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Sean Bean Saves Westeros - Book 1: Sean Lends a Hand by High Plains Drifter
 A song of Ice and Fire & Game of Thrones Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Eddard S., Words: 109k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 737, Published: Jul 22, 2014 Updated: Feb 1, 2015  423Chapter 6
With the clangs of the Umber giants constructing the viewing platform in the background, Sean calmly watched the unfortunately still alive Leech Lord ride his mount at a slow walk back towards him and the siege line. He hadn't truly held out much hope of an errant arrow or jar of wildfire of miraculously solving the problem known as Roose Bolton. With the ills descending on Westeros like the proverbial ten plagues of Egypt, the actor coveted the Dreadfort's men like David had Bethsheba. He just didn't intend to be as obvious in offing his rival for their loyalty as the Old Testament King had been his lover's Hittite husband. In the middle of the night, when he lay awake rationalizing the deaths he'd caused and would continue causing, he never once felt a moment's guilt for his intentions to that sick bastard.
"Ser Olyvar," he called out.
"Yes, my Lord?" his aide responded.
"Kindly send someone to stop the Greatjon's men from hammering. I'll have a hard enough time hearing Lord Bolton speak without all that pounding filling my ears," he explained.
"Right away, my Lord," Olyvar responded. The young knight pointed a finger and one of the Lord of Winterfell's messengers trotted off.
The few remaining lordlings and underlings about him smirked at the apparent quip.
Not Ned noticed their reaction. These brown tongues took their cue from him, their liege lord. While he knew Bolton had few, if any, friends among the army, the man was still the lord of a noble house. He doubted they'd be so open about mocking the Greatjon … ok, bad example, no body but a madman would mock the giant. But neither would they mock Lord Rickard or Lord Jason. Lord Jonos or Lady Maege. Lord Medger or Lord Tytos. Ser Wylis or … well … the man was a godsdamned walrus. Sean shook his head. Cat had been right when she admonished him in private last night over his discourtesy towards the leech lover. These people were homicidal killers, not stupid. They noticed things. He needed to do a better job of hiding his instinctive hatred of the pale faced man.
The actor breathed deep and stuck a properly serious and respectful look on his face to await his envoy's return.
"Lord Stark," the man murmured upon drawing close and reining his milk white mount to a stop. The Lord of the Dreadfort followed it up with a half bow out of which his moon colored eyes shifting back and forth to take in the much smaller audience than before his departure.
"Lord Roose, I thank you for your service in delivering the true King's message to the rebels." No one blinked at the disingenuous description of whose message had truly been delivered to the city. From Darry they had sent several ravens to Dragonstone describing the destruction of the two Lannister armies, explaining their intentions to march on King's Landing, and acknowledging Stannis as King. The first response back, which not Ned had received by courier the second day out of Darry, had asked for proof their ravens hadn't been a Lannister ruse. Sean thought identifying Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella as the bastard off spring of Cersei and Jaime Lannister sufficiently unLannister like evidence of his bona fides. The response to that, received again by horse from Darry only a week ago, had been as succinct as not Ned supposed the real Stannis to be. 'I will gather my fleet and come for my throne.' "I hope the rebels received the message loud and clear," Sean continued.
Roose Bolton blinked once before softly uttering, "They did, my Lord."
"And what was their response?"
"They flung insults at me, my Lord," said Roose Bolton quietly.
The actor fought hard to A) keep his respectful look in place, B) not bark 'speak louder for Christ's sake,' C) stop his skin from crawling away from the creepy Lord of the Dreadfort, and D) hide his renewed disappointment that no one fragged Bolton's sorry pale carcass during the brief mission to the Dragon Gate. He sighed, but not too dramatically. "T'was to be expected from the scared fools," Sean murmured softly.
Roose Bolton cocked his head as if he couldn't quite catch what the Lord of Winterfell had just spoken. Nevertheless he replied with a Westeros safe phrase when dealing with any noble superior, a non-distinct, "my Lord."
"And you let them know of the Kingslayer's presence in our host?"
A whisper of a smile flitted across that pale face. "I did, my Lord. They were not impressed with my claim. In between epithets, I gather they require proof that the man is who I said he is."
Not Ned echoed a faint smile back at the pale man, whose whisper of up turned lips had suddenly turned into an odd grin. "And that we shall give them as soon as yonder platform is built. I thank you for the loan of your banner. I can think of no sight greater than that of the Flayed Man of the Dreadfort to strike fear into a foe, Lord Roose," he pronounced.
"My Lord."
