Westeros, The North
298 AC
The morning dawns clear and cold. The sun, as if to remind them that it is summer still despite the biting cold and the cutting wind, reflects upon the snow with a harsh glare, despite the dense foliage, that causes one's head to ache. Aerion does not feel any of this however.
Here, in these ancient woods, amidst the wild that hides secrets older than both his houses combined, Aerion feels at home. The cold is as comforting as a mother's hug, the wind as firm yet as reassuring as a father's guidance; and the smell, a mixture of flora and fauna, is as consoling as the smell of Gage's pies. This is his domain, or at the very least one of his domains. Here he need not hide under the cloak of Eddard Stark's one act of dishonor, nor does he need to show respect to Catelyn Tully's hypocritical, dead, stone gods. Here, it is him, his men, and their prey.
A crow's caw brings Aerion's attention to the sky. Badb, one of his three personal crows, glides through the air before gently perching herself on his left shoulder, her massive size barely allowing her to do so.
Barth, a member of Winterfell's guard, approaches him with a deep frown on his young face. "You have trained your rangers well, my Lord."
"Perhaps too well." adds the man's companion, another of Winterfell's guards. Though where Barth is as green as grass, Beren is a greybeard who has experienced many a conflict going as far back as the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
"Now the bastard has escaped into these woods with not a single trail to tell where he may be going." grumbles the old man.
"Not a single trail?" Aerion asks as he takes a piece of cloth from Badb's beak and presents it to the approaching men. "Owen may be a passable ranger, however he always struggled with keeping his eyes in the air as often as he does on the ground."
"Bah, were it not for your birds you would not know his heading either." scoffs Beren
Before Aerion can reply the sound of barking draws their attention.
"My Lord, we have his trail." a voice calls out from deeper within the woods.
Aerion regards Beren with a raised eyebrow and a mocking smirk. "It seems that it is only you who cannot track properly within these woods, Beren. Perhaps it is time for you to retire." Aerion remarks as he turns away, Badb flying from his shoulders towards the voice and the sound of barking.
"Must you mock him at every opportunity? He has served your house loyally for years, he at least deserves your respect." asks a voice within Aerion's mind.
"A soldier lusting after his liege lord's wife, what part of that is worthy of respect?" Aerion demands. "Besides, his presence within MY rangers is a reminder that even here I cannot escape Catelyn Tully's scorn and judgement." he adds before spurring his horse forward.
"What have you found?" He asks when he reaches his rangers, a small group of ten men clad in black cloaks and black armor.
"A false trail, and his true heading." says one of the rangers, his hood obscuring his face. Aerion however easily recognises him as Larence Snow, the natural son of Lord Halys Hornwood and his second in command.
"His scent goes south along with these prints." Lawrence tells him as he points in the direction the wolfdogs snarl at before turning eastward. "However, there are prints heading east towards Bolton lands, more firm and steady prints."
Dismounting his horse, Aerion approaches the first set of footprints. They are jumbled, disordered, and were made by a hasty individual. Whoever is responsible for those is filled with fear. No, fear is too tame a word for their state of mind. The one responsible is terrified.
The second set of prints are has Larence claims them to be. Aye they too are jumbled, disordered, and appear to have been made in haste. However they are a poor attempt at imitating the first set. And while Aerion would love nothing more than to believe that he inspires such terror in their prey, he knows that it is not so. Owen has always believed himself to be his equal in all matters, lamenting that were it not for his low birth he would accomplish as much, if not more, than Aerion. No, it is not terror that he inspires in Owen, but rather contempt and disdain. East is where he shall find his prey.
"We shall split into two groups." Aerion commands as he mounts his horse. "Larence, you shall lead the first group south. Find who has exchanged clothes with him and question them. I shall hunt him down and put an end to him."
With nothing but a silent nod to one another the group seamlessly splits into two and heads their separate ways.
Following their quarry's path is easy, especially since the piece of cloth that Badb brought him belongs whoever exchanged clothes with Owen as opposed to Owen's uniform. Still, even if they did not have the cloth for their wolfdogs to hunt the scent, Owen seems committed to the act and Aerion has eyes in the skies.
With a caw that is much deeper than a crow's, a massive raven swoops down and begins leading the dogs. Familiar with Huginn, the dogs abandon sniffing at the trail before launching into a full sprint towards their prey, their barks resonating throughout the air and the rangers following closely on horseback.
Catching up to their prey is even easier. No man can outrun animals such as dogs or horses and Owen did not have the privilege of stealing one in his hasty escape.
Their dogs, well trained and having long been bloodied in hunts, easily surround their prey and block any potential escape route. Should he wish to run now he will need to kill a few in quick order before being mauled by the rest.
As Aerion approaches, the dogs make a gap for his horse. "Owen." he greets the man, his face devoid of emotion beyond a cold stare that has earned him the moniker 'Lord Snow'.
