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Terror is a familiar companion to Martyn these days.
Ever since he and his brother have been captured, were brought before Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, the false king—a man Martyn has never, ever wanted to meet in person—and deemed not valuable enough to be of use but too valuable to be let go, terror has settled over his shoulders like a thick winter cloak, the kind Martyn has seen in his father’s chambers but never worn himself.
He wonders if he will get the chance to do so. If he lives long enough to see the approaching winter—the first proper one in his lifetime.
Martyn does not believe he will. He hasn’t for a while.
Willem does, though. His brother still prays to the Gods every night, and some mornings besides. He prays to the Mother for mercy, to the Warrior for courage and to the Father for justice. He has even asked the Maiden for protection once, voice barely above a whisper, so quiet that only Martyn could hear him.
Not that he thinks their guards would have cared either way, that it would have made a difference. Their prayers have drawn some ridicule and scoffs, jeers that their Gods abandoned them the moment King Joffrey cut off the traitor Eddard Stark’s head, but for the most parts the guards ignore them, perhaps as bored watching them as Martyn is stuck in his cell, unable to do anything but let his thoughts wander the ever same circles that leave him sick on his stomach and unable to look Willem in the eye, lest his brother see his lack of faith and loses his own.
They must give each other strength, now, for there is no one else to offer it to them. All they have is each other.
Father is out there somewhere, leading the Lannister army and he must still be alive for surely the Northerners would not hesitate to throw such a loss into their faces and Lancel is hopefully safe in King’s Landing, but too far away and in no position to help them besides. Mother and Janei must be so worried or perhaps they have already written them off as lost—dead—like Uncle Tywin must have already done.
The only family member close by is their cousin Ser Jaime, whom Martyn has never met. And going by the vicious rumors he has heard the guards muttering about more than once, he does not wish to do so.
Not when Ser Jaime has murdered someone of his own blood to escape once already.
Martyn buries those thoughts immediately. Tries instead to remember his mother’s face the last time he saw her. It’s harder than he would like. Much easier, in fact, to recall Janei’s annoyance at having to see them off.
Their sister isn’t one for ceremony, especially when it disrupts her lessons.
She didn’t hug him, not even before, in private, and Martyn didn’t insist.
He regrets that now. More than he would have thought possible.
"Martyn?" Willem reaches out and grasps Martyn’s hand, grip tight for all that his voice is soft. "Do you think-"
"Shh."
There is a commotion outside. Martyn whirls around. Ushers his brother behind him as he backs away from the door.
Not that it will make a difference. There is no room to run, nowhere to hide. They are trapped in enemy territory—even if the Northerners are under attack, there is every chance that Stark’s men will get to them first, will speed them away or use them to negotiate or…
Or.
The argument outside grows louder, as though they have no care whether they are heard or not and the small flickers of hope inside Martyn’s heart are snuffed out before they can grow into a proper flame.
No Lannister agent would draw this much attention.
Willem must know it too. He has let go of Martyn’s hand but is clutching the back of his dirty tunic tightly. Pressed against each other as they are, Martyn can feel his little brother tremble. Can hear his terrified heartbeat thunder against his chest.
Though that could also be his own.
"Let me through!" someone snarls over the noise and then the door to their cell is thrown open with far more force than necessary.
Through it stalks a tall, long-bearded man wearing a long fur cloak and a large sword, his weathered face twisted with rage.
"You!" the man growls.
Martyn doesn’t recognize him even though part of him feels that he should, for it must be a lord and there aren’t that many among the Northern houses, yet it is impossible to remember, to think, when the terror that has been his constant companion rises from a bored thrum in the back of his mind to a towering, all-encompassing presence, the change so sudden it makes Martyn dizzy.
"Is this a rescue?" Willem stammers behind him, and before the furious Lord raises his sword, before he spits out "Lannister filth!" like their name itself has become a curse, Martyn knows it isn’t.
He has never seen true hatred before, the visceral kind that eats you alive from the inside out, but as it turns out that does not keep him from recognizing it on someone else’s face.