"I shall call on your services as envoy again when I have need of them, Lord Roose. In the meantime, please return to your men with my thanks. I am sure I shall see you again as I intend to tour the siege line and camp today. If there are any supplies you find your banners lacking, let me know then and I shall do my utmost to meet your needs."
"My Lord," Lord Bolton again repeated, this time with another bow acknowledging his dismissal, all the time that odd grin never leaving his face.
The soft call of his squire woke Sean from a pleasant dream, filled with a sense of well-being. This time in his dream Boromir fought the orcs at Parth Galen and lived! Aragorn/Viggo, Legolas/Orlando, and Gimli/John came upon him saving Merry/Dom and Pippin/Billy from those subhuman cannibals. He had redeemed himself for trying to take the Ring from Frodo/Elijah. Then doubt crept in. With the Fellowships still whole, would they chase after Frodo? Could the Ring still subvert him? Who would go raise the Ents against Isengard? Who would aid Theoden/Bernie and Eowyn/Miranda against Saruman/Chris?
"Shit," he whispered, suddenly overwhelmed with thoughts of Cersei, Varys, Littlefinger, Balon, Daenerys, dragons, the Wall, and Others. "I can royally fuck things over." He fought to bolster his resolution. "Don't muck it up, mate," he declared. "Just win."
Catelyn twitched in her sleep at the murmurings of his familiar Ned voice. The reddish light infiltrating the tent, this time from the rising sun and not the eerie Red Comet, cast an enchanting glow on her. He felt a part of him twitch in response. 'Down boy,' he chided himself. 'You're not some teenaged prat.' And at that moment his wife/not wife sighed and turned, unveiling a coquettish look on her slumbering, angelic face. The sleeping hide slipped down, revealing a lovely breast capped by an engorged nipple.
As he gawked in amazement at her body, that part of him started to do more than twitch. "God, you're the MILF of the North," he exhaled, remembering last night's passion.
"My Lord?" came the soft pitched voice of Merle, the second cousin twice removed of Wyman Manderly, who he'd taken on as his squire two months earlier at White Harbor.
"Coming," he grumbled, leaving the sleeping chamber for the main anteroom of his oversized tent as quietly as he could. He'd ridden as much all day yesterday in camp as he had any day in the last three and half weeks or so on the kingsroad. He'd hoped his aching body would've gotten a rest; and then Cat had … 'well that did work some of the kinks out of my body,' he thought.
Merle placed the slop bucket in front of Sean and he took a good, hard piss. That had taken some getting used to, the lack of privacy for so many functions. At least he no longer froze up in situations where his 'modern' sensibilities would be tipped on their end. He'd actually killed a man with his own hand! Let alone gave the orders that caused the deaths of thousands more. 'Fucking arse over tits world.'
The portly youth next held out thick leather pants for not Ned to put on, then slipped first a silk shirt and second leather armor over his head, and finally strapped on his belt, sword, and various accoutrements of biker gang looking chain mail. Sean at least stepped into his boots himself. Actors were a coddled lot, he admitted; but a true Sheffield man, even a rich pampered one like himself, had limits to what he'll allow another bloke to do for him.
He strode out of his tent to find his New Model Staff of lordly second and third and fourth sons already gathered and waiting. Some of them had originally been in Robb's company of personal guards on the lad's clever drive to retake Riverrun. Others had demonstrated brains and bravery along the Green Fork and lived to tell their tales of heroic deeds. A few he'd even noticed on the march down from Darry and had plucked then away from their proud fathers or obliging liege lords. Here, in front of King's Landing, they represented the future to Sean. Still young enough to learn new things; and equally important, of high enough birth to be taken seriously by the motley collection of truculent Northern and Riverland barbarian chiefs pledged to not Ned. Someday these lads would take on important positions within their houses or maybe even inherit; then they would become leaders and hopefully follow Winterfell's lead in making changes. If he was to improve this shithole of a twisted, murderous world, he, and someday Robb after him, would need their enthusiastic assistance.
"Is everyone here, Ser Olyvar?" he asked.
The umpteenth offspring of the vile Walder Frey coughed nervously. Thank god a few of that evil bastard's fruit had fallen very far from the spiteful tree that spawned them. The eighteen year old had more than earned the knighthood granted to him, and was making a fine Chief Aide de Camp. "Ahhhh, I believe Lord Robb is still coming."
Sean didn't know whether to smile or frown. As heir of Winterfell, the boy needed to set a better example than this with his peers and future chief banners, not that they didn't respect and love the hero of the Whispering Woods already. But to be fair, by Sean's own earthly upbringing, Robb was on his unfortunately very disjointed honeymoon. Undoubtedly the lad had spent the night peeling and eating his luscious peach of a bride, Roslin, another far fallen fruit from Walder Frey's poisoned loins.
