Game of Thrones: Kill The Boy

A/N: I wonder what comes :o Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did! :)

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Year 300 AC

White Harbor, The North

The Merman's solar reeked of salt and secrets. Wyman Manderly settled his bulk into the whale-bone chair, the ancient seat groaning beneath him like a ship in a storm. Before him, a table laden with lamprey pie, butter-soaked bread, and honeyed ham—props for the performance, though his stomach growled at their proximity.

"You're certain we can trust this room?" Maege Mormont stood rigid beside the hearth, one hand never straying far from her mace. The She-Bear of Bear Island looked ready to fight shadows.

"My great-grandfather had these walls lined with crushed seashells and lead." Wyman tore a piece of bread, savoring the butter's richness on his tongue. "Sound enters but doesn't leave. Even the Spider's little birds can't hear through three feet of the Bite's bounty."

Howland Reed sat motionless in the corner, a ghost wrapped in moss-green wool. The crannogman had arrived through the servants' passages, materializing like mist off the marshes. His grey-green eyes tracked everything, revealing nothing.

"Your son rides for the Wall?" Maege's tone cut sharp as northern steel.

"Wylis departed three days past." Wyman dabbed grease from his chins. "To bring word to Jon Snow of our intentions—and Robb's will."

"King Robb's will." Maege's correction came swift. "The will that names the bastard as heir."

"Only if Bran and Rickon are dead." Wyman allowed himself a small smile. "Which they are not."

The She-Bear's eyes narrowed. "You've had word from Davos?"

"Soon." The word tasted sweeter than honey. "But I know what the onion knight will bring me. The wolf pup lives."

"Then we argue over nothing." Maege began pacing, her boots striking the floor like war drums. "Rickon is the rightful King in the North."

"A boy of six? Who's been living with cannibals and savages?" Wyman reached for the lamprey pie. The buttery crust crumbled perfectly. "The North needs strength, not another child king."

"The North needs a Stark."

"Jon Snow is a Stark. Robb made it so."

"Jon Snow is a turncloak who let wildlings through the Wall!" Maege's voice rose. "How many villages will burn because of his folly?"

Wyman chewed thoughtfully. The lamprey was exquisite—he must remember to compliment the cook. "The boy sees what we refuse to. The true enemy isn't the Free Folk."

"Pretty words won't resurrect the dead when wildling raiders—"

"The dead are already walking." Howland Reed's soft rasp silenced them both. The crannogman hadn't moved, yet suddenly commanded the room. "I've seen them in the green dreams. The Wall weakens. Winter comes."

An uncomfortable silence settled like morning fog. Wyman studied the little lord, searching that ageless face for hints of the boy who'd once been friends with Lyanna Stark. Howland Reed kept his secrets close as his gods.

"There's also the matter of these... dragons." Wyman selected a piece of ham, letting the word hang. "This so called Aegon landing at Storm's End with the Golden Company. The Targaryen girl burning her way through Slaver's Bay."

"Mummer's dragons." Maege spat into the fire. "Storm's End fell to men, not monsters."

"Perhaps." Wyman sucked the honey from his fingers. "But if true dragons have returned..."

"Then the game changes." Howland's eyes flickered to life. "As it changed before, when dragons danced and the realm bled."

They sat with that truth, heavy as armor. Outside, gulls screamed over the harbor. The smell of low tide crept through the shutters—rot and brine and possibility.

"Jon Snow understands duty." Wyman broke the silence. "Whatever else, the boy—"

"Man." Howland corrected quietly. "He's a man grown now. Has been since he took the black."

Something in the crannogman's tone made Wyman pause. Howland Reed sat statue-still, but storms raged behind those fog-colored eyes. The Lord of Greywater Watch was weighing something, measuring words against oaths.

"You know something." Maege had heard it too. "About the bastard."

Howland's fingers tightened on his knees. "We must... we must speak of Jon Snow. The truth of—"

The door burst open. A soldier stood panting, face flushed with excitement and exertion. "My lord! Your ship—the Black Betha—she's entered the harbor!"

Wyman's heart lurched. He pushed himself upright, the chair protesting. "Davos and Marlon?"

"Flying the merman banner, my lord. They'll dock within the hour."

"Prepare my litter." The words tumbled out faster than his usual measured pace. "Have the Merman's Hall readied. Food, wine—the good wine, not the piss we serve the Freys. Clean clothes for... for our guests."