"Please!" Martyn begs, not quite understanding why the words rush out of him, not quite wanting to because—that is not the face of a man willing to see reason. "I didn’t do anything! I’m just a squire!"
It is true, Martyn knows. And it does not matter. He knows that as well.
He can’t stop this man, can’t flee, can’t even protect Willem. He wants to. He wants to live. He wants his brother to live. He wants to see Mother and Father again and to hug Janei like he should have and to tell them he loves them and to never go to war again. He doesn’t want to be here, locked away in preparation for a trade that might never happen, living in fear so constantly that he has grown used to the metallic taste on the back of his tongue.
I don’t want to die here. Not like this.
Martyn may have lost faith in the Seven but in this very moment, eyes locked on the Lord’s blade gleaming in the dim light, he prays to them anyway.
Prays to the Old Gods he doesn’t know the names or faces of—because those are the Gods of his captor, aren’t they, and Martyn doesn’t know them and they probably care even less for him than the Seven might but he doesn’t care because if they strike him down for daring to ask their favor, well, then that does not change his fate, does it—prays to everyone, anyone who is listening.
Please help me. Please don’t let him hurt me.
Martyn can’t defend himself against a grown and armed man, never mind multiple ones. He can only stare helplessly at the sword that will claim his life, at the cold eyes of the man who will take it.
When the world goes black, his last thought is I hope I will be dead before the pain hits.
Prayers are a rarity these days, not because humanity has no longer need of his service but because they have no name to invoke for him, no room in their beliefs for this strange creature whose existence they remain blissfully unaware of. He is not a God of their making, is perhaps no God at all, and so they do not seek him out for counsel, favor or gifts.
They do not ask and he does not offer. After all, he has no need for their faith and no patience to establish himself among those who are closest to what he represents in this world.
That does not mean that no prayer ever reaches him, that no stray thought touches upon that which belongs to him.
He is.
He exists.
Thus when a human prays to him, to anyone, he hears. So do all the others who coexist around him, older and more entrenched in this Earth than he will ever come to be.
He is the first to answer.
The only one.
He, who has no claim to these lands or its people, no stake in their wars, no interest in their history nor their future beyond that which is inevitable and requires no intervention on his part, is the only one to heed the call.
If this form were capable of it he would be laughing.
Gaining a body—a presence in the physical world—is a disorienting experience. Harry doesn’t recommend it.
For the record, he doesn’t recommend giving up an existing body without due cause either. Keeping it alive may be tedious and impractical when much of your awareness is needed in realms beyond what a human body can perceive, but having to recreate one from scratch every time you want to interact with the world of your choosing is an exercise in frustration.
Trust him.
He has a lot of practice and yet despite that his creations never fit quite right. Settling into one of them feels not unlike putting on your favorite sweater in a hurry and only remembering that you outgrew it years ago after you have already left the house.
If Harry had known…
Well. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference. But there is no way to prove that it wouldn’t have either, so he reserves the right to sulk about the annoyance of it all. It’s not like he doesn’t have the time.
Not that a negligible issue like his woeful lack of a consistent physical existence stops him. Or, you know, slows him down. The Powers That Try To Be in this world probably wish it would, but Harry doesn’t see why he should indulge them.
The welcome committee after his—admittedly inelegant—entry into this particular plane of existence has left a lot to be desired. So do his… colleagues… pep talks, but bless them, they try.
"It is not your place. You do not belong here."
Harry doesn’t snort at the memory of that particular disaster of a polite discussion—the sort you have to keep on having ad nauseam when the people you disagree with are untouchable, as inconvenient as it is for every party involved—but it’s a near thing.
There is a long list of people who could have told the local meddling forces that arguments of fate and prophecy are not going to convince him to comply with their wishes. Too bad that he doesn’t come with a warning label.
Not that particular warning label at least.
Harry smirks at the thought. And at the wide-eyed, gawping expression of the man in front of him, who staggers several steps back now with an ashen face.
"Hello there."
Not his best or most dramatic greeting but going by the horrified expressions all around him, it suffices just fine.
