Redemption of the Dragon

Act 1 – Survival · Chapter 4: The Young Wolf

They took the weapons first.

Tom had expected that. A man with any wit did not lead strangers into camp armed, especially strangers wearing a dead battle's leavings. The Stark captain had their axes, knives, spears, bows, and stolen swords gathered beneath the watch of six archers. Even Ronnel of Flint's Finger gave up his shield, though he did so with the expression of a man surrendering a favorite dog to a butcher.

Tor was the last.

He held his sword a heartbeat too long.

Jory looked at him.

Tor sighed and passed it over hilt-first. "If that gets scratched, I'll be deeply wounded."

The Stark man who took it glanced at the cut across Tor's cheek, the dried blood on his mail, and the mud crusting him from boot to brow. "You already are."

"Aye, but not deeply."

No one laughed.

The captain gave Tom a look that suggested he would have preferred silence, obedience, and perhaps a different war. He was a hard-faced man called Harwyn Tallhart, kin to the Tallharts of Torrhen's Square by some branch or another. He had told them that much after Tom named himself. Not warmly, but not with a sword at his throat either.

That seemed a kind of progress.

Benjen Holt was buried before they marched.

Tom insisted on it. Harwyn objected first, saying dawn would do, but Jory only picked up a shovel from one of the Stark men and began cutting into the earth. After that, no one argued. The ground was wet and mean, as it always seemed to be in the Riverlands, and the grave came shallow despite their efforts.

Ben was wrapped in his own cloak.

Willam said words. Not many. His voice broke on the last of them, and he turned away before anyone could see his face too clearly. Tor placed one of the little oatcakes beside Ben's hand before the cloak was closed.

"What in the cold hell is that for?" Osric asked.

Tor shrugged. "He liked goats. Goats like oats. I'm no septon, but it seems near enough."

Jory gave him a long look.

This time, no one stopped the almost-smile that passed over Tom's face.

When it was done, they were marched west under guard.

Not as prisoners, Harwyn said.

"Then what are we?" Donnel Hill asked.

"Men I don't trust yet."

Donnel spat into the grass. "That's honest, at least."

The Stark camp lay beyond two low ridges and a belt of ash trees, spread along the river road in a disciplined sprawl of tents, cookfires, horse lines, wagons, and banners. Tom saw the direwolf first, grey on white, snapping in a cold wind. Then the other sigils. The giant of Umber. The sunburst of Karstark. Hornwood, Mormont, Glover, Tallhart. A dozen others he knew only from shields glimpsed at Ironrath or tales told at harvest.

The North had come south and made a hard, muddy town of war.

Men turned to look as Tom's company passed. Some saw the guards and assumed prisoners. Others saw their faces and wounds and looked longer. A few muttered at Donnel's westerman features. One man called him lion's get under his breath.

Donnel heard. He always seemed to hear.

Tor heard too and took one step toward the voice before Jory caught his sleeve.

"Later," Jory said.

"There's a later?"

"If you keep walking."

They were brought to a larger tent near the center of camp. Not grand, not like the silk pavilions singers gave southron lords, but large enough for a council. Guards stood outside it with spears crossed. A direwolf banner hung above the entrance, stirring in the wind.

Tom's mouth had gone dry.

He had seen Robb Stark from afar at the start of the march south. A young lord on horseback, solemn and fine, with a direwolf beside him and an army at his back. Tom had followed him then because the Forresters followed him, and because the North followed Winterfell, and because war had seemed a road chosen by men greater than himself.

Now that road had led here.

Harwyn entered first. Voices within quieted. A moment later he emerged and jerked his chin.

"Tom of Forrester lands. The rest wait."

Tor opened his mouth.

Jory closed it with an elbow.

Tom stepped inside.

The tent smelled of wet wool, smoke, leather, and river mud. A long table had been set on trestles, with maps weighted by knives and cups. Candles burned low in iron holders. Around the table stood men and women whose names had lived larger than their faces in Tom's mind.

Greatjon Umber towered near the far side, broad as a door and bearded like a winter forest. Lord Karstark stood gaunt and grey beside him, stern eyes set deep beneath heavy brows. Maege Mormont wore mail under a rough cloak and looked as though she had been born disappointed in fools. There were Glovers, Tallharts, men Tom did not know, and one pale lord with strange, watchful eyes who seemed to take the measure of every breath in the room.