The soldier bowed and vanished. Wyman turned to find Maege and Howland watching him. The She-Bear's hand had found her mace again. The crannogman had retreated deeper into his cloak.

"It seems we'll have our answer about succession soon enough." Wyman couldn't quite hide his grin. "Walk with me to the harbor?"

"We're not finished discussing—" Maege began.

"Later." Howland stood in one fluid motion. "Some truths... some truths must wait for the right moment."

The harbor stank of tar and rotting fish, but Wyman barely noticed. His eyes fixed on the ship sliding between the breakwaters. The Black Betha looked battered, her sails patched, her hull scarred by ice. But she flew the merman proud.

Davos Seaworth stood at the rail, weathered face grim as northern granite. Beside him—

Wyman's knees nearly buckled.

The boy was small for six, wild as a shadowcat. Brown hair fell past his shoulders in savage tangles. His clothes were seal-skin and rough wool, and when he turned, those grey eyes held winter storms. But the face—gods, that long Stark face...

A monster padded behind him. Shaggydog had grown huge, black as midnight and twice as terrible. The wolf's green eyes swept the crowd, lips pulling back from teeth like daggers.

"Lord Manderly." Davos's voice carried across the water. "I've brought what you sent me for."

The gangplank lowered. Rickon Stark set foot on northern soil—truly northern, not that bastard Bolton's perverted version—and Wyman Manderly fell to his knees. Old joints protested, but he knelt in the filthy harbor mud, not caring who saw.

"Your Grace." The words came out choked. "Welcome home."

The boy tilted his head, feral and strange. When he spoke, his voice held echoes of places civilized men feared to tread.

"You're very fat."

Despite everything—the danger, the plotting, the weight of all their desperate schemes—Wyman Manderly laughed. A true laugh, from his enormous belly.

"I am, Your Grace. Very fat indeed."

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Winterfell, The North

The Lord of the Dreadfort's solar reeked of old leather and disappointment. Ramsay Bolton stood before his father's desk, blood still crusted beneath his fingernails from the battle, watching those pale eyes dissect him like a flayed man on the rack.

"You let him escape." Roose's voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it filled the stone chamber like ice water. "Stannis Baratheon lives."

"Wounded." Ramsay's jaw clenched. The arrow had been perfect—he'd seen it punch through mail and leather, seen the false king crumple. "Gut-shot. He'll be dead within days."

"Perhaps." Roose turned a letter between his fingers, the parchment crackling. "Or perhaps his red witch will work her magics. Perhaps he'll recover. Perhaps he'll return with sellswords from across the Narrow Sea." Each 'perhaps' fell like a headsman's axe. "You were to eliminate him entirely."

"I put an arrow through—"

"You failed to confirm the kill." The words slithered out, soft as silk. "A hunter who leaves wounded prey in the woods is no hunter at all."

Ramsay's hands curled into fists. His father sat there, pale as a corpse, judging him. Always judging. As if Roose himself hadn't spent the battle safe behind Winterfell's walls while Ramsay bled in the snow.

"The Freys are dead." He forced his voice level. "Slaughtered to a man. The Manderlys showed their true colors—"

"Expected." Roose set down the letter. "Lord Wyman plays his games, but he's too fat and too clever to move openly. Not yet." Those colorless eyes fixed on Ramsay. "You've given me half a victory. Half may suffice, if Stannis truly dies. If not..."

The threat hung unspoken. Ramsay knew what happened to those who disappointed the Lord of the Dreadfort. He'd helped flay enough of them.

"You may go." Roose returned to his letters. "Send in Steelshanks. We have ravens to dispatch."

Dismissed like a kennel boy. Ramsay's teeth ground together as he bowed—just shallow enough to border on mockery—and strode from the solar. The door slammed behind him hard enough to echo down the corridor.

His boys waited in the courtyard, clustered around a brazier. Damon Dance-for-Me, Yellow Dick, Grunt, Sour Alyn, and the rest. They straightened as he approached, sensing his mood like hounds scenting blood.

"My lord?" Damon ventured. "How did—"

"My father grows old." Ramsay kicked at the brazier, sending sparks spiraling into the grey sky. "Soft. Content to sit and write letters while real men do the bleeding."