"What do we have here?" Harry glances around the dim cell he has found himself in, at the terrified boys behind him, one of them still the end of his Prayer on his lips, to the armored men blocking the only exit. Given what the blonde child behind him has Prayed for, the situation seems fairly self-explanatory. "Grown men planning to kill a couple of unarmed children in the dark? I have to admit, I’ve never been a fan of that."
Though his views are far from as strict as they used to be, Harry knows, even if he won’t admit it to anyone but himself. Morals are like pebbles whose sharp edges are slowly smoothed out by the endless stream of time. Few can withstand tragedy and victory, horror and joy, when the story never ends.
Still. Harry is here now. He has Heard and he has Answered. It may have been a spur-of-the-moment decision fueled by boredom and spite but as he takes in the sorry state of these two children who have begged him, begged anyone for help and been cruelly denied by those who claim ownership on these shores, he decides to commit to this cause.
One of the men, a tall, older guy with a wild, grey mane of hair opens and closes his mouth without sound. His gaze keeps flickering up and down Harry’s appearance as though he cannot believe what his own senses are telling him.
The fear in his eyes is a bit much though. Harry hasn’t even gotten started yet.
Despite himself he glances down—just a quick check to ensure that he hasn’t materialized himself in a catsuit or a Hawaiian shirt and red swim shorts again, it wouldn’t be the first time—but no, his choice of dress should do fine. Nothing special, nothing outstanding, just the classic black robes that come so natural to him even after all these years.
They may seem a little odd to these people, whoever they are—Harry hasn’t decided yet whether he should care about that, he has long stopped bothering with the names of the dead and these men may well go on to their next great adventure before they get any introductions done—but they shouldn’t draw that much attention. So what…
Oh.
Right.
There is a sword in his gut.
Harry eyes the blade. Looks to be fine quality from what he can see under all the blood. Nicely decorated hilt too.
He lifts his gaze and raises his eyebrows as he stares at the sword’s most likely owner. "Miss something?" he drawls. Lets his smirk grow at the visible distress of these men, several of which shift uneasily.
"You really should take more care when you decide to draw a blade," Harry continues to lecture, unbothered, and reaches down to pull the blade out. The angle is awkward but the horrified reactions make it more than worth the inconvenience. "There’s no telling whose blood it might spill."
With that Harry hefts the sword up and watches as blood runs down the entire length of it, dripping onto his hands.
His blood.
He watches, fascinated by the strange sight. It has been a long time since anyone has dared to spill his blood, since he has given another being the chance. The wound has already healed of course, has no hope of doing anything but perhaps annoying him and drawing his attention, but the blood…
Most of it has soaked his clothes, all but invisible on the black fabric, or covers the sword but some has dripped onto the floor. Has hit these stones under Harry’s feet and through them seeps into the very earth of this world.
Harry can feel it. Can feel the power behind this act. Gods do not bleed, he remembers ancient voices speak and finds himself laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
One of the men further in the back murmurs a Prayer. The dissonance of it, words of foreign Worship in a place that knows His Blood, knows His Claim and welcomes it eagerly, greedily, clings to it with all the strength of a child afraid of being thrown into the roaring waters as the flood approaches, draws him out of his contemplation.
Harry’s head snaps around. His gaze drills into the frightened brown eyes of the soldier. "This is not the time to Pray for the attention of your Gods."
Here and now, I am the closest you will get.
He means to be gentle for Harry understands the pain of calling out, desperate to be saved, and have no one answer that call. But he knows he misses that mark before the man flinches back in terror, head bowed as though desperate to escape his gaze. He is too raw still, with his own blood on his hands and the Call of a Prayer ringing in his ear, and his voice echoes with a wrath that is older than this very world.
Harry shakes his head to clear his head. He is not here to stake a claim on this world, this time or these people. Neither is he here to make these strangers pay for sins committed long before the first of their bloodlines walked this earth.
He is here because he Answered a Prayer and it is time to get on with it.