At the head of the table stood Robb Stark.

He was younger than Tom expected.

That was foolish. Everyone knew he was young. But knowing a thing and seeing it were different matters. Robb Stark had a boy's face trying to become a man's, auburn hair damp from rain, and eyes that had already learned to sleep less than they should. Grey Wind lay behind him, huge and silent, his yellow eyes fixed on Tom.

Tom remembered, suddenly and sharply, that wolves did not need swords.

Harwyn bowed his head. "My lord. This is the one who spoke for them."

Robb studied Tom. "Your name?"

"Tom, milord."

"Tom what?"

The old question. The smallfolk question. The one that asked whether a man belonged to a house, a field, a father, a trade, or nothing worth recording.

Tom swallowed. "Just Tom, milord. From Forrester lands, near the Wolfswood."

The pale lord spoke. His voice was soft enough that everyone had to listen. "A convenient place to claim. Far enough that few here could deny it."

Tom looked at him. "Aye, milord."

One of the Glovers frowned. "You admit that?"

"I admit it would be convenient. It also happens to be true."

Greatjon Umber barked a laugh. "Ha! The lad has teeth, this one."

Robb did not laugh. "Harwyn says you were found in the dark fighting Lannister scouts."

"Yes, milord."

"After wandering for days in mixed armor, carrying stolen weapons, with a westerman among you."

Donnel, Tom thought. He forced himself not to glance back toward the tent flap.

"Yes, milord."

Lord Karstark's mouth tightened. "A thin tale if you mean to live by it."

"It is a poorer one to have lived through, milord."

Silence followed.

Robb's eyes sharpened, not in anger. In interest.

"Tell it, then," he said. "From the beginning."

So Tom did.

He told them of the Green Fork.

The words came stiffly at first. The battle was easier to remember in flashes than in order: rain, mud, shouting, the shield wall, the yellow cloaks, the first man he killed. He told them how the North had held while Tywin Lannister pressed them. He told them of Gregor Clegane smashing into the line like some mailed horror from an old tale, of men breaking around him, of Tom striking him once and being struck down for it.

He did not make himself brave.

That mattered to him.

"I thought I was dead," Tom said. "When I woke, I wished I had been, for a little while."

Maege Mormont's face changed slightly at that. Not softening. Respect, perhaps. Or recognition.

Tom told them of the widow's hovel and the wounded men. Of learning that the Green Fork was lost, but Riverrun won. Of Robb's victory over Jaime Lannister. At that, men around the table glanced toward their young lord with pride they tried poorly to hide.

Tom told them of the road west. The burned fields. The hanging septon. The bandits at the fork, wearing lions and wolves and whatever dead men had no more use for. Hullen and Edric. Their graves beneath the ash tree.

He told them of the wagon and the fallen wall, though he felt foolish doing so before lords with maps full of castles and rivers and armies.

Greatjon listened with his arms crossed.

Maege listened without blinking.

The pale lord listened like a knife in a sleeve.

When Tom spoke of Benjen Holt dying in the meadow, Willam saying his name again and again, and Stark arrows falling on Lannister scouts from the west, Harwyn Tallhart stepped forward.

"That much is witnessed," Harwyn said. "They were in the fight when we reached them. The lions were scouts, no question. Their captain carried notes. Counts of fires, horse lines, banner placements. They were watching us."

Robb looked back to Tom. "And this westerman?"

"Donnel Hill," Tom said. "Born west, yes. Branded by a Lannister man and fled north. Worked timber near Ironrath. He has killed lions beside us and taken wounds for it."

Lord Karstark snorted. "A branded man and a bastard. Fine surety indeed."

"Men do not choose the names they are born with," Tom said before he could stop himself.

The room went colder.

Robb's eyes flicked to him.

Tom bowed his head. "Forgive me, milord."

"No," Robb said quietly. "Finish the thought."

Tom felt the weight of every lord in the tent.

He thought of Donnel refusing honey so Willam could have it. Of the arrow in his side. Of the way men looked at him for being born on the wrong side of a line drawn by lords.

He lifted his head.

"Donnel chose where to stand," Tom said. "That should count for more."

For a moment, even Greatjon was quiet.

Then a voice came from the tent entrance.

"It does."

Tom turned.