Nervous glances flickered between them. Even these hardened killers knew better than to speak openly against Roose Bolton.

"Perhaps..." Sour Alyn licked his lips. "Perhaps it's time for younger blood to rule the Dreadfort."

"Careful." But Ramsay smiled—that special smile that made strong men piss themselves. "Such talk could see you hanging from the walls. Though accidents do happen. Even to cautious old men who think themselves untouchable."

"Aye, my lord." Yellow Dick nodded eagerly. "Terrible accidents. Especially in winter. Ice on the stairs, bad meat in the kitchens..."

"Poison's a woman's weapon." Ramsay spat into the fire. "When I move against—" He stopped. A face in the crowd, unfamiliar. "You. Who are you?"

The man stepped forward, neither young nor old, with a bard's easy grace and clever eyes. He wore Bolton colors, but they sat strange on him, like a costume.

"Abel, my lord." His voice carried a hint of music even in speech. "A singer by trade, but I took up steel for your cause. Killed five of Stannis's men in the battle."

"Five?" Ramsay circled him, nostrils flaring. Something about this Abel... "You don't look like much of a killer."

"Looks deceive, my lord." Abel's smile never wavered. "I find men die easier when they're listening to a pretty song instead of watching their backs."

That drew a laugh from Ramsay. "A killer bard. I like that." He'd always wanted a singer to compose ballads about his deeds. The Bastard of Bolton deserved songs as much as any trueborn lord. "Can you sing of battles? Of hunts?"

"I can sing of whatever my lord desires. I know a thousand songs and can make a thousand more."

"Good." Ramsay clapped him on the shoulder, feeling muscle beneath the cloth. Yes, this one was more than he seemed. "Join us tomorrow at dawn. We're taking the hounds out—there might be Stannis stragglers in the Wolfswood. You can see how the Bastard of Bolton hunts. Maybe make a song of it."

"I'd be honored, my lord."

Ramsay turned back to his men. "Dawn, in the lower field. Bring your sharpest steel and emptiest bellies. We've got work to do." His gaze lingered on the Dreadfort's highest tower, where his father kept his solar. "All kinds of work."

They dispersed into the gathering dusk. Ramsay remained by the dying brazier, watching Abel disappear into the shadows. A useful man, perhaps. Singers heard things, went places fighting men couldn't. And when the time came to move against his father...

Well, every king needed a bard to sing of his ascension.

The wind shifted, bringing the stench of the kennels. His bitches were hungry. They were always hungry. Just like their master.

Soon, he thought. Very soon, the North would learn what happened when you caged a bastard too long. His father, the Starks, Stannis if he still lived—they'd all burn. And this Abel would sing of it while Ramsay ruled from Wintefell.

He smiled into the darkness. Not the practiced smile he showed his father, but the true one. The one that promised pain.

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Gates Of The Moon, The Vale

The solar's air hung thick with the scent of sweetmilk and fever sweat. Sansa watched Robert Arryn shift against his cushions, his thin shoulders hunched beneath layers of fur that did nothing to warm the chill in his bones. The boy's face had taken on a waxy sheen, and his breathing came shallow between words.

"The maester says I should rest." His voice cracked, petulant. "My head hurts."

"I know, sweetling." Sansa kept her tone gentle, though her pulse quickened. This was the opening she'd waited for. "But you're doing so well with your lessons. Just a little longer?"

Robert's mouth twisted, but he nodded. Even ill, he craved her attention like a starving pup.

"Tell me," she said, settling her skirts around her, "what would a lord do if one of his bannermen betrayed him?"

"Have him executed." The answer came quick, rehearsed. "Or send him to the Wall."

"Very good. And what if the betrayal was... subtle? Hidden?"

His brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

Sansa let her fingers tremble as she reached for her cup of watered wine. "I have something to tell you, my lord. About Ser Harrold."

Robert's eyes sharpened despite his illness. "Harry? What about him?"

"He..." She let her voice catch, looked away. "The night before the tourney, he cornered me in the gallery. He said terrible things. Said once you were gone, I'd have no choice but to—" She pressed her lips together, let him fill the silence.

"Gone?" Robert's voice pitched high. "What did he mean, gone?"

"He tried to... to force himself on me. Lord Royce heard my screams and intervened, but Harry said—" She met Robert's gaze, letting tears gather. "He said you wouldn't last the winter. That he'd been waiting long enough."