Thankfully his trotting horse hid from view the shakes galloping through Sean's body, as he and the twenty Manderly mermen accompanying him rode under escort through the portcullis into the castle on one bank of the Green Fork. His nerves eased when the first person he saw upon entering the courtyard was a bluff forty old year old man in armor wearing the three pine tree coat of arms of House Tallhart. The toughest part about knowing the heraldry of hundreds of Westeros' god forsaken houses wasn't the memorization, he was an actor after all, skilled at quickly learning his lines; but casually bringing up so many so very, very many coat of arms during the week long ride from White Harbor without any of his escort catching a clue he was desperate for information the real Ned Stark could have rattled off in his sleep. He directed his horse and excruciatingly sore arse straight for the warrior.
"My Lord!" the man shouted, joy on his face. "Praise the Old Gods, you've returned to us."
"Well met, Lord Helman," Sean responded. If possible, the man's body puffed out further and his eyes gleamed even more. 'Shit, did I just promote this stiff from a mere Ser? God damn it, George! Why did you have to make Westeros so complicated?' "But there is little time. How many days ago did young Robb and my lady wife cross the Twins?"
"Why … six nights ago, my Lord," he responded, startled out of his pleasure by not Ned's bluntness.
Sean held up one hand and started counting off fingers while dredging up from memory the show's plot primer. Some overly dedicated crew member with too much time and not enough of a dating life had thankfully taken the time to include a planned shoot by planned shoot scene timeline matched to the book's chronology in one of the script's appendices. "Pray tell me, and did Lord Bolton leave south at that same time for the kingsroad?"
"Yes, my Lord," Helman Tallhart answered.
"How many men went with him?" Sean demanded, the urgency clear in his voice.
The Master of Torrhen's Squares eyebrows bobbled a moment, taken aback by the rapid fire questions. "Ahhh," he drawled a moment, collecting his thoughts. "With all of Lord Robb's … with all of your foot, my Lord, except those four hundred left me to keep watch on … I mean to aid Lord Frey in defending the Twins. So with Lord Frey's contribution, say sixteen thousand or more, my Lord. Oh, and about five hundred horse as well."
"Praise the Old Gods, there's still a chance," he sighed. Now he knew this Westeros was novel based, not derived from the show's script. 'Does that make all this any more real or me less crazy?' he wondered. To save on budget, the screen writers had changed the Battle of the Green Fork into a true feint by the North, probably a smarter move than what George wrote, sending only a few thousand men against Tywin Lannister. Then to scrimp even further, the producers hadn't even allowed an actual battle to be filmed; they simply had Peter's character knocked out right before the start of the fight. Unfortunately, not Ned couldn't so easily avoid a deadly scuffle. He just hoped the plan for this contingency that he'd thought up on the long arse pounding ride here wouldn't completely bollix things up. Let alone get himself killed!
"A chance for what, my Lord," Ser(?), Lord(?) Helman asked with evident concern.
"To save Lord Bolton from disaster! Take me to Lord Frey!" he commanded. He suddenly noticed, much like the butterflies he felt right before the curtain rose, now that he was on stage and acting, his nerves had disappeared.
As they all waited for his not son to arrive, Sean had gotten a synopsis on the night's activities, which were as expected little enough. Ser Olyvar though, when did he have time to sleep(?), had pulled together a summary of which attempts to secretly suborn the gold cloaks manning the walls looked most promising. As his chief aide's report trailed off, Robb finally stumbled into the meeting.
Not Ned put on his unhappy Ned face. "Lord Robb, I am pleased you found the time to join us this morning," he cut icily.
The drowsy, pleased expression instantly snapped off the lad's face. "I .. I'm sorry fa .. aa .. my Lord."
Sean gave a curt bob of his head in acknowledgement. "I intended to do this job myself, but with Lord Umber ready to again show off the Kingslayer," and he jerked a thumb towards the twenty foot tall platform sitting just outside the newly finished siege line. "I fear my presence is needed elsewhere. Do you feel up to handling this chore?"
Robb straightened his back, putting a serious, manful look on his face. "Yes, my Lord. I'll look after whatever you need me to."
Not Ned let a wisp of smile show. "Good. Make a survey of the camp. Check to make sure the waste trenches have been dug in accordance with the directions I commanded. Ensure no one is drawing water from any source within a hundred yards of any trench. If you see any signs of a failure in shit discipline, you're to make that section's leader wish he was swinging his cock at the Wall instead of using it to piss wherever he Gods damned well felt like it here. Understand?" he snapped.
