Shrouded Destiny

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

Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

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

***

14th Day of the 6th Moon

Robert Baratheon, somewhere in the North

It was dark still, though the barest hint of reddish orange glimmered on the eastern horizon, soon to herald the arrival of the morn. Yet there was not a hint of sleepiness within Robert, and he felt his body brimming with vigour despite the early wake.

He stood atop his black destrier, Storm, as the chilling gales battered his face; a hooded fur-lined cloak protected his back and neck well enough. The North was a hardy place, old and cold; Oakheart and Selmy stood uneasily behind him like a pair of white shadows, along with another dozen riders, all shivering under the nightly chill.

It had been nearly a fortnight since they had left Winterfell, and they were making good speed despite Cersei's complaints about her sore bum. If anything, that only made Robert steel himself to maintain the tempo if nothing else - a tired lioness barely roared. However, he didn't doubt that his petty wife would find some way to make his life miserable later on for it. Yet, Robert couldn't find it in himself to care; for now, he could enjoy the road, the endless hills, the blue sky, and the lack of stench that came with his city. The cold felt invigorating more than anything else.

Soon enough, Ned emerged from his tent, step slow and drowsy and eyes heavy with sleep as the Stark men-at-arms were saddling his horse.

"Up, up, Stark," An amused cry tore from Robert's mouth. "We have matters of state to discuss!"

"Should we go inside the tent, Your Grace?" Ned rubbed his eyes groggily.

"No," Robert waved away. "This camp is too full of ears. We shall go out for a ride - I want to taste that country of yours."

When his friend was on the saddle, Robert spurred his steed forward. He threw a wayward glance behind him - his royal retinue and Ned were following. Without a worry, he urged Storm faster, and the vicious cold wind battered against his face. It was chilly, and it cut like a knife across his exposed skin, but Robert loved it, even when his hood was removed by a vicious gale. The light from the east crept up more and more, colouring the sky red and orange and slowly banishing the lingering darkness.

Robert had had enough from the road and wheeled Storm to the west into the roiling hills, where mist still crept in the lowlands. A joyous smile couldn't help but appear on his face as he rode and rode through the green expanse, the sound of his friend and retinue galloping behind him.

Soon enough, when cresting over a craggy hill, dawn broke, and the sun finally showed to the east, making Robert halt and turn around, gasping heavily. Ned reined just behind him, and the rest of the retinue had stopped just out of earshot.

"Gods," he chortled, breathless, "it feels good to get out and ride the way a man is meant to! I swear, Ned, Cersei had a wheelhouse when we left King's Landing; you wouldn't believe how slow that monstrosity was - a day scarcely passed without an axle breaking or a wheel cracking. Yet it feels that we're still crawling on the road even without it!"

Ned didn't look even a bit winded at the travel so far, making Robert wonder if he had let himself go too much. Mayhaps he would spend more time in the yard. The idea made him shake his head; such an endeavour would require him to drink and whore less.

"We're making a good way, Robert. In two or three days, we'll be in the Neck already."

"And it will be two more moons till King's Landing at this pace," the king sighed. "How's my youngest doing?"

"Tommen is still getting used to his new duties," Ned rubbed his brow tiredly, "the boy is young still and has much to learn."

"You're doing good work, and he no longer jumps from his own shadow from what I hear." Tommen was too soft and weak, but he was barely a boy, and there was plenty of time to grow. Still, his friend was good at raising children - all of his had turned out well. "Last night, Cersei came to whinge at me that you're stealing all her children, you know. I hear Joffrey had been going to you, too?"

"Gods," Ned groaned with exasperation, "your eldest came to ask me about the gods."

"The gods?" Robert's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Why would he come to you for the Seven-Pointed Star and not some septon?"

"The old gods, Robert, not the new."

The king couldn't help but gape at his friend's strained expression. The image of Joffrey piously praying under the bloody leaves of the heart tree made him chortle. It was like a dam had burst open, and the chortle turned into a guffaw as his laughter echoed across the hills. It took him a good minute to calm down and speak again.