"Jon." responds Owen between deep breaths as he moves his long, brown hair from his face.
Silence is the response that greets him as Aerion looks at the garments that he now wears.
Not receiving the reaction that he sought, a frown forms on his face before he quickly smoothens his expression before addressing Aerion once again.
"I demand to join the Night's Watch." Owen says.
"The Night's Watch." Aerion says with a nod. "Yes, I can see why you would wish it so. Beren, what are the consequences for Rangers who commit murder or rape?" He asks, not bothering to even look at the greybeard.
"Death for a murderer, and castration for a rapist followed swiftly by death." Beren replies through gritted teeth.
"And the Night's Watch?" Aerion asks once more.
"Criminals capable of such severe crimes do not receive the honor of serving the Watch." Beren responds.
"Indeed." Aerion says as he dismounts from his horse, one hand on the pommel of his sword.
"You cannot do this!" exclaims Owen, his eyes wide and frantically looking around for some form of escape. "It is against the King's Laws!" he shoots.
"The King's Laws." scoffs Aerion. "I answer only to one man, and he is not the King."
"That is treasonous." Owen says.
"How fortunate then, that you will not live long enough to report my treason to his grace." Aerion says as he draws his dagger, the blackened metal glinting in the sunlight despite its color.
"Wait! Allow me the honor to die in combat." Owen asks.
With a cold sneer upon his lips Aerion grabs him by the throat and singlehandedly lifts him into the air. "Rapists are not allowed anything save for castration and death. Thank the gods that I will be swift as consideration for your many years of service." Aerion tells him before plunging his dagger into Owen's crotch and with a swift swipe of the blade removes both, his cock and his balls.
Owen screams, however the sound is smothered by the vice grip around his throat. His scream dies as quickly as it comes with the slash of Aerion's dagger as it opens him from one end of the throat to the other.
Discarding the dying man as if he were nothing but trash, Aerion cleans his blade before turning to his men. "Strip him of any valuables on his person and tie his corpse behind a horse. We shall reconnect with Larence before returning to Winterfell. Let his corpse be dragged behind us as a warning to any Ranger who would dare to repeat his crimes." he commands.
Despite the severity of the order, the Rangers are quick to action as they dismount and approach their former comrade's corpse.
"What are you doing?" demands Beren with a snarl, he and Barth being the only ones who remain on their horses, though in Barth's case it is clear that it is from shock and horror as opposed to disobedience. "You would desecrate his corpse? Did he not suffer enough already? Lord Stark would not approve."
"I answer to one man." Aerion says once more. "And his name is not Eddard Stark."
…
…
…
The morning dawns clear and cold, with a crispness that hints at the end of summer. They set forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, forty in all, and Bran rides among them, nervous with excitement. This is the first time he has been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his brother to see the king's justice done. It is the ninth year of summer, and the eighth of Bran's life.
The man has been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. It makes Bran's skin prickle to think of it. He remembers the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings are cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consort with giants and ghouls, steal girl children in the dead of night, and drink blood from polished horns. And their women lie with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.
But the man they find bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting the king's justice and surrounded by the Black Rangers is old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He has lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dresses all in black, the same as a brother of the Night's Watch, except that he wears no furs but rather the well made clothes and armor of the Rangers.
As they near the group, one of the Rangers steps forward and Bran recognises him immediately. The smile that grows on his face is blinding and his excitement difficult to contain as he spurs his pony forward.
"Jon!" he calls out with a laugh that causes the older boy to smile at him. As he nears him, Bran does not wait for his pony to come to a complete stop and vaults from his saddle, launching himself at his older brother.
With a laugh Jon easily catches him as if he weighs nothing and twirls him in the air, their long hair flying behind them.
"You have grown, little raven. Soon I will not be able to do this anymore." Jon says as he puts him down and ruffles his hair.
Behind them the rest of the group comes to a stop and dismount.
Robb, their eldest brother, approaches them, his face stoic and difficult to read as he regards Jon with a cool stare. "Lord Commander." he greets with a slight nod.
"My Lord." Jon replies with a bow that sets Robb off.
He approaches Jon just as he barely straightens from his bow and envelops him in a hug as he laughs.
"Gods, Snow, you are a sight for sore eyes." says Robb.
"Do not be dramatic." Jon says while rolling his eyes. "It has only been a moon."
"Aye, only a moon. But even a single day spent without seeing your frozen face is a day too many." Robb replies, and Bran cannot help but agree.
Jon does not spend the days in Winterfell as they do. Rather, he spends half the year in Winterfell and the other half ranging through the Stark lands with some of his rangers. He has no set schedule, or at least none that anyone has been able to puzzle. Not even Maester Luwin knows when he comes and goes.