The lad visibly deflated but nevertheless gave a prompt, "Yes, my Lord."
The rest of the New Model Staff may have been amused at Robb's discomfort, but smartly refrained from showing it.
"Dismissed." And off the actor turned war waging homicidal maniac walked in order to give his next performance of the day.
As he walked into the drafty, dim hall in the Water Tower of the Twins, sitting high above the Green Fork as it roared south, Sean found the ancient, conniving lord surrounded by his daughters and those of his male offspring too young, too feeble, or too incompetent for war.
"Lord Stark, welcome," the snake hissed. "You'll pardon an old man for not rising to greet such an illustrious, noble lord, and … soon to be kin," he added, gleefully sinking malevolent fangs into his prey.
The revolting sound of the bastard's voice matched his abhorrent appearance. Viscerally, perhaps for the first time ever, Sean's naked eyes looked upon evil. He wanted to flee. But he needed to cut a deal first, or at least renegotiate an existing one.
"You'll pardon me, Lord Frey, if I don't abide by the terms of the bargain you made with my lady wife."
The serpent's eyes widened, then just as suddenly hooded themselves warily; focusing through narrowed, papery lids on not Ned, trying to decide whether the man before him was still prey or now suddenly the hunter. "My Lord," he said with a dry, brittle rattle. "You were imprisoned. Sacred oaths were made with her before the Seven to ally our two houses together. The strength of House Frey aides the North in good faith of our pledge to the coming union with your heirs. Where is the honor? Where is Lord Stark's honor in breaking his lady wife's sworn word?"
"Lady Catelyn met with you on the twenty fifth. I arrived in White Harbor on the twenty fourth? There was no longer a question of imprisonment. You may ask any of my Manderly banners. And what is the Seven to me? I am of the North. We worship the Old Gods. The Old Gods who freed me, returned me, set me on the path I must follow."
The withered creature smiled, correctly scenting the possibility of an opening. "Since you are here, praise your Old Gods, then there is no need for my banners to aid the North in freeing you, is there Lord Stark?"
Sean didn't blink, didn't respond at all, just kept looking icely out of his well-practiced 'Ned face.' The actor banked on the presence of Helman Tallhart beside him and the hundreds of Northerners within the Twins as all the evidence necessary to Walder Frey that he could not so easily turn his scaly back on him.
Seeing no reaction, the miserable creature cleared his throat before "But you spoke of a path. Perhaps there is some way my House could assist you on it."
Not Ned nodded. "The men under Lord Bolton march into Tywin Lannister's trap. I would spring a trap of my own to beard the Old Lion."
"That would be a fine trick, if you could pull it off, Lord Stark," the snake agreed, not bothering to hide his doubts about the idea.
Sean showed a hint of a smile. "You could help me make it so," he said. "The Twins sits on the Green Fork. And though your house's strength comes from the tolls you collect from those seeking to cross your bridge, surely you must have access to a fair number of boats?"
The serpent's greedy eyes unhooded. His tongue slid out a moment, tasting victory in the air. "Perhaps. Perhaps. If they could be found, what would you do with them?"
"Make two temporary bridges across the river, a day's march apart from each other. The boats for the first bridge must wait in secret on the west bank of the Green Fork until the Lannisters march past on their way north. The first bridge when it is erected must be near a place on the east bank where the Kingsroad narrows and climbs through rough, hilly lands."
"And when the Lion's knights find themselves cut off from behind, they would have to charge piecemeal uphill onto northern spears," Walder Frey cackled with malevolent glee, clearly seeing the stratagem. "Yes, I know of such a place. You're a sly warrior, Lord Stark. But are you still honorable? Will you keep to your lady wife's terms?" he demanded.
Not Ned gave a long pause. "Yes … and no."
"What?" the ancient serpent hissed.
"I will choose my son's wife. Here and now. Within the hour. And whomever I select will leave on the morrow for Riverrun, following the route my son took south from here."
For once Walder Frey looked suspicious. "There has been no word from Riverrun."
"The Old Gods speak to me, Lord Frey," not Ned declared, putting on his best biblical voice. "From every tree and rock that I pass, they whisper to me; show me what was, what is, and what will be. Tomorrow, on the dawn of the new year, Robb shall capture the Kingslayer. And on the day after he shall break the siege of Riverrun, drowning and slaughtering the Old Lion's banners by the thousands."