"And what does my eldest want with the old gods?"

"The lack of clergy intrigued him," Ned's words were slow and measured. "Along with the weirwood trees - he developed some odd fascination with them. And he asked about certain practices, about sacrifice and the such."

"I thought these barbaric things stopped long ago?"

Ned's jaw tightened.

"It was no different than placing a man's head on a spike - it was just done before the heart tree where the gods could see your victory. It was the same thing for justice - killing men before the sight of gods. You do things the same in the South, do you not? Your own scaffold is just before the Sept of Baelor. Should I stop teaching the crown prince?"

"Ah, it's no bother," Robert waved away his friend's concerns, "It would do Joffrey good to learn more things, and half his kingdom follows the Old Gods, after all."

"Religion is one thing, but what about training at arms and rulership? Your eldest has only trained once since he came to Winterfell, and to my knowledge, there's nobody to teach him the matters of state."

A pained groan escaped his lips. He had left most of his councillors in King's Landing and came here to pick up a friend, not another one!

"And I suppose you have a recommendation of your own?"

"Joffrey is the right age to squire, at least," Ned pointed out. "A king must know how to fight and lead. Ser Barristan is a prestigious choice that nobody would object to. And either you or Pycelle should teach the boy about the intricacies of rulership."

"His mother would hear nothing of it," Robert groaned. Not that he had any desire to spend on whinging children.

"Are you the king, or is she?"

The biting words felt like a slap, and he reddened as his gloved fists squeezed over the reins in a fury. How dare he?!

Robert opened his mouth, but he could only sigh under Eddard Stark's steely, unrelenting gaze. The king deflated as all of his fury bled out of him - it was true; he had started giving in to his harpy of a wife because he was tired of arguing.

"You don't have a lioness in your bed every night," the words felt bitter on his tongue. Ah, ah, if only it were Lyanna instead. Ned wouldn't understand - his wife was kind and full of passion, not this cold, spiteful bitch that was his queen. "Nor do you have Tywin Lannister for a good-father."

Damn Jon Arryn for convincing him of this marriage!

"I suppose I don't," Ned grimaced. "But you hardly spend most of your nights with your wife. Have your eldest squire for the Kingslayer, then. Some discipline in the yard would do him good, and Cersei would be unable to object."

"I thought you disliked the Kingslayer?" Robert blinked, looking at the man before him as if he was seeing him for the first time.

His friend stiffened, and his jaw was clenched again, reminding him of Stannis.

"I would not deny his skill with a blade or his blood ties to the boy. And Joffrey is the crown prince, Robert; he needs to be groomed for rulership and the rest of his duties sooner rather than later."

"Fine, fine, I'll get Pycelle to start his lessons and for the boy to squire for his uncle," the king grunted. It was not a bad idea to have Joffrey away from his mother's clutches, but he wasn't sure if these endeavours would even have any effect. "I have half a mind to keep riding in the distance and leave all these headaches behind."

"I believe you mean it," Ned smiled fondly.

"I do! What say you, Ned? Just you and me, two vagabond knights on the road with the swords at our side, the wind at our back, and whatever fortune we can make in front of us. A tavern wench or a farmer's daughter, mayhaps?"

"Ah, those days are long gone, Robert, you know this," his friend shook his head forlornly. "You cannot run from your crown anymore than I can run from my lordship. Both of us have wives, children, and duties. We are not the boys we were…"

The king snorted; Ned was young once but never a boy, always solemn and serious.

"More's the pity. What was her name, Ned?"

His friend froze.

"Whose name?"

"That common girl of yours," he scratched his coarse beard, trying to remember. "Becca? No, she was one of mine, gods - I loved her black hair and these sweet eyes; you could drown in them. Yours was… Aleena? No, you told me once. Was it Merryl? You know the one I mean, your bastard's mother?"

