A Shadow of the Seven

The Laughing Tree

Ned

"Where are my men?" Ned coughed out a shout through thick smoke, seeking a glimpse of the huge figure Greatjon Umber was. The sudden storm of smoke had turned a clear summer morning into dark hellborne chaos.

The booming voice of a giant called back, "Here, my Lord of Winterfell. We're here." The call shaped into two riding silhouettes, one a towering charger bearing Umber, the second revealed the great beard of Rickard Karstark, namesake of Ned's late lord father.

As the horizon grew darker, flakes of ash began to fall, covering the Northern column. Ned moved quickly to the top of a rise, looking for answers. But the shadow that rose before them was like a beast, swallowing them whole.

Snow, it is snowing, Ned thought at first, a heartbeat later inhaling smoke instead. The foul fume melted in Ned's mouth, turning into the bitter taste of ash. As hard as a winter snowstorm, darkness claimed the land, devouring all the blue from the sky. Massive black clouds came from the south, reminding Ned of great storms lashing over Storm's End, flashing angry bolts over the high drum tower and raining cold rain. Here, though, the sky behaved almost tame, silently moving black plumes slowly, as if they stood in the shadow of some great giant. Like a wild beast lurking in the plains. For a brief moment, the army was covered in pleasant shadows, just a moment later for a wall of smoke to pass by, enveloping the long column of baggage trains and marching men from all sides.

"Gods be good, Ned, we should turn back, march back North," growled Rickard Karstark, voicing the fear and confusion that gripped the northern host.

Irritated by the remark, Greatjon roared, "We ain't deep south to stretch our legs, Karstark, but to wage war. Have you forgotten winter? I surely haven't. The last time snow could've buried this hill whole and it still wouldn't stop me from marching."

"Winter or two more than you, Umber, and none was poison. I like me air fresh and water clear, I'm no damn frog-eater. Disease can kill an army faster than the foe," Karstark mused, breaking talk with cough now and then. Ned was silent, keeping his thoughts to himself, praying for some providence. Do not leave me blind, he called to the Old Gods, hoping the Weirwood in Darry's Godswood could hear him. The castle must be close. Many believe the Old Gods lost their domain in the south, falling victim to the Andal axe. Ned knew better. The Old Gods were more than just Weirwoods; stone is hard cause of them, river currents fast, and grass full of life. Even still, growing in the sky of the Vale, amid followers of the Seven, Ned was as much a stranger to the Old Faith as most men south of the Neck.

Ned's faith was often silent, a yearning for the simpler days of old, when future seemed bright of color and light of burden. Just a crude lad clumsily dancing under the hall of the Great stronghold. Now, I need your light, my own mind is too dim to show the path for my men. Cast light upon my road, speak unto me. The ash rustled, animals scurried in fear, and Ned stood in quietude, as more men clustered about him, seeking guidance.

"Find out Ser Brynden. The Others take us, we need to find a way out," he ordered, though his mind was yet adrift in uncertainty.

"Aye, m'lord," bellowed Greatjon, seizing the task with eager hands, lest Galbart Glover or Karstark claim the endeavor. This man would plunge into a bottomless pit if it meant he was the first to leap. Yet, Brynden Tully was swift to join them; either the Blackfish was already en route, or Greatjon possessed a keener nose than half the encampment.

"Lake," raven croaked, scaring Ned out of his dreaming prayer as Blackfish approached. "Lake, Lake." Smoke made the air heavy as fog.

Karstark waved his hand to shoo the bird away. "Damn bird might take us for trees. Go away, we've had enough bad omens."