Game of Thrones(ASOIAF): The Sorcerer Prince

Disclaimer:

Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM

I own nothing but the original characters I make.

”Dialogue”

’Thoughts’

-Author notes-

Chapter 82: The Night of the Living Dead

The godswood of Winterfell was dark...the moonlight struggling to pierce the ancient oaks and sentinel pines.

Robb Stark sat on a moss-covered stone near the great weirwood, his sword resting across his knees. He had been polishing it for the better part of an hour, running the oiled cloth along the silver steel, feeling its weight in his hands.

It was a ritual. Something his father did when his thoughts were troubled.

And Robb’s thoughts were troubled indeed.

Another letter from King’s Landing had arrived three days past, bearing news of continued turmoil in the south. The Lannisters held the Iron Throne, but barely. The North had remained neutral, as his father had commanded. But for how long? Winter was coming. The granaries were full, but the men were restless.

His grandfather, Hoster Tully, had recently passed away, and his mother had wanted to travel south to attend the funeral. But his father had forbidden it. The crown was still at war with itself, and the roads were not safe.

The situation in the Riverlands was incredibly tense. Hoster Tully had refused to bend the knee to Regent Queen Cersei and King Loras. Robb knew his grandfather had done so only because of his father’s decision to remain neutral.

’What is father thinking?’ Robb wondered. ’Is he truly going to wait until Joffrey returns before making a decision? That could take years.’

He shook his head.

They received occasional news from the east...tales of the Sorcerer Prince, as they called him now. Joffrey’s use of the magical arts was hardly a secret anymore.

There were all sorts of wild rumors about him, like that he consorted with demons or that he sacrificed a virgin every week to maintain his power.

Robb tried to keep the nastiest rumors away from Tommen and Myrcella’s ears, but they would sometimes hear things and ask questions no one wanted to answer.

He shook his head and returned to the task at hand...cleaning his sword.

His father had ridden north, to the Wall, to investigate the death of the Night’s Watch commander and to learn more about the disappearance of Uncle Benjen.

’He should have taken me,’ Robb thought, not for the first time. ’I am his heir. I am a man grown. And he took Bran instead.’

But his father had left him behind to rule in his stead. To keep the North safe. To protect their bannermen and their lands. It was a heavy responsibility, and Robb felt its weight pressing down on his shoulders.

He was so lost in thought that he did not hear the footsteps until they were nearly upon him.

”Robb.” Maester Luwin’s voice was urgent, trembling. ”A raven has come. From your father.”

Robb rose, sheathing his longsword. ”What news?”

Maester Luwin looked very pale. His chain clinked as he handed over the parchment. ”Read it yourself, my lord. It was addressed to you, so I did not open it.”

Robb took the letter, breaking the Stark seal with his thumb. His father’s handwriting was hasty, the words pressed hard into the page.

”Robb, call the banners. A wildling host marches on the Wall. A hundred thousand strong, led by Mance Rayder. The Night’s Watch cannot hold alone. March north with all haste. Bring every sword you can spare. Winter is coming, and the Wall must stand.”

Robb’s blood ran cold. ”A hundred thousand wildlings?”

”Your father would not exaggerate,” Luwin said. ”If Mance Rayder has gathered such a host...”

”Then the entire North is in danger. Not just the Night’s Watch.” Robb folded the letter and tucked it into his belt. ”We must call the banners. Every house, every clan. We must march north immediately.”

”My lord, the men will need time to gather. A fortnight at least—”

”We do not have a fortnight.” Robb’s voice was hard. ”Send the ravens immediately. The mountain clans, the Umbers, the Karstarks, the Manderlys. Tell them to march to Winterfell with all haste. Tell them—”

A scream cut through the night.

It came from the direction of the courtyard. It was high and shrill, a woman’s voice cut short. Then another scream, and another. The clash of steel. Men shouting, followed by sounds of fighting.

Robb’s hand went to his sword. ”What in the seven hells—”

Grey Wind, his direwolf, who had been resting nearby, began to growl.

The grey beast stared toward the crypts, his hackles raised, his teeth bared. A low, rumbling snarl escaped his throat.

”Grey Wind?” Robb took a step toward the wolf. ”What is it?”

The direwolf did not answer. He only growled louder, and then he bolted toward the yard, his grey form disappearing into the darkness.

Robb and Luwin exchanged a glance, then ran after him.

The courtyard of Winterfell was in chaos.

Men in Stark colors...guards, servants, cooks, fled in every direction, their faces pale with terror.

Torches lay scattered on the ground, their flames guttering in the snow.

And emerging from the crypts, the source of the panic, came strange figures wearing ragged clothes and rusted armor.

They moved in a strange...almost inhuman manner. Their eyes glowed blue, like sapphires burning with a cold fire.

Robb stopped at the edge of the yard, his breath catching in his throat.

The figures that shambled toward the living wore the armor of ages past, of bronze, iron, and rusted steel, the sigils of House Stark crudely etched into their breastplates. Their faces were grey and withered, their eyes empty sockets that somehow held that pale blue glow.

They moved with a terrible purpose, hands reaching, fingers grasping at anything close by.

Those who held swords used them. Those who did not would bite and claw at the flesh of their victims.

”Gods be good,” Luwin breathed. ”Those are the old lords of this castle. The Kings of Winter. They have risen from their tombs.”

One of the creatures lunged at a guard. The man’s sword passed through its chest without effect. The dead thing grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet, grey fingers crushing his windpipe.

”Cut off their heads!” Robb shouted, drawing his own blade. ”Cut off their heads!”