For a painfully long moment, Ned stood there, silent like the statue in those frozen crypts of his as the cold northern gale battered at them.

"I forgot her name," his voice was quiet like a whisper, face full of guilt and longing. Oh gods, was he blaming himself? No, Eddard Stark was not a block of carved ice but a man of hidden passion, Robert knew. "Even her face is lost to me…"

"A pity - she must have been a rare wench to make Eddard Stark forget his honour, if even for an hour," Robert grinned, but Ned's face only soured further.

"Is that why you called me here?" The words were even more chilly than the night gale. "Are the matters of state now whores and hedge knights?"

"Fine, fine," the king slapped his knee; gods, the lordship had made his friend a more dour man than he ever was. "You were too hard on yourself; you always were. I won't press if you don't want to talk of it, but if you're so prickly, you ought to take a hedgehog for your sigil."

That finally elicited a snort from his friend. Ah, no matter how struck up Ned seemed to be, Robert would hesitate to call him Baelor the Blessed. The pious king was rumoured to have never bedded his wife, yet here Ned was with five, no four now, sprogs to his name from his lady, with probably another on the way as Cat had the glow of a woman well-fucked.

Robert shook his head and looked around as the rays of the morning sun were banishing the last vestiges of the roiling mist, revealing a flat field of green and brown dotted with hills here and there.

"The barrows of the first men," Ned tracked his gaze and pointed at the hills.

"Have we ridden into a graveyard?" Robert couldn't help but frown at the sight. Disturbing the dead was a bad thing; who knew what vengeful ghost or vile curse would come out? The first men were hardy folk, a remnant of a dark and bloody, long-forgotten era where heroes, monsters, and gods clashed amongst the lands.

"These barrows are everywhere in the North, Your Grace. This land is old."

"And cold," he couldn't help but grumble as another icy gust swept past. "Too much work and no fun, you Starks. There was a rider in the night from my spymaster. Here."

He grabbed the roll of parchment from his belt and handed it to Ned.

"Is it still Varys?"

"The man is capable, and I had no reason to dismiss him," Robert waved away the frown as his friend's eyes scanned the words on the parchment.

"What is the source of this?"

The king braced himself for another disappointed glare.

"Do you remember Ser Jorah Mormont?"

"Would that I might forget him," Ned's words were tight and blunt. "A slaver, an oathbreaker, and a craven rolled up in one."

"Well," Robert shuffled uneasily but then hardened himself. "Ser Jorah was in Pentos, anxious to earn a royal pardon to allow him to return from exile. Lord Varys makes good use of him."

"From a slaver to a spy," his friend's brow was scrunched with thinly veiled distrust as he returned the letter. "I would rather he was a corpse."

"Spies are more useful than corpses if you ask Varys," Robert chortled, then eagerly leaned closer. "Jorah aside, what do you make of this report?"

"Daenerys Targaryen has wed some horselord. What of it? Should we send her a gift?"

The king couldn't help but frown about how nonchalant his friend was about the spawn of the mad king. Did he not care?!

"A knife, perhaps. A good, sharp one with a bold man to wield it."

"You know," his friend's words were slow and measured as he was deep in thought, yet Robert could detect mirth in his friend's voice. "Viserys must be a fool. I've read on the horselords."

"You have?!"

"Aye, from my grandfather Rodrick's journals and some treatises from adventures and explorers. He served with the Second Sons for many years and travelled most of Essos. You see, the khals oft take more than one wife," Robert reared in surprise. And there was a sliver of raw envy underneath. "They don't acknowledge any marriage alliances in the following generation; any khal is made by his mettle and skills, not blood."

"How does that help us?"

"Viserys was a fool to give away his sister's hand like this. Send an honest gift-"

"As if! Why would I give anything to those dragonspawn!"

His roar seemed to unsettle both of their horses, and Robert was forced to tug on the reins to calm the unnerved Storm just as Ned patted his grey destrier's neck.