Bran wishes that it were not so, but he understands why it is such. His brother is the Lord Commander of the Rangers, or Black Rangers as others have taken to calling them, and it comes with responsibilities. He and his Rangers patrol the lands belonging to House Stark for bandits, outlaws, wildings, and deserting brothers of the Night's Watch.
Old Nan says that Jon founded the Rangers after a group of wildlings, aided by deserting members of the Night's Watch, almost abducted Robb. According to Old Nan, Jon slew them then bid father to give him leave to create the Rangers so that such an event could never occur again.
Bran does not know if that story is true, Old Nan loves to tell tall tales. However, he does know since he could remember he and each of his siblings have always been followed by ten members of the Rangers. They all possess long hair that reaches their shoulders and don the black uniform of the Rangers with partial plate armor, made of black northern steel.
"Lord Robb." one of the Rangers calls out as he walks towards them. Bran recognises him; Beren.
"Beren." greets Robb.
Robb does not like him, and neither does Jon; though Bran does not know why. He finds the greybeard to be quite friendly. Still, Jon has never been wrong about anyone before, and Robb claims that Jon sees much and knows even more; nothing gets past Jon. So Bran tries to keep his distance from him.
Soon enough Theon reaches them, followed closely by their father.
"Snow." Theon says, a grin on his face as he looks at Bran's brother.
Rather than answer him however Jon greets their father, not even sparing Theon a glance. "Lord Stark."
"Jon." Their father replies, his face showing a mixture of emotion that Bran cannot place, before it quickly changes to his Lord face. Before them is no longer their father, but the Lord of Winterfell
As Lord Stark dismounts, the Rangers bring the deserter to him. Questions are asked and answers given there in the chill of morning, but Bran does not pay much attention to the words and does not recall much of what has been said. Finally his lord father gives the command, and two of his guardsmen drag the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They force his head down onto the hard black wood.
Theon steps forward with Ice, House Stark's ancestral sword, in hand. It is as wide across as a man's hand, and taller even than Robb. The blade is Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing holds an edge like Valyrian steel.
His father peels off his gloves and hands them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He takes hold of Ice with both hands and says, "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die." He lifts the greatsword high above his head.
"Do not look away." Jon tells him as he places a gentle hand on Bran's shoulder. "Lord Stark will know if you do."
Bran does not look away as their father takes the man's head with a single sure stroke. Blood splashes upon the snow and one of the horses rears back and has to be restrained to keep it from bolting. Bran cannot take his eyes from the blood as the snow around the stump drinks it eagerly, reddening as he watches.
The head bounces off a thick root and rolls towards Theon, only for one of the Rangers to step forward and take it.
"They will give him a burial now." Jon tells him as he guides his sight away from the blood and the corpse.
"You did well." he compliments Bran solemnly. Jon is fourteen, an old hand at justice.
The ride back to Winterfell seems colder despite the wind having died down and the sun shining brightly overhead.
"The deserter died bravely." Robb says as he pulls his cloak tighter around himself.
He is big and broad, and growing bigger each day. With fair skin, Tully blue eyes, and red-brown hair that he has allowed to grow long in order to match Jon.
"He had courage at least. Though I do wonder why he wore the uniform of the Rangers." Robb comments.
"Owen stumbled upon him as he made his escape." Jon replies, flipping a blackened coin between his fingers and seemingly unaffected by the cold. Old Nan says that it is the winter in his blood.
"He exchanged clothes with the deserter in exchange for his life." Jon tells them.
Bran remembers Owen. He never liked the man, and Jon was always wary of him. He remembers asking Jon why he allowed him to join the Rangers and Jon replying that one should always keep their enemies close. Though Bran did not understand then and still he does he understand why someone would want to do that. Doesn't that just give the enemy a chance to hurt you?
Robb's voice shakes him from his thoughts. "And Owen? What was his fate?"
Jon looks at Robb and a conversation passes between them that Bran is not privy to. With a nod Robb turns his attention from Jon towards him.
"Are you well, Bran?" Robb asks.
Nodding, Bran asks the question that has been in the back of his mind for some time now. "Why do you say that he died bravely?"
"Because he did not grovel nor beg for his life despite his fear." Robb tells him.
Bran thinks about it. "Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"
"That is the only time a man can be brave." Robb replies.
"Bravery is not the absence of fear." Jon adds. "Rather it is acting as one should despite said fear."
"Do you understand why father did it?" Robb asks.
"He was a wildling," Bran says. "They carry off women and sell them to the Others."
His lord father chuckles from behind, startling him. So deep in the conversation was he that he never heard the rest of the party until now.
"Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night's Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile. But you are mistaken. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it."
Bran has no answer for that. "King Robert has a headsman," he says, uncertainly.
"He does," his father admits. "As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."
"One day, Bran, you will be Robb's bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is." His father explains.
