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Seagard had descended into chaos, its halls echoing with the screams of the wounded and the broken.
The men who were sent to ambush Stark returned not as conquerors, but as shattered remnants, bloodied, limping, some barely clinging to life.
Too few came back, and those who did were a pitiful fraction of the force that had set out, their hollow eyes and ragged breaths speaking louder than any report ever could.
And the man who now held Seagard was anything but pleased with what he heard from one of the broken wretches dragged before him.
Especially as he stormed into the chamber where the witch who had set this disaster in motion awaited him.
"What is the meaning of this!?" Rodrik Greyjoy, heir of the Iron Islands, roared out to the robed woman sitting before him. "You said my men would capture Stark, unseen, and deliver him to me without a whisper of suspicion."
He slammed his fist on the table, shaking it violently as a loud bang echoed through the room, but the woman was unfazed.
"You have lied to me, witch!" Spit flew from his mouth as he glared bloody murder.
Rodrik Greyjoy's voice cracked like a whip through the dimly lit chamber, fury rolling off him in waves thick enough to choke on.
The witch, robed in tattered black, her face hidden beneath a hood woven with silk and bone charms, did not flinch. She sat cross-legged on a low stool, fingers idly tracing runes in a bowl of dark water that reflected nothing but shadows.
"You swore my men would capture Stark!" Rodrik snarled again, stepping closer until the table was the only thing between them. "A clean ambush. A prize for the Drowned God and my father's throne. Instead, they returned as broken dogs, screaming about lightning from a clear sky and a white-armored demon riding with the Baratheon banners!"
The witch finally lifted her gaze; her eyes were milky, almost colorless, yet they seemed to swallow the torchlight rather than reflect it.
"I did not lie, Lord Heir," she said softly, her voice like waves over gravel. "The currents were clear. The Stark would fall. The nets would hold. The Drowned God's favor was promised."
"Then why did my men die screaming?!" Rodrik slammed his fist down again, cracking the wooden table. "They spoke of a man, no, a thing! Dressed in impossible white armor, glowing brighter than any torch, and a crimson cape as red as blood. They said lightning leapt from his sword as if the storm itself obeyed him!"
A faint smile touched the witch's lips as she hummed in thought.
"So the Lion cub has finally shown his claws..."
Rodrik's face twisted with rage at her vague words. "Speak plainly, witch, before I feed you to the crabs."
She leaned forward, the bowl of dark water rippling, though nothing had touched it.
"The Seven touched him in the womb, or so the Greenlanders claim. They say the seven pulled him back from death and poured their power into his eyes, but power like that does not stay quiet. It grows, and it hungers. Now it walks the battlefield wearing steel and a desire for more."
She dipped a finger into the water, causing the surface to shimmer, showing faint, distorted images.
It revealed the armored demon in all his terrible glory; no words from his frightened men had come close to capturing the truth of him. Even so, the sight of him was not what struck deepest.
It was what followed.
With a measured calm, he reached up and removed his helmet, the harsh edge of that monstrous presence softening just enough to show the man beneath.
Divine blue eyes, glowing beautifully with unimaginable power, looked upon the speechless Lord of the North. Then, before all who watched, he stepped forward and clasped Eddard Stark's hand.
Rodrik stared, jaw tight; even the Iron Islands have heard of the Blessed Prince.
"A child did this?" He growled out, glaring at the water.
"He is no child," the witch corrected him harshly, causing him to turn his ire to her. "He is a vessel of the Seven. The gods are using him as their instrument, and if the Seven have truly chosen to walk beside the Baratheons and Lannisters… then the Drowned God grows angry. He demands more blood, more sacrifice, more proof of devotion."
Rodrik's hand tightened on the hilt of his axe until his knuckles turned white.
"So what do I tell my father? That we lost a battle and men to a seven-year-old whelp?"
The witch's smile widened, cold and knowing.
