authors note: thank you joseph B for being my first patron on patreon. your support gave me the motivation. to write the next chapter. i messaged you which story you joined for but you never said so im hoping this was the right one!
The open road stretched out before them, bathed in the soft morning light. The landscape wound its way through the gentle, golden glow, casting long shadows that danced to the rhythm of their horses' hooves. The journey ahead was uncertain, yet the comforting sound of those hooves echoed like a steady heartbeat.
Sauron clung to his steed, a palpable tension in his grip on the reins, his hood obscuring his features. The events of that fateful night in Winterfell still haunted him, an unending nightmare he couldn't escape. His world had crumbled, and the one he now traversed was unforgiving and brutal.
Isul led the way, a solitary silhouette framed by the morning sun, a protector in the bright daylight. The air was thick with reassurance and mystery, for Sauron had only scratched the surface of understanding the man who had saved him. Isul's unusual aspects were as perplexing as his combat skills, with the snowy white hair, a rugged visage of age, yet movements as agile as a seasoned knight, and those distinctive yellow eyes. Secrets seemed to swirl around Isul like a shroud, and Sauron couldn't help but be consumed by curiosity.
Summoning his courage, Sauron spoke firmly, though frustration permeated his voice. "Ser Isul, you saved my life, and for that, I'm deeply grateful. However, I need answers. Who are you? Why were those men trying to kill me? How could one of them impersonate my own mother? And why did you help me?"
Isul retained his stoic composure, his gaze fixed ahead. "They fear you, lad. That's all I can say for now, until we reach White Harbor."
Sauron's frustration simmered beneath the surface, but he held it in check. He brought his horse to a halt, a determined look in his eyes. "I've lost my family, my home, everything I have known yet you say that's all for now? Tell me, old man, or I go with you no further"
Finally, Isul turned to face Sauron, his actions deliberate. He dismounted with rugged grace and approached the younger man, his expression heavy with the weight of an impending revelation. Their eyes locked, and the world seemed to pause as Isul acted swiftly, grasping Sauron's horse's reins and pulling it closer, causing the animal to nudge Sauron with its powerful head.
Sauron's balance faltered, and he tumbled to the ground with a startled exclamation. Isul loomed over him, his eyes betraying a hint of remorse.
"You want answers, boy!?" Isul's voice was a low, rumbling current. "Your parents died in your stead, it is only by the hand of fate, or dumb luck. that instead of you, they were found first . If you were anyone else, I'd have willingly let your head be separated from your shoulders, but if you want to go off and die then be my guest! Go make there deaths been for nothing ."
Sauron, still disoriented from his fall, managed to respond, "why didn't you save them too, why just me.."
Isul stepped back, his voice like that of shallow thunder, "i was watching only you, lad, now get up, we still have a long way to go. ."
Sauron lay on the ground, his eyes narrowing with disbelief as he processed Isul's words. He began to pick himself off the dew drip dirt.
"Why me?" Sauron finally managed to stammer, his voice laced with confusion and disbelief. He struggled to his feet, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. "Why me?"
Isul watched Sauron intently, his yellow eyes locked onto the young man. "Because you're special lad. And that's all you need to know for now."
Sauron remained on his knees, the weight of Isul's words pressing down on him like iron chains. His fingers curled into the damp earth as he lifted his gaze, frustration and confusion battling behind his eyes.
"But I was just a stable boy in Winterfell," he said, his voice hoarse. "I shoveled manure. I fed horses. I am not special! Why would anyone want me dead!?"
Isul stood silent for a moment, the breeze tugging at his cloak. His voice, when it came, was firm but edged with something older — regret, perhaps. "Because blood remembers, lad. Whether you like it or not! now get off your arse and onto you're horse, we still have a days ride ahead ."
Sauron's breath caught in his throat. The full weight of it hit him then — not just that his family had been slaughtered, but that their killers had known exactly what they were doing.
"The one who wore my mother's face…" he muttered, rising to his feet. "He knew who I was. He knew I'd be there."
Isul didn't blink. "Aye. And mark my words, boy — he was only the first of many."
Sauron's jaw tightened. His hands balled into fists at his sides, trembling with rage he couldn't yet wield. "They burned my home… slit their throats like animals… for me."
Isul stepped in close, boots pressing into the wet dirt. "Aye, they did," he said bluntly. "And you keep whining like a kicked pup, they'll come back and finish what they started."
That made Sauron flinch. He looked down, the fire behind his eyes darkening into something colder, sharper.
"You want truth?" Isul continued, voice low but cutting. "You couldn't carry it. Not yet. I have a friend in white harbor that can get us on a boat, and only when we are on the sea. i promise, I will tell you everything. now lets move."
"Fine," Sauron muttered, the word laced with reluctant resolve. He turned from Isul and climbed back into his saddle, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped the reins.
They rode in silence for hours, the rhythm of hooves filling the air as the landscape shifted from open plains to a narrowing stretch of road flanked by towering trees. The canopy above grew thicker, casting patches of shade over the path like a creeping veil.
Isul slowed his pace, eyes narrowing. Then suddenly—"Stop," he hissed. "Be quiet."
Sauron tugged his reins, his horse coming to an obedient halt. He glanced at Isul, who had gone still as stone. His yellow eyes darted back over his shoulder, then ahead — like a predator catching the scent of danger.
Isul's tone dropped to a grave command. "Off your horse. Now."
Sauron blinked. "What—?"
"Now!" Isul snapped, already reaching for his own mount's reins.
Without further hesitation, Sauron dismounted. Isul smacked the backs of both horses, sending them galloping down the road ahead, empty saddles bouncing with each stride.
"What is it?" Sauron asked, low and urgent.