"Now then, onto unpleasant business." He allows his gaze to roam over these men in front of him, before finally settling on the owner of the sword he still holds, the only one who manages to meet his eyes for more than a few seconds.
"What is your name?"
It’s not the question Harry means to ask. He has no use for the information, nor does it matter. Yet the words slip out all the same. An old reflex. An even older curiosity.
What makes people who they are?
The man straightens with old, well-worn pride. "I am Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold," he claims. As expected the name and title mean nothing to Harry. The 'Lord' part is interesting though.
"And you, stranger, are standing in a cell with Lannister hostages that none but the King’s men are allowed to be in," Rickard Karstark continues in a booming voice, apparently finding his courage. "What are you doing here, Lannister spy?"
Damn, Harry can’t help but smile widely, first a sword to the gut and now a death threat of some kind. I forgot how much fun being alive is.
"You cannot interfere."
"Can’t I?" He bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile. Allows the other to decide for himself whether he chooses to take the expression as an invitation or a threat.
If he could not do what is feared, if he were truly incapable of the act, they would not have this conversation.
"The boy is marked for death."
He chuckles at the absurdity of that statement, all the more amusing when spoken by a creature who sees the world through three eyes and many more layers, yet remains blind to the rules their precious world—every world—is built on.
"Every living being is," he points out because that is the truth. Tilts his head. Lets the words linger for a moment, though he doubts the message—never mind the promise within—will be well-received.
If the Living Memory before him, who dares to speak for a land they have no claim to, receives it at all.
"And so die they must. When and how is a matter of choice and circumstance. Not destiny."
Robb stares at the men lined up in front of him. Lord Karstark, four of his men loyal enough to follow him into treason, the two trembling prisoners they meant to kill as far away from them as they can be, half hidden behind one of Robb’s own guards, and a few steps to their left, separated from all the other parties in this room by the empty space around him that no one has dared to breach an unfamiliar man dressed in black.
A potential saboteur or spy if Lord Karstark’s insistent accusations are to be believed.
The wrath of the Old Gods made in flesh, one of the other men had whispered, his face chalk-white and his eyes filled with nothing but terror. He took the sword meant for the Lannister scum, then pulled it out of his own guts with a smile.
Robb had known the moment Dacey had ripped the doors open without so much as a knock, an expression of naked fury on her face, that nothing good would come from this day. Whatever he expected though, it wasn’t this. Not the appearance of a man with mysterious powers—nor the atrocity that seems to have called him here in the first place.
An atrocity ordered by one of his own Lords.
Worrisome as the rest of this strange tale is, the heart of it is simple: Rickard Karstark has chosen to take his vengeance on a couple of boys and by doing so not only undermined Robb’s authority but also spit on the Laws of their lands. He has betrayed his King.
All for the blood of two green boys who shake so hard, they may yet pass out.
If Lord Karstark had succeeded, two more children would be dead and nothing would be better for it. Robb cannot help but picture it, standing in this hall, the bodies of those boys spread out on the floor, all because they have the bad luck to be born of the wrong family. Cannot help but think of two other young boys much closer to his heart, who suffered that very fate because Robb put his faith in the wrong person.
History, it seems, is doomed to repeat itself. Yet this time the Gods have shown what mercy they have left to give. Martyn and Willem Lannister are alive.
Robb turns away from their sorry sight, fearful and so young, and stares at his bannerman, his kinsman, who has all but forced Robb to put a sword to his throat with this one foolish, senseless act.
"You killed two of my loyal guards and attempted to kill two hostages. You disobeyed the orders of your King," he finally grits out, forcibly clinging to some semblance of calm. Talisa is lingering at his back and though she hasn’t said a word so far, her unobtrusive presence helps anchor him. "What do you have to say for yourself, Lord Karstark?"
There is nothing the man can say that Robb wants to hear right now but he makes himself ask anyway. Perhaps there is a part of him that hopes for another explanation than the obvious one, an excuse that Robb could accept, could tolerate at least, one that might yet quieten the snarling beast inside that he is desperately trying to keep a leash on. But if there is, it is all that is left of the boy he used to be, a child of the Long Summer and as free as an heir of one of Westeros’ oldest houses could ever hope to be.