"Tell him the game has changed. The Blessed Prince is no longer a distant tale. He rides to war, and if the Ironborn wish to claim the sea and throne, they must first drown the gods' favorite son."
She leaned back, fingers still swirling in the dark water.
"Or… you could offer the Drowned God something even sweeter than Stark. Something that would make the storm itself sing for you and you alone."
Rodrik's eyes narrowed, his attention fully in her grasp. "Speak."
The witch's voice dropped to a sweet whisper that somehow filled the entire chamber.
"Unleash the Kraken I've given you. Capture him on the black shores of Pyke and let the Drowned God feast upon the power the Seven have poured into his veins. Let the waves swallow his screams and blood. When it is done, neither lightning nor holy light nor any Greenland miracle will avail them. Bring the prince to me alive… and all that you desire shall be yours."
Silence fell, thick and heavy as the Greyjoy pondered the deal offered to him.
Rodrik Greyjoy stared at the witch for a long moment, chest rising and falling with barely contained rage and dark ambition.
Finally, a slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
"The Blessed Prince…" he murmured, rolling the title across his tongue as though savoring it. "Very well."
A crooked smile pulled at his lips, dark amusement flickering in his eyes.
"If the gods so dearly wish their precious chosen upon the battlefield, then we shall give them a war worthy of the cunt!"
His voice dropped, turning sharp as a drawn blade.
"And when the cries drown out their prayers, when the water runs red and the heavens fall silent…"
He exhaled, almost laughing.
"I will tear their favorite toy from their grasp!!!"
He turned on his heel, axe still in hand, voice rising into a shout that echoed down the halls of captured Seagard.
"Prepare the longships! Rally every reaver still breathing! We prepare for battle, and for the boy the Seven dared to bless!"
The sorceress watched the fool march out of the room, his confidence in victory overflowing. She turned her attention to the water still showing the blessed prince and…
Smiled.
_______
So, it turns out the dude who looked exactly like Boromir wasn't Boromir at all, he just happened to look like Boromir, and was in fact Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, his old man's best friend.
…Would've been so much cooler if he were actually Boromir, but Ned was cool too, he supposed.
As for how he was doing after doing his first ever murder, after spilling more blood in a single battle than he ever had in his previous life…
Not too bad!
…Wellllll.
Mostly, because he had taken all the horror, the guilt, the trauma, the trembling realization of what he'd done, and locked it away, buried deep in the darkest corner of his mind.
He was going to deal with all that bullshit after the war, thank you very much!
…Or at least when the screams stopped echoing, and the blood was no longer fresh on his hands…
Ahem! Anyway!
They were currently gathering up all their wounded and securing all the Ironborn that had surrendered as prisoners.
One was the leader of the whole thing, so he definitely was going to be questioned for everything he was worth.
While he was staring a hole at the trembling man kneeling alongside other chained up prisoners.
Ned walked up beside him, armor still spattered with blood, though he had assured his men he was unharmed.
"Thank you, my prince," Ned said gratefully as he bowed. "You saved my life today and the lives of many of my men."
The prince waved a hand dismissively, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"It was my princely duty, Lord Stark. What kind of king would I be if I stood by while my father's bannermen were in danger? The North has always been loyal to the Crown. Today, the Crown simply returned the favor."
Not to mention it was to move his bullshit quest along, but he didn't need to know that part.
Ned's grey eyes softened, visibly moved by the words. In a world where most southern highborn spoke of duty like a bargaining chip, the prince's sincerity struck something deep in him.
Before he could reply, one of the prince's men approached; it was his uncle Jaime who decided to ride alongside him instead of staying behind to protect the king.
He was a King's guard and would probably get in trouble if it were any other king, but his dad didn't give a shit about that stuff.
"My prince, the wounded have all been gathered. We lost none of our men, but forty-seven are wounded, most of them gravely."
His uncle somberly informed, his usual attitude gone for the moment.
"We are still counting Lord Stark's men as the Ironborn hit Lord Stark the hardest in the ambush, but the numbers have far surpassed ours. If we don't get a Maester to them soon, the injured won't make it past the hour."