The boy's face flushed purple. "I should have had him killed! I should have fed him to the Moon Door!" His thin hands clenched the furs. "I knew it. I knew he was just waiting for me to die. They all are. All of them!"

"No, sweetling. Not all." Sansa reached for his hand, felt the bird-bones beneath his skin. "I would never wish you harm. You're my cousin."

"Your—" He blinked. "But you're Alayne. Uncle Petyr's—"

"No." The word dropped between them like a stone into still water. "I have a confession too, my lord. One I've kept to protect you."

His eyes went wide as moons. She could see his pulse fluttering in his throat.

"My name is Sansa Stark."

The silence stretched taut. Robert's mouth worked soundlessly, his gaze darting over her face as if seeing her anew. The auburn roots showing beneath her dye. The Tully blue of her eyes.

"You're... you're the traitor's daughter. The one who killed King Joffrey."

"I didn't kill him." Truth, for once. "But yes, I'm Ned Stark's daughter. Your mother's niece. Your cousin by blood."

"Why?" His voice came out strangled. "Why lie?"

"Because your Lord Protector commanded it." She squeezed his hand gently. "I was brought here against my will, Robert. Petyr told me if I didn't play his bastard daughter, he'd... he'd give me to the Queen. Or worse."

The boy's face crumpled. "Uncle Petyr wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't he?" She let the question hang. "Think, sweetling. Who benefits if you die? Harry's dead now, but who stood to gain from your marriage to me? Who controls your inheritance through me?"

"No." But she heard the doubt creeping in. "Uncle Petyr loves me. He gives me sweets and—"

"Sweets that make you sick." The words slipped out soft as silk. "Have you noticed, my lord? How you always feel worse after the lemoncakes? After the honeyed milk?"

Robert's hand went to his stomach. "The maester says I have a weak constitution."

"Or someone wants you to think you do." She leaned closer, pitched her voice low. "When did the shaking fits start? After your mother died? After Petyr became Lord Protector?"

The boy's breathing quickened. She could see him thinking, remembering. All those nights of sweetsleep. All those days of weakness.

"You're lying." But his voice wavered. "Uncle Petyr wouldn't poison me."

"Then prove me wrong." She pulled back, straightened her spine. "Replace the kitchen staff. Have your food tasted. Refuse the sweetsleep and honeyed milk for a moon's turn. See if you feel better."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I'm wrong, and you may do with me as you wish." She met his gaze steadily. "But if I'm right..."

"If you're right, then Petyr is trying to kill me." The words came out small, broken.

"If I'm right, then we need each other." She touched his cheek gently. "You need someone you can trust. And I need my cousin alive to help me reclaim my home."

Robert stared at her for a long moment. She could see the war in his eyes—the desperate child who wanted to believe his father figure loved him, against the lord who'd always known he was surrounded by grasping hands.

"Fine." He jerked his chin up. "I'll do as you say. New cooks. Food tasters. No more sweetsleep." His eyes hardened. "But if you're lying to me, cousin or not, I'll see you fly."

"I understand."

He slumped back against his cushions, suddenly looking even younger than his years. "Does anyone else know? That you're Sansa Stark?"

Bronze Yohn. Myranda. Mya Stone suspects. But she only shook her head. "Just you, my lord. Our secret."

"Good." He closed his eyes. "I'm tired now. My head..."

"Rest." She rose, smoothed her skirts. "I'll have the maester bring you something for the pain."

"No." His eyes snapped open. "No more medicines. Not until... not until I know."

She nodded, throat tight. As she moved toward the door, his voice stopped her.

"Sansa?"

She turned. He looked so small in that great bed, drowning in furs.

"If Petyr really is... if he's trying to..." He swallowed. "What do we do?"

We survive, she thought. We play the game better than he does.

"We protect each other," she said aloud. "Family. Duty. Honor. The Tully words your mother lived by."

"As High as Honor," he corrected weakly. "Those are the Arryn words."

"Then we'll honor them both."

She left him there, her heart hammering beneath her bodice. The die was cast. Either Robert would grow stronger without Petyr's poisons, or she'd find herself tumbling through the Moon Door.

But she'd learned from the best, hadn't she? Cersei's cruelty. Tyrion's cunning. Petyr's lies.

The game allowed no room for mercy. Not anymore.