oath to defend the realms of men." He looked at each lord in turn, his voice ringing with fury and truth.
"And tell me, are the Free Folk, not men and women? Do they not bleed? Do they not fight and die for their kin, same as us?" A few lords shifted uncomfortably. Others listened, silent, their swords still drawn, their eyes fixed on the now-latched crate that still rattled with something struggling inside.
Orys stepped forward.
"I did what was needed. I let them through, not as invaders, but as allies. Now, nearly thirty thousand of them are south of the Wall. Many are women and children, but many are hard men who will stand beside us when the fight comes. As for the Giants who fought with us in the battle for Ironrath, they will stand with us, too.
When the Others and their minions march south, and when we face the Boltons in the field. We will not survive the coming winter apart. Not as isolated people, clinging to pride and grudges. We survive it together, or not at all." He roared.
There was a moment of stillness. Then Lord Rodrik raised his sword high. "For the North," he said.
His voice was joined by Lord Glenmore, then Lord Glover, then the others. "For the North!"
Blades rang as they lifted them in unison. Even the youngest squires raised their voices, defiant in the face of dread.
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