Rodrik Forrester stood beneath the flap, rain dark on his cloak, one hand resting near the pommel of his sword. He looked harder than Tom remembered, leaner, with a fresh weariness around the eyes. But it was him. Rodrik, who had once watched him in Ironrath's yard and seen more than a big lad with a borrowed blade. Rodrik, who had known his name when many highborn men would not have troubled to learn it.

"My lord Stark," Rodrik said, bowing. "Forgive the interruption."

Robb's posture eased a fraction. "Rodrik. You know this man?"

"Aye." Rodrik's gaze found Tom's, and something like surprise moved through it. "I know this man."

Tom bowed his head. "Milord."

"Tom," Rodrik said. "Last I heard, you had marched to the Green Fork."

"I did."

"So I gather."

Greatjon rumbled, "Then speak for him, Forrester. Is he yours?"

Rodrik looked at Tom a long moment before answering.

"He is one of ours," he said. "I knew him before the war, and I know the men of my house and holdings. I will not pretend I expected to find him standing here after the Green Fork, but if Tom says these men bled there and fought their way back to Lord Stark, then I believe him."

The pale lord tilted his head. "Belief is a generous thing."

Rodrik's eyes moved to him. "So is suspicion, Lord Bolton, when carried too far."

Tom learned the pale lord's name then.

Bolton.

He tucked it away.

Robb looked from Rodrik to Tom. Then he stepped around the table and came closer. Grey Wind rose behind him, padding forward with dreadful silence.

Tom held still.

The direwolf sniffed him.

Tom smelled blood, wet fur, and something wild beneath both. Grey Wind's head came nearly to his chest. Those yellow eyes seemed to look through cloth and skin and lies. Tom did not know what the beast found. Only that, after a moment, Grey Wind turned away and went back to Robb's side.

Greatjon grinned. "Well, if the wolf doesn't eat him, that's near a knighting."

Robb ignored him, though one corner of his mouth threatened rebellion.

"You brought twelve men through a battlefield, wounded country, outlaws, and enemy scouts," Robb said.

"Thirteen, milord," Tom said. "Benjen Holt died last night."

Robb nodded once. "Thirteen, then. And more before him."

"Hullen and Edric at the fork."

"Names matter," Robb said.

Tom looked at him.

The Young Wolf looked younger, then. And older. Both at once.

"Yes, milord," Tom said.

Maege Mormont slapped one hand flat on the table. "The lad has done well."

"Aye," said Greatjon. "Better than many men with prettier cloaks."

Lord Karstark grunted. "Stubborn, if he is nothing else."

"Stubbornness keeps men alive in the North," Rodrik said.

"And loyalty?" Robb asked.

Rodrik looked at Tom, and this time pride showed plain enough that Tom had to look down.

"Loyalty brought him here."

Robb turned toward the tent flap. "Bring his men in."

Harwyn hesitated only a moment before obeying.

They entered under guard, one by one. Jory first, calm and watchful. Tor next, trying badly to look respectful. Willam pale and muddy. Cley squinting as though the candlelight offended him. Pate with his maimed hand held close. Eddyn straight-backed as if still at Moat Cailin. Ronnel of Flint's Finger broad and heavy-browed. Osric Snow silent. Mikken Slate with mud on his boots and no apology for it. Garrel Reed smiling like he had found the room's exits already. Donnel Hill last, jaw set for insult.

The lords looked them over.

The men looked back.

Tom saw them as the council must: ragged, wounded, poorly armed, wearing mismatched pieces of half the war. But he also saw the road in them. The graves dug. The wall raised. The bandits faced. The arrows survived. The dead carried as far as they could be carried.

Robb seemed to see at least some of it too.

"You have done the North honor," he said.

The words struck harder than Tom expected.

Tor stopped fidgeting.

Willam blinked fast.

Donnel Hill stared as if he did not trust praise unless it came armed.

Robb continued, "Battle left you behind, but you did not leave the war. You protected the smallfolk when you could have passed them by. You fought outlaws when you could have hidden. You faced Lannister scouts in the dark and held long enough for my men to reach you."

Greatjon Umber looked the company over with open approval. "There is meat left on those bones."

"Some," Jory said.

The Greatjon laughed, loud enough to shake candle flame. "Oh, I like that one."