He ran toward the nearest wight, a tall figure in ancient armor who had once been a Stark of old. The creature turned, its blue eyes fixed on his, and Robb swung his sword in a wide arc. The sharp blade took the thing across the neck, and the head flew from its shoulders, bouncing once on the frozen ground before rolling to a stop.

The body crumpled. The blue light in its eyes went out.

”Robb! There are too many!” Luwin shouted, retreating toward the keep. ”We must get away from the crypts!”

Robb did not wait. He cut his way through the courtyard, slashing at necks, severing heads, leaving a trail of fallen wights behind him. His arm ached, and his lungs burned, but he could not stop.

And then he saw her.

She emerged from the crypts like a ghost from a nightmare. A woman, tall and beautiful, with long silver hair that flowed like water and piercing blue eyes. She wore an elegant black dress embroidered with the direwolf of Winterfell, and a crown rested on her brow. Her face was pale as milk, her lips blood red, and her eyes burned with a cold fire that was both terrifying and alluring.

Behind her came a man, taller than any living Stark, his beard grey with age, his crown of bronze and iron still on his brow. The ancient King of Winter. His eyes were the same cold blue, and in his hand he carried a greatsword of rusted steel.

”The Corpse Queen,” Maester Luwin muttered, horror in his eyes. ”I thought it was a legend. She was truly resting in the crypts?”

Robb had heard the stories as a child...tales of the ancient Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, who declared himself King, and his corpse queen...he was supposed to have been killed by Brandon the Breaker, King of the North. He always thought the corpse queen was nothing but a myth. Stories to frighten children.

He had been wrong.

The Corpse Queen raised her hand. The wights surged forward with renewed fury. The ancient Lord Commander stepped toward Robb, his greatsword raised.

The queen moved toward the maester.

”Luwin!” Robb started toward him, but Luwin shouted, ”No, Robb! Run!”

Robb raised his blade just in time to meet the rusted sword of the old commander. The force of the blow sent him tumbling across the yard, his steel screaming in protest. He managed to keep his grip on the blade, but his shoulder blazed with pain.

He looked up just in time to see the Corpse Queen grab Maester Luwin by the neck. She lifted the old man off his feet with one hand. A loud snap echoed across the yard.

”NO!” Robb struggled to his feet.

The old Lord Commander walked calmly toward him, rusted sword in hand.

Robb raised his blade, ready to meet the monster once more—when a familiar voice called from behind.

”Robb! To the great hall! Now!”

It was his mother. Catelyn stood in the doorway of the keep, her face pale, a dagger in her hand. Behind her, he could see his siblings...Sansa, Arya, and Rickon.

Robb did not hesitate. He turned and ran. He could not save Maester Luwin, but he would not let these creatures kill his family.

The great hall of Winterfell became a refuge. The doors were barred, the windows shuttered, and the surviving guards stood with their swords drawn, their faces masks of fear and determination.

Catelyn moved among them, giving instructions with a steady voice. She had taken charge when the attack began, directing the defenders, organizing the retreat. Now she stood by the hearth, her eyes fixed on the barred doors.

”How many did we lose?” Robb asked, his chest heaving.

”Too many,” his mother said. ”Ser Rodrik is dead. Mikken fell in the yard, protecting Arya.”

”And Maester Luwin as well.” Robb’s fists clenched. Those men had been with his father for years. Now they were gone.

He looked across the hall and saw the two Baratheon children, Tommen and Myrcella, sitting together on a bench, holding hands.

”We are all safe for now.” Catelyn glanced at her children. Sansa had her arms around Rickon, her face white as snow. Arya had her sword drawn, her grey eyes fixed on the gates.

”Arya, put that sword away,” Robb said. ”You will not be fighting those things.”

”What are they?” Arya asked, her voice small. ”What do they want?”

”They came from the crypts,” Catelyn said. ”I saw them coming from down there.”

Before Robb could answer, the heavy doors shook. One blow after another. Wood groaned, and dust rained from the ceiling.

”They are breaking through!” a guard shouted. ”My lord, we cannot hold them!”

”Flee to the highest tower!” another urged.

”There is nowhere to go from there. We will be trapped.” Robb held his sword firmly and turned to his mother. ”Take the children and find somewhere safer to hide. We will fight them here.”

”Robb, no,” Catelyn said. ”We have to find a way to escape—”

The doors burst open.

Wights poured through like a flood. Defenders met them with steel, but the creatures were many, and the men were few.

”For Winterfell!” Robb cut down one wight, then another, but for every one that fell, two more took its place.

Then the Corpse Queen stepped through the door.

She moved through the chaos like a queen through her court, untouched by the fighting. Her cold eyes scanned the room, searching. She found her target.

Her eyes locked onto Robb. She smiled and pointed.

The ancient Lord Commander began to walk toward him.

Robb raised his sword, ready to meet the monster once more. His shoulder still ached from the previous blow. But before the undead could reach him, something impossible happened.

A crack of thunder resounded through the hall. Green lightning, bright as the sun, filled the great chamber. The wights nearest the light turned to ash.

The Corpse Queen staggered back, her cold eyes wide with shock.

And then, silhouetted against the dying light, a figure emerged.

He was young...around Robb’s age, perhaps a year younger, with long golden hair and green eyes that glowed like emeralds. He knelt on the floor, wearing crimson steel armor with glowing runes etched into its surface.

In his right hand, he held a long steel sword, using it to keep his balance.

He appears to be wounded.

His left arm was gone.

Robb stared at the figure. That blonde hair. He remembered it.

”J-Joffrey?”

Joffrey looked down at the bleeding stump and cursed loudly.

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