Both the prince and lord frowned at the numbers when they heard the majority of the fallen and injured were Northerners.
"If only I had seen them earlier, I could've gotten here sooner!" He clenched his armored fist, "Can I do anything to help them? Fuck! If only I…"
Ned's jaw tightened, the weight of responsibility and the lives of his men settling heavily on his shoulders.
The prince was quiet for a moment, then something sparked in his divine eyes.
"My prince?" Jaime asked, being the only one who noticed the sudden spark.
Without a word, he strode toward the center of the clearing where the injured had been laid out on cloaks and blankets. His armor began to glow with a soft, radiant holy light that pushed back the gathering dusk.
Every eye turned to him at the imposing sight: his own men, Ned's battered Northerners, even the chained Ironborn prisoners.
They watched in stunned silence as they felt the light carried a warmth that seemed to sink into the bones of the wounded, already easing the pain.
"Alright, let's see if this works." The prince raised his hand and channeled the flakes that were stored in his armor.
A brilliant blast of holy light shot upward, then burst apart high above them like a silent explosion of stars. Millions of glowing flakes drifted down gently, each one shimmering like snow blessed by divine light.
"By the gods!" a soldier gasped, clutching his shattered arm as he stared up at the sky, his voice trembling with disbelief.
"T-The pain, it's…" He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening. "It's gone."
Nearby, another soldier who should have been beyond saving, his leg torn away, his jaw broken and bloodied, let out a ragged, disbelieving sound.
"I… I can't feel it," he slurred, awe breaking through the ruin of his voice. "It doesn't hurt… it doesn't hurt anymore."
As they touched the injured, a profound sense of peace washed over them, warm, pure, like a mother's unconditional love.
Ned Stark watched with wide eyes the miracle happening before him.
Wounds that should have killed men slowly or left them crippled for life began to close.
Gashes knitted together, broken bones mended, old wounds healed, and even limbs were regained.
One man, a grizzled Northerner who had lost his hand in the fighting, stared in disbelief as his severed stump regenerated fully, fingers flexing as if they had never been gone.
"Holy shit, that is freaky." Especially for him, seeing as he could see things in extreme detail with the Six eyes.
A stunned silence fell as the light show slowly dimmed to nothing… then it shattered.
The healed men rose, some weeping openly, others shouting in pure joy, while most thanked the prince and the gods.
They bowed low to him at first, but excitement quickly overtook reverence. In a surge of gratitude, they surrounded the prince, lifting him onto their shoulders as if he weighed nothing.
"W-Whoa!" He tensed at first, but the aura around them was not at all malicious; they were actually blindingly positive in fact.
"Seven bless the prince!"
"The gods sent him to us as a gift!"
"He gave me back my hand, my fucking hand!"
They tossed him into the air, cheering wildly. The prince couldn't help but laugh despite himself, getting almost high on all the positive emotions, the sound bright and surprisingly young amid the carnage.
"Never experienced this before! I've only ever seen it happen in movies, but this is fun!" He couldn't help but think to himself as he was once again tossed into the air.
Ned stepped forward, instinctively to intervene. While he trusted his men with his life, he couldn't trust them not to cause an incident, but Jaime Lannister caught his arm.
"Let them," Jaime said quietly, a rare softness in his voice as he watched the celebration. "The prince needs this. He took his first life today, and you know what that weight feels like."
Ned paused as he heard the Lannister's words, understanding dawning in his eyes.
He remembered his own first kill all too well, the shaking hands, the nightmares that followed. He nodded once and stepped back.
They watched as the prince was thrown up again, laughing freely now, the earlier tension bleeding out of him with every cheer.
The celebration was cut short by the distant thunder of hooves, however.
The crowd of northern soldiers set the prince down and surrounded him protectively. Hands flew to weapons, bodies tensing for another fight, and to protect the prince with their lives. That is, until the prince called out calmly inside the protective circle.