"Do you trust me, Robert?" The king frowned but nodded. There was no man alive he would trust than the one before him. "Then I shall speak frankly. The Dothraki are hardy, savage folk, but not without their own brand of honour. Send a genuine gift to this Khal Drogo, and forget about the mad king's children."

"That would make me look weak!" Robert snorted dismissively. "As if I'd send some savage offerings!"

"You could send a catspaw after Viserys or even the Khal's wife, but that would only infuriate him. How would you feel if someone sent a dagger in the dark after Cersei?" Ned looked at him pointedly.

"Happy, especially if they succeed! I'd celebrate - I mean mourn for days!" The thought made Robert grin, yet Ned looked at him flatly.

"And then you'd call your banners and go to war because it would be a slight against you and yours."

Ah damn it, why did his friend always have to speak so much reason! More's the pity that nobody would assassinate Cersei; Robert would love to feast after her death and go to war afterwards.

"Fine, damn it!" The king groused. "What gift should we send to the man? The khals extract riches in tributes from all the Free Cities - they lack not for fancy trinkets and gold."

"Something rare," Ned murmured, deep in thought. "I have a few mammoth tusks in Winterfell's vaults. One can be bound by gold and silver, and carved with runes and turned into a warhorn."

"And mammoth ivory is more than thrice as large as those measly elephants they have in Essos," Robert hummed. Damn it, now he wanted to go Beyond the Wall and hunt for those elusive mammoths. It would be a glorious hunt!

"Aye, Khal Drogo would view this as a tribute, making Viserys and his claim a laughing stock. The boy's dependent on his sister's mercy now. The Dothraki have never set sail before; we don't need to give them a reason to sail now."

He couldn't help but frown.

"And what if the dragon whore begins birthing dragonspawn?"

"Let her," his friend shrugged. "Her royal mother had great difficulty birthing. Even if she succeeds, they might all turn out to be girls - the Dothraki place little stock on women. Even if Daenerys manages to birth sons, they'd be half-savages that have never even seen Westeros - what threat are they to you?"

"Come now, Ned, surely you know of the Blackfyres. Five times they tried to come back to plague the kingdoms!"

"Doesn't that work well for you?" The Lord of Winterfell quirked his eyebrow. "Nobody would support the horselords should they come here. Nothing unites the kingdoms like an outside foe."

Robert couldn't help but nod; the memory of Greyjoy's folly was still fresh in his mind. Still, that did not fully assuage his troubled mind.

"But the Blackfyres could barely muster ten thousand swords. A hundred thousand Dothraki screamers are a different thing altogether," he pointed out.

"They are," Ned admitted with a smile. "But every rider has a horse or two, and no fleet can carry a hundred thousand men and twice as many horses in one go. The horselords are savage folk, and none would suffer their presence here in Westeros, dragon banners behind them or not. You have nothing to fear as long as they cannot gallop up curtain walls or across the sea. Besides, it's not easy to kill someone protected by a hundred thousand horsemen."

"Bah," Robert spat on the ground, "if only Stannis had caught the dragonspawn instead of dallying."

The gall of his brother to demand Storm's End when he had failed his most important task!

"Stannis is an unmatched at sea," Ned straightened up. "The horselords know nothing of sailing; if they dare cross the Narrow Sea, he'll meet them with blood and steel and feed their bodies to the waves. And those who do manage to go through would face the kingdoms united; few would tolerate slaving savages."

"I would have had the dragonspawn killed long ago if not for Jon Arryn's misplaced mercy," Robert fumed and had to rein in Storm, who began whining nervously. "More fool I for listening to him. And then it was too late when that pox-ridden Pentoshi cheesemonger had them walled up in that manse of his, protected by his pointy-capped eunuchs from every side."