Like that boy this hope will die a brutal death, Robb knows in his heart, before Rickard Karstark even opens his mouth.
The summer is over. Winter is Coming. Westeros is ravaged by war. And Robb himself is no longer an heir, is not even a lord. His men have put a crown on his head and he does his best to earn that honor, to be worthy of their devotion, though he knows well that his best is not enough. This entire situation more than proves it.
"I did what I had to do." Lord Karstark stands proud, his neck stiff and unbent. "They are nothing but Lannister scum and their blood is the least of what I am owed!"
"What you’re owed?" Robb repeats in disbelief, stunned at the arrogance that has taken hold of this man. The same man who kneeled to him. The same man who called him King. Feels his fury rise at the sheer gall. "By what right-"
"I have every right!" Lord Karstark roars suddenly, taking two large steps forward, arms waving wildly. His eyes gleam with a madness born of grief, one that Robb recognizes even as he recoils from it. Or perhaps because he recognizes it.
His guards bristle but he waves them off.
Lord Karstark is still talking, either too blinded by his own pain and anger or simply not caring what anyone else thinks of him. "Lannisters killed two of my sons and put my heir in chains! They kill more of my men every damned day! And what do you do? You house them and you feed them and you let the Kingslayer slip through your fingers and escape his justice!"
"Your justice, you mean," Robb points out. His voice is quiet but it cuts through Lord Karstark’s speech all the same.
He doesn’t know if he could endure another word from this man. He is so angry he feels like he should shake with it, should want to reach out and grab hold of the man—who acts as though he is the only one who has suffered, the only one who sees ghosts where their loved ones should be and how dare he claim the grief the trice-cursed Lannisters have caused all for himself?—and shake some sense into him but the heat has gone up in smoke and all that is left is an unrelenting cold that seeps deeper and deeper into Robb’s bones, freezing him from the inside out.
"I did-" Lord Karstark tries to continue but Robb finds his patience has run dry—if he has ever had any in the first place.
"You betrayed your King," he says sharply and the room falls silent, all eyes turning to him. "You broke our Laws and turned against your own allies. You claim your actions were just but what about the Northern men you slew in your quest to get to the prisoners? What about the justice their families will demand?"
Robb shakes his head in disgust. He is facing an impossible choice and Lord Karstark must know it too. That is why he dares to stand before him with such conviction, such surety even now. Robb cannot let his actions go unanswered, yet he must tread carefully lest he risks losing the entire family and with them their men. Men Robb desperately needs if he wants to win this war.
If Rickard Karstark had succeeded Robb would have had his head. It would have been the right thing to do and Robb knows he would have had no choice but to follow through with it. But the hostages remain alive and now he has to determine how much—if anything—that changes.
Robb observes Rickard Karstark for a long moment. Even if he doesn’t have the man’s head, he cannot let him stay here. Robb would be unable to trust this Lord who has already turned against him once and never mind the risk to whatever captives they may hold in the future. If Karstark was willing to break his oaths for a couple of green boys, what would he do in the face of a more valuable prisoner?
No, Robb cannot risk it, but he also cannot afford to alienate one of the largest Houses amongst his forces. So where does that leave them?
"You have put your own grievances before our war efforts and have broken your oaths in doing so," Robb says, slow but decisive. He doesn’t miss Lord Karstark’s flinch, though he takes no satisfaction from it. "So I will send you to the Wall, along with your men here, where you will spend the rest of your life fighting for the whole of the North and may be given the chance to regain your honor."
It is not a perfect solution but it is the best path Robb can see. He turns to one of the guards at the door. "Accompany Lord Karstark to his chambers and guard them well," he orders. "Put the others in a cell. And not one with any other prisoners."
Later, he will have to figure out the logistics and probably organize an escort but that can wait a few hours. First, Robb needs to deal with the stranger in their midsts. And he doesn’t want Rickard Karstark around while he does so.
The enraged Lord has done more than enough damage already.
