On the pale, frozen landscape of the North, a long procession moved south along the King's Road like a winding black python. The wind howled through the skeletal trees, and though the sun hung high in a sky of lake-blue, it offered no warmth.
Eddard Karstark tugged his fur hood low to shield his eyes from the blinding glare of the snow. He patted his mount's neck, soothing the beast as it neighed softly against the biting chill.
Following the wedding, Eddard had wasted no time in departing Winterfell. While Bran had begged him to stay and continue his lessons in kingship, Lady Catelyn, now the Regent of the North had been much less welcoming. She had subtly but firmly issued an "eviction notice," claiming that the presence of sixty thousand Free Folk and two hundred giants was a strain on Winterfell's resources and a danger to its people.
Eddard understood her real motive: she feared his influence over Bran. If Eddard stayed, the Stark family's interests would inevitably become intertwined with Karstark's ambitions.
The journey south was a logistical nightmare. Of the sixty thousand who had crossed the Wall, only about thirty thousand had made the trek to Winterfell. Nearly a thousand had died along the thousand-kilometer march, some from the cold, but many more from Eddard's "justice." Styr, the Thenn Magnar, acted as Eddard's Black Hand, hanging any Free Folk who attempted to plunder the local villages. Along the King's Road, it was common to see frozen bodies swaying from the trees, a grim warning that the "Lord of Thunder" demanded order.
To dissipate the restless energy of the tribes, Eddard had organized the "Karstark Games." Every three days, teams of fifty would compete in mock battles. His own soldiers, clad in plate and carrying kite shields, usually crushed the animal-skin-clad Free Folk.
"I want them to understand that individual bravery is a candle in the wind," Eddard said, putting down his telescope as he stood on a ridge overlooking the column. "Against discipline and steel, it flickers and dies. If they want the steel, they must learn to obey."
Sansa stood beside him, wrapped in a thick velvet coat with a grey direwolf cloak. Her auburn hair was dusted with frost, and her breath formed soft white clouds. "But people are dying every day, Ned," she whispered, her blue eyes full of worry. "Is it truly necessary? Will they not riot like the crowds in King's Landing?"
Eddard took her small, gloved hand. "The Free Folk are not a single people, Sansa. They are dozens of tribes who only agree on one thing: they don't want to be eaten by the dead. Look through the glass."
He pointed to a neat, disciplined team. "Those are the Thenns. They understand law. Now look at those on the dog sleds, the Walrus Men. They are short-tempered and dishonest. Styr has them on half-rations because they tried to steal from the wagons. If they don't learn, I'll destroy them before we reach the Neck. I will not bring a plague of raiders into your kingdom."
Sansa looked at her husband, a blush deepening on her cheeks. Since their wedding night, she had found him to be a man of terrifying efficiency and unexpected tenderness. He treated her with a level of respect she hadn't known was possible for a political bride, even if his teasing often left her flustered.
Five hundred leagues to the south, on the banks of the Trident, another group was moving in the opposite direction.
Tyrion Lannister stepped unsteadily off a flat-bottomed boat, his black cloak dragging in the mud. He looked at the churning water and sighed. "Last time I was here, I was commanding a vanguard against Roose Bolton. Now I'm wearing a boiled leather vest and heading for the Wall. Fate has a wicked sense of humor."
"Fate is a whore, and your sister is her madam," Bronn grumbled, tugging at his own black cloak with visible disgust. The sellsword-turned-knight had lost his castle, his wife, and his future in King's Landing because Shae had named him as an accomplice during the trial. To save his head, Bronn had "voluntarily" joined Tyrion in exile.
"My sister is a lunatic," Tyrion agreed with a wry smile. "But a Lannister always pays his debts, Bronn. I'll get us back to the capital eventually. For now, try to enjoy the scenic route."
"Scenic? It's a swamp of mud and Crows," Bronn spat. He swung into his saddle, riding ahead to scout. He was no longer a mercenary, but he wasn't about to lose his life to a Northern ambush.
As they approached the ruins of Moat Cailin, now reinforced and flying the silver sunburst of House Karstark, the road was blocked by a formidable force. A thousand heavy cavalrymen, their armor glinting with a cold, northern light, stood in a perfect line across the causeway.
Bronn reined in his horse, his eyes widening. "You've got to be joking."
Tyrion rode forward, squinting through the falling snow. At the head of the column stood a man on a massive snow bear, a silver-and-gold crown glinting on his brow.
"It's like seeing a White Walker," Bronn muttered, his hand going instinctively to his sword.
Eddard Karstark watched the small band of black-robed men approach. He recognized the dwarf instantly.
"Lord Tyrion," Eddard's voice boomed across the marsh. "I expected you to be presiding over a feast in the Red Keep, not shivering in a Black cloak at my doorstep. What news from the South? Did my 'Purple' prophecy come true?"
Tyrion managed a pale, weary grin. "It was more violet than purple, Marquis. And it seems my father decided I was best suited for the one place where your influence is strongest. I suppose I should thank you for the 'Lord of Thunder' rumors; the Night's Watch is terrified of you."
Eddard laughed, the sound carried away by the wind. "Come, Tyrion. We have much to discuss before you continue your journey. The Wall is a lonely place, and I find myself in need of a clever tongue."
[System Notification: Narrative Collision: The Exile and the Regent.]
[Strategic Status: Tyrion Lannister entering Karstark custody (Temporary).]
[Reputation with Tyrion: High (Intellectual Respect).]
[Quest Updated: The Northern Gateway.]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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