"Jon Arryn was a wise man and a great Hand. He let them go free - and from what little I heard, Viserys managed to piss away almost all of the goodwill his name provided in the Free Cities in less than five years. Never interrupt your opponent when he's trying to make a mistake, Robert - you know this. The khal probably took the girl because she was pretty and cared little for her brother or the fallen House of the Dragon."

Robert exhaled slowly, trying to rein in his temper.

"Fine," the words were spat like a handful of nails as he poked his finger like a spear at the man. "Have it your way - you arrange a suitable gift for this Khal Drogo."

"It shall be done, Your Grace," the Lord of Winterfell bowed deeply.

In the end, it was upon Ned's head as Hand to fight the war should the horselords cross the Narrow Sea anyway. Why would Robert care?

***

18th Day of the 6th Moon

Tyrion Lannister, the Wall

The North went on forever and ever, and Tyrion couldn't help but wonder at the grand size - and emptiness of the land. Rocky hills, rivers, and valleys aplenty, covered by elm, oak, pine, and shrubbery, which stretched in every direction. He could see the northern mountains looming to the west, their peaks still capped with snow. Inns, villages, and holdfasts were rare around the kingsroad even more so than before Winterfell, for few had reason to travel to the Wall, and those who did were on a one-way trip. Tyrion knew his maps better than most, but no piece of parchment could ever bring to life the reality before his eyes.

He and his two men-at-arms had quietly departed along with the king but headed North instead. It was a long, dreary journey, especially since neither Jyck nor Morrec liked to talk much. At least the latter could cook quite well and was a better hunter or a servant than a warrior with his recurve bow.

Despite his uneasy sleep, nothing befell him - there were no brigands, wildlings, or the such, as Jaime had worried when they left. For a short moment, Tyrion hesitated in his choice of destination, but in the end, he did not give up - this was his chance to travel unsupervised, away from the judging gaze of his father, lack of company or not! Besides, Tyrion did vow to piss from the Wall itself, and he'd be damned if he did not.

At least the North seemed safer than anything else, although that could be Jyck and Morrec with their steel or just the golden lion of Lannister warding away any trouble.

Yet, he found himself bored - he had read The Conquest and History of the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall twice each and had no desire for a third reread. Those were all Maester Luwin had deigned to spare from Winterfell's library. Tyrion was forbidden to take the rarer tomes with him - but he did get to read some of them during his stay there. Most of them were focused on the North and House Stark itself - tales, history, and similar fascinating readings. There were even a few ancient leather-bound tomes inked with the runes of the first men that Luwin could barely decipher - it was an old, dead script seldom taught; it was surprising that the Maester knew any at all.

All the reading left him moderately satisfied - his niece was in good hands. Robb Stark was one of the more decent lads out there, capable and courteous, if a bit too much like his father. Which was mayhaps not a bad thing - Catelyn Stark was one of the happiest noblewomen Tyrion had seen.

Thankfully, his dreary journey was finally coming to an end - the enormous Wall was looming above them, shining grey and blue under the sun. His thighs were raw from the riding even with the steady pace, his legs cramped oft, and the cold chilled him to the bone. He'd love to complain - but there was nobody to complain to, as his escort was no better than him, so Tyrion kept quiet.

They had passed Mole's town two hours ago - a pitiful, dilapidated village more than half beneath the ground, connected by underground tunnels and burrows. Now, Castle Black could be seen in the distance, nestled like an ugly gnat beneath the Wall. As they approached, he saw it wasn't much of a castle - only a bleak hodgepodge of stone towers and timber keeps.

There were no curtain walls because the infamous Night King, the thirteenth Lord Commander, supposedly wed a woman of deathly pale skin, called the corpse bride and declared himself king. Once he had been defeated by the unlikely alliance between the Breaker and Joramun, and ever since, the Night's Watch had been forbidden to build walls, and the name of the Lord Commander had been struck from history.