Robb returned to the map table. "We have had reports from the east. Raventree Hall is pressed hard. Lannister men and their friends have been choking the roads, taking stores, seizing smallfolk, testing the walls. Lord Blackwood has sent for aid twice."

At the name Raventree Hall, several lords leaned closer.

Robb placed a finger on the map. "We cannot let the Lannisters hold the river roads uncontested. If they make the countryside afraid to move, our own victories grow thin."

"Give me men," Greatjon said at once.

Robb looked up.

The Greatjon's beard split in a grin. "You were going to. I'm saving you the trouble of asking."

That did make Robb smile.

"A force, then," Robb said. "Fast enough to move before word spreads, hard enough to break whatever lions have settled there. Take Umber men, Tallharts, and a screen of outriders. Clear the roads around Raventree and remind the riverlords that the North has not forgotten them."

"Aye," Greatjon said. "Gladly."

Then his eyes shifted to Tom.

"These ones should come."

Tom went still.

Rodrik's expression sharpened. Robb's did too.

"They have only just returned," Rodrik said.

"And they know the roads are rotten," Greatjon replied. "They know what the smallfolk are facing because they've been sleeping in it. They've fought the kind of filth we'll be rooting out. Better yet, they're too stubborn to die when told."

Tor's mouth twitched.

Greatjon pointed at him. "That one especially."

Tor straightened. "My lord has a keen eye."

Jory closed his eyes briefly.

Robb looked to Tom. "Can your men march?"

The honest answer was no.

The useful answer was yes.

Tom chose something between.

"Not quickly, milord. Not pretty. But we can march."

Robb nodded. "And fight?"

Tom thought of Ben. Hullen. Edric. He thought of Willam's shaking hand, Donnel's arrow wound, his own ribs grinding with every hard breath.

Then he thought of the old woman who told him to tell Stark the Riverlands still had folk in it.

"Yes," Tom said. "If needed."

"It will be," Greatjon said cheerfully.

Robb considered the men for a long moment. "Then you'll go with Lord Umber. Under his command. You'll be fed, armed properly, and given a night's rest first."

"A night?" Tor said before he could stop himself.

Every lord in the tent turned.

Tor bowed in a way that suggested he had only heard of bowing from an unreliable source. "Only meant to say, my lord, that sounds finer than I expected."

Robb's smile came then, brief but real. "Try not to waste it."

"No, my lord."

Rodrik stepped close to Tom as the council turned back toward maps and orders. His voice lowered.

"You look terrible."

Tom glanced down at himself. "Aye, milord."

"Good. That means you're alive."

Tom did not know what to say to that.

Rodrik's gaze moved to the men behind him. "You led them?"

"I walked first sometimes."

"That is not what I asked."

Tom swallowed. "Aye. I suppose I did."

"You suppose?"

"I gave orders. Men died."

Rodrik's face sobered. "Men die when orders are good as well as when they are poor. The question is whether the order was worth the price."

Tom looked over his shoulder.

Jory stood beside Tor, who was whispering something that made Willam stare at him in horror. Pate flexed his maimed hand. Eddyn watched the council map with the eyes of a man measuring causeways. Donnel Hill stood alone until Ron clapped one heavy hand on his shoulder and nearly drove him to his knees.

"They followed me," Tom said quietly.

Rodrik heard what lay beneath it.

"Aye," he said. "And they are still following."

"That frightens me."

"It should."

Tom looked at him then.

Rodrik's pride was not soft. It did not coddle or excuse. It stood straight-backed, like he did, and expected a man to meet it honestly.

"You have grown," Rodrik said. "I saw a strong boy in Ironrath's yard. I see something else now."

"What?"

"A man others trust when the dark fills with arrows."

Tom felt his throat tighten and hated himself for it.

"Milord-"

"Do not polish it," Rodrik said. "Just carry it well."

Outside, the camp moved around them. Men shouted for horses. Armor was fetched. Fires were kicked low. Somewhere, Grey Wind howled, and other wolves answered from the dark beyond the tents.

Tom turned toward the sound.

The road had brought them to wolves.

Now the wolves were sending them back into the teeth of war.

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Disclaimer: Frostfyre is a non-commercial fan fiction project inspired by a Realm of Thrones campaign for Mount & Blade II: Bannerlord and set in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. All rights to those original settings and characters remain with their respective owners.