The old snake nodded his head in seeming agreement, but wariness again hooded his eyes. "And what of my boy Elmar and your girl Arya?"
"That betrothal is over."
Lord Frey scowled.
"A Frey shall marry one of my daughters, worry not Lord Frey, I give you my word. But I shall choose who marries either Sansa or Arya. I will watch your sons carefully as they trod down the path with me. And whichever one earns my greatest trust, I will bequeath with both a daughter and a new lordship crafted from out of Winterfell's domains."
The evil bastard tried to haggle further, but Sean simply gave him the icy Ned glare. Soon enough the parade of eligible, if not so nubile, daughters and granddaughters and even great granddaughters began. At the naming of 'Roslin', he called a halt to the proceedings and pointed at the fresh faced, pert girl. "Her," he said. 'Let's hope Robb sees in you the same things George had Edmure see in you,' he thought. "Have her on the road south tomorrow, Lord Frey. Now kindly arrange for fresh horses, a map of the Green Fork, and someone to ride with me who can show me where the boat bridges will be built. You have seven days, Lord Frey. Seven days to put things in place. Now I'm off to find Lord Bolton." With only a vague sense of relief he left the serpent's den in search of the flayed man.
A bevy of lords and one golden prisoner stood on the raised platform. Sean freely admitted to himself that despite eight weeks of harsh treatment and outright abuse Jaime Lannister still outshone every man jack of them. The son of a bitch oozed charisma and vitality.
"My Lord," the greying man protested, the pain and anger in his voice palpable. "You can't set the Kingslayer free!"
"Lord Rickard, look about you," not Ned said reasonably. "We pen King's Landing in by land, and in a few days King Stannis shall block them by sea. Where can they go?"
The Lord of the Karhold expressed his dissatisfaction with a deep growl.
Sean sighed to himself. By rights the Lord of Winterfell should have been chastising the man for the obstinacy he showed his liege, but the actor remembered the Karstarks oath breaking in the books brought on by Cat's stupid release of the Kingslayer. While he knew his position was stronger than Robb's had been, he did intend to swap the sister fucker and if that meant acting contrary to Nedness to keep the Karstarks in the fold, so be it. "Cousin, you'll have ample time to seek vengeance on the Kingslayer for your sons deaths once the walls have fallen and we're into the Red Keep."
"I'd be happy to give any of you a fair fight right now," the Kingslayer declared. "You needn't even unlock me." He shook his manacles. "Just give me a blade and I'll do the rest." He haughtily looked around at the Northern and Riverland lords gathered near him, before setting his gaze on not Ned. "Your leg looks healthy enough now Stark. Dare to test me?"
Sean smirked back at the egotistical bastard, unmoved by the direct challenge to his manhood. The actor had no illusions of who'd win that fight. "Jon, rattle his chains."
The Lord of the Last Hearth looked a bit confused at the order, then a giant, unchained smile of understanding split the Greatjon's huge, hairy puss.
The clanking of the shackles drowned out the sound of the arrogant cock's bones knocking together.
When the Greatjon at last released the Kingslayer's neck, letting him drop the foot or so to the platform's floor, the prisoner barely kept upright; staggering from dizziness and having his brains sloshed around inside his pretty skull.
Sean stepped up and said pleasantly, "Now mind your manners."
The Kingslayer responded by spitting on not Ned.
A juicy wad dribbled down his cheek. Rage boiled up instantly inside the lad from Sheffield. He punched the sister fucking shit as hard as he could in the gut.
A weak "ooohf" escaped the Kingslayer's lips.
Sean grimaced. His hand hurt. 'What kind of eight minute abs of steel does this bastard have?' he wondered. Then suddenly he saw stars. The son of a bitch had head butted him.
Immediately Greatjon and several others latched on to the Kingslayer, restraining him.
Sean swiped a hand above his eyebrow. Blood. Instinctively he surged forward snapping his head.
Crack!
A gush of crimson gushed out of the Kingslayer's broken nose.
A quick survey of the damage didn't satisfy the riled Yorkshireman. Not Ned jerked up his knee.
The "OOOOOooooooohhhhhhfffffff" that burst from the Kingslayer's mouth was anything but weak.
"Try to fuck Cersei with your tackle now," he snarled.
All the lords, Rickard Karstark most of all, howled with glee and made coarse jokes as the manacled golden boy unsuccessfully tried to cup his brutalized parts through piss stained pants.
As his 'friends' pounded him the back for a prank well played, all Sean could think was, "They're mad, all of them. I'm bloody surrounded by madmen.'
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