As soon as Karstark and his men have been led away, Robb finally allows himself to give the strange intruder his full attention. The man is young, about of an age with Robb if he had to take a guess, though there is an ageless quality to his features that makes it difficult to say for sure. He has so far watched the happenings curiously, without once speaking up or even so much as twitching. His face is framed by short strands of wild black hair that Robb knows his mother would absolutely throw a fit over.
The thought lightens his mood briefly.
"As for you," he says as calmly as he can manage under the weight of those all-seeing green eyes, "who are you?"
So far this stranger has been accused of being a spy, a saboteur and a Lannister rat—though admittedly all by the raging Lord Karstark—and doesn’t appear to worry about any of these accusations. He has made no move to run off or fight, has simply followed them when Robb indicated for him to do so with an amused smile that left Robb more wrong-footed than he wants to admit.
Of course if the story of the panicked men about how this man pulled a sword out of his own gut and walked the wound off proves true, that would explain his nonchalance, for what would a man capable of such feats fear? Not that Robb wants to believe those claims, but…
Well.
He believes that the terror in Karstark’s men was real. Given that those same men were ready and willing to slaughter to unarmed children, that knowledge doesn’t exactly fill Robb with comfort.
Neither does the cheerful smile the unfamiliar man sends him.
"I am no one you ever heard of," the man says.
Well, Robb supposes with a sort of gallows’ humor that is utterly unbecoming for the present discussion, he is being truthful, at least.
"I find that hard to argue with, given that I do not recognize you nor believe we have ever met," Robb admits drily. "That does not, however, answer my question."
"No." The young man tilts his head in seeming agreement. His bright eyes are fixed on Robb, who tries not to shift under the strange intensity of that gaze. "But I’m afraid I have no answer that might satisfy you. I have gone Unnamed for a very long time now."
There is a curious curl to his lips that speaks of amusement, a challenge in the set of his jaw. Robb isn’t sure whether it is wise to rise to that challenge.
A part of him—the part that listened to Old Nan’s fables with eager delight, the part that dreams of running on four paws through the woods, the taste of blood on his teeth—wants to throw caution and good sense into the wind and just ask, blunt and uncompromising as the North has always been rumored to be, and damned be the consequences: Are you a God then?
But that is not a question that can be asked, least of all by him. More importantly it is not a question that can be answered nor believed.
"You claim no name, but what of your allegiance?" Robb makes himself ask instead. "You saved those boys’ lives and for that you have my thanks."
Here Robb pauses for a moment because he means those words and he wants this stranger to know that.
Whatever else happens, whoever he is, he has spared two children and given Robb the leeway to deal with Rickard Karstark’s blind vengeance in a manner that may yet allow him to keep the peace with the rest of the man’s House. It is not ideal, but nothing has been since he has first called the banners and ridden South in hopes of freeing his father.
"Yet your presence in the middle of my camp, inside the walls of my uncle’s home, raises questions," he continues finally. "You are not one of my men. You are not sworn to me."
The stranger’s lips twitch at that as though he finds the idea terribly amusing. Robb tries not to let that sight unsettle him any further.
"And you have chosen to reveal yourself only when the sons of Kevan Lannister were at risk. So I ask you, are you a Lannister man as Lord Karstark claimed?"
The tension in the room rises sharply at that. The remaining guard by the door clutches his sword tightly, as though preparing to intercept their intruder the moment he makes a move towards Robb, though he does not raise it.
The intruder in question, on the other hand, appears obvious to the wariness everyone in the room regards him with. Or, worse, unconcerned.
"A Lannister man," he repeats slowly as though the words are as unfamiliar to him as his entire presence is to Robb and his Council. He turns towards the boys. Both pale further under his attention, but young Martyn straightens as well. Robb can all but see a brother’s yearning to push his sibling behind him, to protect them, yet force himself not to move, not to reveal such obvious weakness in the face of a dangerous predator. "You two are Lannisters, then."
It is not a question but both boys nod hastily.
"Lannisters," the stranger says again. "I have not heard that one before. I assume it is not a term for blonde people, is it?"