It was an old tale from the Age of Heroes, and Tyrion couldn't help but question it. Why did nobody object when the Night King wed, let alone declare himself king? For thirteen years, he stood unchallenged until his supposed atrocities attracted too many foes. None dared to challenge his marriage or title, it seemed - mayhaps that's what had forced the order to change their vows? Tyrion knew the words well enough.

I shall take no wife, hold no land, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.

An odd phrasing that had inspired Visenya Targaryen to create the kingsguard's vows. Were the vows changed after the Night King?

Did it even matter?

Tyrion had no way of knowing. The First Men scarcely recorded anything and left a few runes carved upon rocks and tales given mouth to mouth for generations for the world to remember them by. The first organised chronicles were inked by the Andal septons millennia later, and he knew how hearsay went from one mouth to the other in a span of a moon, let alone after thousands of years…

They finally approached - there was no gate or wall, just a wooden stair guarded by a lonely tower, its grey stone and dreary like the rest of the cold land.

Yet, the inside was not a half-abandoned ruin full of former criminals who had chosen a penal colony over losing a limb or their life - the yard was swarming with men sparring, and he could see two or three older warriors drilling batches of new recruits with grim vigour. There were a handful of barrels filled with black rock… obsidian? The clanging metal echoed from the smithy as plumes of dark grey smoke escaped its blackened chimney.

His curious gaze counted roughly over two hundred men, drilling hard as if their life depended on it.

Tyrion's arrival elicited a few errant glances.

"Is it me, or is the Watch preparing for war?" He turned to Jyck.

"Seems so. This reminds me of when the Crow's eye burned the Lannister fleet, and Lord Lannister began mustering," the red cloak agreed, with a quiver in his voice.

Gods, was Castle Black going to be under attack? Or mayhaps they were preparing for a great expedition, ready to crush the wildlings once their king was dead?

At that moment, A figure hurried out from one of the timber keeps.

It was Benjen Stark - yet he was different - a wicked scar ran across his temple, from the right side of his temple to the left cheek, barely avoiding his eyes. Instead of his jolly smile, his face had gone grim, although it could be his new scar. There was a dog, no a pitch black direwolf pup, stalking after his footsteps, about as large as one of the Stark children. Were direwolves some common dogs you could pick up now?

"Lord Tyrion, are you or your companions here to take the Black?"

The words were sharp and on point, like most of the Starks.

"And go celibate?" Tyrion tutted. "Oh no, the whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock."

That seemed to darken the scarred man's face even further. Damn those wolves, they were as cold as their land - no sense of humour at all!

"How can the Night's Watch help the Queen's brother?"

Tyrion wrinkled his nose. Indeed, he was nothing more than the imp - the son Tywin Lannister never wanted, and the brother the queen loathed. But it did not make it less true - blood ran thicker than water, and even a tiny lion was still a lion.

"I was hoping that I could climb the Wall and piss from it, my dear good-cousin," he threw the First Ranger a taunting smile, making Benjen sigh tiredly. "Unless you struggle to find a place for someone small like me and my two humble companions? I assure you, we'll cause no trouble here!"

"I suppose we can find a room or two," the man rubbed his brow. "There are no inns here, and if you want a whorehouse, you'd have to visit Mole's town. Lord Tyrion, you couldn't have chosen a worse time to come here, but… I suppose you could still prove useful if the tales of your wit are true. We are hardly in a position to turn away aid even from the most unlikely of places…"

"What ails your ancient order to require the help of the likes of me?" An unbidden snort escaped Tyrion's mouth.

"Old things, dark things stir to Beyond the Wall again," the words were as joyless as the man who spoke them.

Was the man japing? Benjen Stark was looking at him without a hint of deception.

"You're preparing to fight grumkins and snarks?"

"If only, Lord Tryion, if only," Benjen shook his head, his dire face hardening even more. "I suppose you have to see some things to believe them. Come."

Intrigued, he dismounted, handed over the reins to Morrec, and quickly trailed after the First Ranger, his sore, stubby legs struggling to keep up with the tall man's pace.