That is when the caw of a crow rings out from above.
Looking up he sees Jon's three crows flying overhead in circles. They do so twice more before flying off ahead of the group with Jon spurring his horse on to follow and Robb following close behind.
"Trouble, my Lord?" Jory asks as he rides up beside them.
Beyond a doubt," his lord father answers. "Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now." He sends his horse into a trot. Jory and Bran and the rest follow after.
They find Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him. The late summer snows have been heavy this moonturn. Robb stands knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shines in his hair long, shoulder length hair. He is cradling something in his arm, while the Rangers around them talk in hushed, excited voices.
The riders pick their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy are the first to reach the boys. Greyjoy is laughing and joking as he rides. Bran hears the breath go out of him. "Gods!" he exclaims, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reaches for his sword.
Robb grins and looks up from the bundle in his arms. "She can't hurt you," he says. "She's dead, Jory."
Jory's sword is already out. "Robb, get away from it!" he calls as his horse rears under him.
Bran is excited with curiosity by then, quickly dismounting and running up to them.
"What in the seven hells is it?" Greyjoy asks. "A freak." He adds, "Look at the size of it."
Bran's heart is thumping in his chest as he pushes through a waist-high drift to his brothers' side.
Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clings to it like a woman's perfume. Bran glimpses blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. But it is the size of it that made him gasp. It is bigger than his pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his father's kennel.
"It is no freak" Jon says calmly. "That is a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind."
"And how would you know, Snow?" Greyjoy sneers. "Have you ever seen one before?"
"I see one now." Jon replies.
Bran tears his eyes from the beast as Robb approaches him with a bundle of fur in arms. With a gasp and a smile he moves closer.
"Go on." encourages Robb. "You can touch him."
Bran gives the pup a quick nervous stroke, then turns as Jon says, "Here you go."
His brother put a second pup into his arms. "There are six of them."
Bran sits down in the snow and hugs the wolf pup to his face. Its fur is soft and warm against his cheek.
"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," mutters Hullen, the master of horse. "I like it not."
"I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp." their father says as he walks around them to reach the dead mother where he removes a foot of shattered antler, all wet with blood, from its side.
"No matter." says Hullen. "They be dead soon enough too."
Bran gives a wordless cry of dismay as he looks towards Robb and Jon.
"The sooner the better." Theon Greyjoy agrees as he draws his sword. "Give the beast here, Bran."
"Sheathe your sword, Greyjoy, before I feed it to you." Jon says, his voice as cold as his name, as he steps between Theon and Bran.
Theon stumbles back, eyes wide, and trips over his feet, falling over. "It seems that I need not trouble myself." Jon mocks.
"Put away your sword, Greyjoy." Robb says. Sounding as commanding as their father, like the lord he would someday be. "We will keep these pups."
"It be a mercy—" Hullen begins to say, only to quiet down as quickly as he began when Robb turns to him.
Their lord father, who has yet to speak on the matter, regards them thoughtfully.
Robb rushes into the silence. "I will nurse him myself, Father," he promises. "I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that."
"Me too!" Bran echoes.
The lord weighs his sons long and carefully with his eyes. "Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants' time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?"
Bran nods eagerly. The pup squirmes in his grasp, licks at his face with a warm tongue.
"You must train them as well," their father says. "You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?"
"Yes, Father," Bran says.
"Yes," Robb agrees, while Jon merely nods his head.
"Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It's time we were back to Winterfell." their father commands.
It is not until they are mounted and on their way that Bran allows himself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, his pup has snuggled inside his leathers, warm against him, safe for the long ride home. Bran is wondering what to name him when his brother rides up beside him, a bundle of white fur in his arms staring up at Jon with eyes as red as blood.
Bran thinks it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others are still blind. And even more curious that the pup's coloring be so distinct from its siblings and all other wolves. He has never heard of a wolf with such coloring before, certainly not one where it keenly reminds one of the Weirwood tree.
"Happy?" asks Jon, earning an enthusiastic nod from Bran. "Me too, little raven. Me too." says Jon with a slight smile on his face while on hand carries his pup and the other flips his blackened coin between his fingers.
AN: Welcome to the rewrite of my ASOIAF: Dimensional Chat Group story. This story is called Of Gods and Men and it'll follow the SI throughout the canon storyline of Game of Thrones using more book canon stuff, some fanon, and wayyy more magic. In fact, you guys already got a glimpse of some of the magic in this first chapter.
The reason for the rewrite is because as some you guys guessed, I overwhelmed myself with too many plot points.
As it is a rewrite of a dimension hopping story, you can expect some of that to be happening here, just not in the way that it was in the original version. There will also be no system and no other world beside ASOIAF/GOT except for one other world (but which world is a major spoiler)
I'm so excited for this, and I hope you guys are too.