"Easy!" He shouted while making his way out, much to the northern men's reluctance. "It's just my father!"
Jaime, hearing this, quickly made himself scarce.
The men exchanged confused glances. How could he possibly know it was the King instead of an enemy?
But moments later, Robert Baratheon burst into the clearing at the head of a small army, his warhammer crackling with faint arcs of lightning.
"Where are they!? Where are the squid cunts!?" The king roared out, his voice like thunder.
His face was a storm cloud of fury… until his eyes landed on his son and Ned, both alive and seemingly unharmed.
The king swung off his horse and strode forward, pulling his son into a bone-crushing hug that lifted the prince clear off the ground.
"O-Ow."
"You stupid, reckless boy!" Robert growled, voice thick with relief and anger. "Rushing ahead without me! I ought to tan your hide!"
"Sorry, Father," the prince mumbled, blushing red when he heard the men around them chuckle at the sight.
Ned stepped forward, already bowing, "My king, your son is truly a h-"
He thought his dad was going to release him when he loosened his grip, only to drag Ned into the same fierce embrace, squeezing both of them together.
The prince and the Lord of Winterfell exchanged an awkward glance over Robert's shoulder.
The prince offered a sheepish smile while Ned simply sighed and hugged his old friend back, knowing better than to deny his friend a hug, especially now that he was a king.
Robert finally released them both, though not without one last rough squeeze that made the prince and lord wince.
"Gods," the king muttered, dragging a hand through his beard as he looked around at the healed men, the kneeling prisoners, the aftermath of what should have been a massacre. "Every time I think I've seen everything, you go and prove me wrong, son."
The prince rubbed the back of his neck, trying and failing to look modest. "Just doing my part."
Robert snorted, though there was something softer beneath it; it was pride.
"Aye," he said gruffly. "Remind me to never play dice with the gods again. They've clearly favored me enough."
Ned stepped back into place at the king's side, his expression composed once more, though his eyes lingered on the prince for a moment longer.
"Your Grace," he said, voice steady once more. "The Ironborn who led the ambush have been taken alive."
That pulled Robert's attention like a blade drawn from its sheath.
"Have they now?" The king's smile was not kind.
Not. At. All.
Across the clearing, the bound man trembled under the sudden weight of that gaze.
Robert studied him for a long, silent moment, then snorted.
"We'll see how long it takes before the fucker sings for us!"
He turned away as if the man had already ceased to matter.
"Keep him alive," Robert ordered the guard standing nearby. "For now."
Silence lingered in the aftermath, neither man speaking as they waited for Robert.
Then Robert exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off the tension, and turned back toward Ned.
"Seven hells, Ned," he said, voice still rough but lighter now. "You always did have a knack for finding trouble."
Ned huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"And you always had a knack for arriving just after it was handled." He responded in kind.
Robert barked out a laugh at that, loud and genuine.
"Aye! Because you keep stealing all the glory!" he shot back, clapping a heavy hand against Ned's shoulder.
"Gods, look at us," Robert muttered, lost in memories of old times. "Reunited on a battlefield. Just like old times."
The prince raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. He knew his father was close with the lord of the North, but he didn't expect them to be this close.
"…Feels like I'm interrupting a moment between two war veterans." Should he leave? He should leave right?
Robert suddenly seemed to remember he wasn't alone.
"Oh, right!" he said, turning fully toward him. "Can't have you two standing here like strangers."
He grabbed the prince by the shoulder and practically dragged him forward, planting him beside Ned with all the subtlety of a charging warhorse.
"Ned," Robert began, voice thick with unmistakable pride, "this is my son, my heir, and the future king of the seven kingdoms!"
Ned smiled before respectfully bowing. "It's an honor to meet you…?"
…
…
…
Oh right! He forgot to introduce himself.
The prince straightened slightly, instinctively slipping into something a bit more princely.
"It's an honor to meet you, Lord Stark, my name is…"