Robb blinks. "House Lannister is one of the Great Houses of Westeros and rule over the Westerlands."
How could he have possibly never heard of them?
"Yeah." The stranger drawls. "That means nothing to me. But I’m going out on a limb here and assume they aren’t friends of yours, are they?"
The question is so matter-of-fact that Robb finds himself replying in kind. "Well, we are at war with them."
"Ah." The man nods. "I see."
Robb doesn’t. His only comfort is that, going by the looks on everyone else’s faces, he is not the only one.
"You claim not to have been sent by the Lannisters, then?" Not that any sane man would admit that to his face in this company, but so far the stranger hasn’t done a single thing that makes sense, so Robb doubts reason would stop him.
The stranger shakes head though. It sends his black hair flying into all directions, briefly revealing a thin, white line that cuts across his forehead. A scar.
So he can be hurt, perhaps.
"No one sent me." Once more there is an odd edge to his words, something almost mocking, as though he is laughing into their faces and yet at the same time something final that raises the hairs on the back of Robb’s neck.
No one could, is what he could swear the stranger means. And Robb wants to believe him, as little sense as that makes.
"Then what did you come here for? Why did you save their lives?" Robb gestures towards the Lannisters, who have used the stranger’s distraction to move further away from him.
The black-robed man lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Because he asked."
His green, green, green gaze flicks towards Martyn, who blanches. "No!" He cries. "No! I didn’t! I swear, I didn’t! I have never seen this man before, please your Grace, you have to believe me!"
He looks terrified. Granted, Robb hasn’t seen the boy anything but terrified since his uncle presented his prisoners to him and had taken more satisfaction from that than he perhaps should, but he also doesn’t look like a liar. He looks like a boy surrounded by enemies, desperate to keep himself and his brother alive.
I wonder if this is how Sansa and Arya look. If they protect each other as these two try to. Robb squashes the thought as soon as it occurs to him, unwilling to follow it further. He cannot afford to feel sympathy towards any Lannisters, nor does he want to.
"Of course you did." The stranger clucks his tongue. "You Prayed."
At that, the protest dies on Martyn Lannister’s lips. "What?" he chokes out instead, the word barely audible in the sudden deadly quietness.
"You Prayed," the man repeats with an odd intonation. "You Prayed for help. You Prayed for protection from that errant Lord of his." Here he points at Robb. "You didn’t Pray to me, of course, but you asked for help from anyone. I more than fulfill that requirement." His tone lightens on the last words as though he is sharing a private joke.
"I- I-" Martyn Lannister stutters uselessly.
Robb doesn’t blame the boy. What this stranger suggests, what he implies is impossible.
Unnatural green eyes bore into his own, older than they have any right to be and so unrelenting that it takes all of Robb’s self-control not to flinch back. To retreat. To hide from a gaze that sees far too much and knows even more.
Somehow, through a force beyond his understanding, Robb finds the will, the courage to speak. "You want us to believe that you saved these boys because one of them prayed to you?"
Another shrug. "I don’t need you to believe it to make it true."
"What could these Lannisters possibly have done to earn such a boon?!" one of the guards—Robb has no idea which one, he would have to take his eyes off the stranger to do that and he finds himself unable to move—exclaims.
"Nothing," the stranger admits easily though Robb doesn’t fail to notice the way his eyes darken, a brewing storm he is not sure he wants to see the result of. "I just didn’t have anything better to do."
Silence.
Utter and complete silence.
I just didn’t have anything better to do.
Robb swallows. He doesn’t know who this man is. He doesn’t know what he is. But whatever answer he expected, the idea that he has simply appeared because he was bored is—hard to grasp.
"Now that that is taken care of, I’ll take my leave," the stranger says once it becomes apparent that one one else knows how to respond to that statement either. Again his gaze finds Robb’s own and again the weight behind it startles him. "I’d appreciate if you could keep those kids alive. I’d hate to have spilled my blood in vain."
And before Robb can make sense of that disturbing statement or protest or do literally anything useful, the black-robed stranger is gone.
It is not the first time nor will it be the last that he chooses to answer a prayer. Neither will it be the last time his response is met with resistance. 'You will ruin everything', they like to claim. 'You destroy it all.'
Perhaps one day they will be right.
It does not stop him.
They—who crown themselves his equals, who name him one God among many, who deem him an intruder yet consider him a player who sits at their shared table, neither above nor below those who recognize his power without understanding its source—do not have the Right to call him to heel. Their attempt to deny him a choice that is not theirs to offer nor decline is all the encouragement he needs.
He Answers. He Acts. He Watches.
And the world still turns.
Spite, it has to be said, remains a wonderful motivator long after all others have turned to dust.
"Do you believe it?" Talisa asks softly into the darkness of their shared chamber.
"Believe what?" Robb turns his head to look at her, though he cannot make out anything but the faintest shape of her hair.
"That he was…" Talisa hesitates. Audibly searches for what words to use and this is how Robb knows without a shadow of a doubt whom she is referring to. Not that it could be anyone else. "That what happened today was an act of the Gods," is what his wife finally settles on.
Robb pauses. He thinks back to the tall stranger in the black robes with his equally black hair and pale skin, who could have passed for a Man of the Wall at first glance. Thinks of his eyes—Lord Karstark called them 'Lannister green' but Robb still remembers Cersei and Jaime and even Joffrey back in Winterfell’s halls before this entire nightmare started and their eyes cannot hope to hold a candle to the unnatural, poisonous shade of green their unexpected guest sported—so bright and ancient, set in a face that cannot be much older than Robb himself is.
They have found no trace of him after he disappeared in front of Robb’s own eyes and oh, they have searched.
"I don’t know," is the answer he settles on, though in his heart he knows that it is not the full truth. There was something about this stranger, something about the gravity of his presence that made Robb disinclined to challenge his claims, never mind deny them. Tries to lighten the somber mood that his honest answer invites. "If he is I have to admit he is not what I would have pictured a God to look like—Old or New."
Talisa laughs at that, so free and genuinely delighted that Robb finds himself smiling as well. "Have you often imagined the Gods then?"
"No." He snorts. "For some reason I have not expected any of them to pay us a visit."
Even as he says the words though, the smile fades from his lips again, and soon they both lie next to each other in silence, staring into the dark.
"He did though," Talisa murmurs finally and though her voice is so very gentle, she does not manage to soften the weight her words carry.
"Yes." Robb agrees. "They did."
For Martyn Lannister a God—or something terribly close to it—has descended upon them. All because he asked.
Robb wonders how far rumors of the events have spread through the camp by now. How many will soon be flying all over the Riverlands and beyond. How many men and women and children will put their faith in this apparent miracle and pray for answers to their own problems. How many will die because of it, their hopes shattered, their prayers gone unanswered.
The Gods, in Robb’s experience, know neither kindness nor mercy. That is not their way. Asking for either is a fool’s errand. But desperation makes a fool of every man.
"Let us hope that we will not have to become used to the Gods favoring Lannisters." He sighs. The war is treacherous enough with its multiple fronts, his conspiring bannermen and conflicting interests. The last thing they need is for their enemies to have the Gods on their side—though Robb cannot imagine how they possibly could.
"Is that what you think happened?" Talisa asks.
"What do you mean?"
"This…man, whoever he was, saved those boys and they are Lannisters, that is true. But he did not do it at our cost, nor did he free them."
Also true, Robb supposes. "So?"
Talisa curls into his side and rests her head on his shoulder with a tired sigh. "All I mean to say is that you should not be so quick to discount the favor the Gods may yet hold for you as well, my King."
"We can only hope," Robb says neutrally. He doesn’t want to argue, least of all now, but neither does he want to put his faith in an unfamiliar and seemingly far too real God.
That is after all what Stannis Baratheon is doing—and look where it has gotten him.
Several weeks later, clutching his wife’s body in his arms and bleeding out from several arrow wounds, Robb Stark closes his eyes and Prays.