Isul's eyes didn't leave the line of trees. "A small group's tailing us. Three… maybe four men. Quiet ones — soldiers or sellswords. But that's not the worst of it."
He turned, gaze fixed toward the road ahead. "A caravan's coming from the south. Big. Armored. Royal, by the sound of it. Wagons, banners, too many voices to count. They're moving slow, but they'll be on us soon."
"How could you possibly know that? I don't see or hear anyone?"
"Not yet," Isul muttered. "But I don't plan on testing fate."
Without another word, he grasped a low-hanging branch and hauled himself up into one of the trees with surprising speed for a man of his years.
"Climb," he called down. "Now."
Sauron scrambled after him, fingers clawing at bark and branch as he hoisted himself up into the thick cover of the canopy. The leaves rustled softly as the two men vanished into the shadows above the road, their presence hidden among the limbs.
Minutes passed in tense silence. The forest remained still, the only sound the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. Then, faint but unmistakable, came the distant clatter of hooves and the soft clink of armor — subtle, yet enough to break the hush like a whisper through fog.
Sauron shifted slightly on the branch, eyes narrowing as shapes began to form on the horizon. Two groups, now clearly visible.
From the north, a small patrol approached — no more than a handful of soldiers clad in dull grey steel, their tabards bearing the familiar sigil of the direwolf. Stark men. Silent, disciplined.
From the south came the opposite: a grand procession, sprawling and loud. Banners of crimson and gold flared in the breeze, the gilded livery unmistakable even from a distance. The size and spectacle of it could only mean one thing — royalty.
Sauron glanced across the narrow gap between the trees, catching sight of Isul crouched in the branches opposite him. The old man made no sound, his expression carved from stone. He simply raised a single finger to his lips — a command for utter silence.
Moments later, as fate would have it, the two parties converged directly beneath them. Right there, beneath the canopy where boy and old killer watched from above, hidden in the leaves.
From their vantage point in the trees, Sauron watched the inevitable collision unfold below.
One of the lannister knights — broad-shouldered, clad in glistening red and gold plate, arrogance practically dripping from his helm — rode forward to meet the Northern patrol. His voice carried easily in the quiet of the forest.
"You lot," he barked, drawing his horse to a halt. "State your business. You stand in the path of King Robert Baratheon's entourage. You delay him, and I'll have you swinging from these very trees before the hour's out."
The Northern leader, a grizzled soldier with hard eyes, stood firm. "We're hunting fugitives. Two riders slipped away from Winterfell in the night, and this was the road they took."
The knight sneered. "No one's ridden this road but us. You expect me to believe Northmen can't track well enough to catch two men?" He reached for his sword. "Move aside before we carve a lesson into your thick skulls."
Before the situation could escalate further, a familiar bellow cut through the standoff.
"What in the blazes is going on up there?! Why have we stopped?"
Every head turned as King Robert himself emerged from the middle of the caravan, his bulk astride a massive destrier, impatience etched across his ruddy face. Sweat beaded beneath his crown, his voice booming like thunder.
The knight quickly reined his horse around and bowed his head. "Your Grace, forgive the delay—these men blocked our path. We were just about to remove them."
"Remove them?!" Robert's eyes widened, his entire frame seeming to swell with disbelief and outrage. He spurred his horse forward, glaring down at both groups as though he didn't know which to throttle first. "Did you knock your brains out of your ears, Ser? These are Stark's men! What kind of fool draws steel on Lord Stark's own bannermen when we ride to his bloody castle?!"
The knight shifted uncomfortably. "But, Your Grace… they claimed to be tracking fugitives down this road, yet no one has crossed our line. I thought—"
"You thought?" Robert cut him off with a laugh that was anything but amused. "Gods, you don't get paid to think. You get paid to swing that sword when I tell you to!"
He turned his attention toward the Northern patrol, jabbing his finger at the man in the lead.
"You, in the front — come here."
The Stark soldier hesitated, then obeyed, stepping forward with cautious respect. "Yes, Your Grace."
Robert leaned down in his saddle, his tone suddenly cold. "Tell me, boy, and don't you dare lie — do you have any proof you ride for Stark?"
"Yes, Your Grace." The man reached into his satchel, retrieving a tightly rolled scroll. He offered it upward with trembling hands.
Robert snatched the parchment, unrolling it with a flick of his thick fingers. His gaze scanned the page, lips moving silently as he read.
A beat of tense silence dragged on. Sauron could feel every muscle in his body tighten, eyes flicking from the king to the clustered soldiers below.
Finally, Robert huffed, rolling the scroll back up.
"Seems you're telling the truth," he grumbled. He shoved the parchment back at the Stark man. "Lucky for you..."
Robert glanced at his escort, then at the road ahead, scratching his beard. "No damned point riding further. Heat's cooking me in this armor." He grinned suddenly — loud, jovial, and entirely unpredictable. "We'll make camp here!"
The Baratheon and Lannister knights exchanged glances, some confused, some already resigned to their king's whims.
Robert pointed at the nearest tree. "Get those tents up! If these Northerners are hunting, they can join us at the fire. Gods know I could use some decent company after listening to nothing whining women and children prattle on for a week straight."
He turned back to the Stark men. "You're with me tonight. I'll hear about these fugitives of yours... and we'll drink to their bad luck."
Up in the trees, Sauron felt his heart sink.
Dusk came swiftly, and with it, the sky bloomed with stars, countless pinpricks of silver light cast across a deep indigo canvas. The clouds that had lingered during the day were gone, and the warmth of the sun was replaced by the faint chill of a rising wind. From their perch in the trees, Sauron and Isul remained deathly still — prisoners of circumstance, surrounded on all sides.
The camp had expanded rapidly. Tents now stood in neat formations, sprawling out in all directions save the Kingsroad, which remained deliberately clear. Fires crackled and torches burned high, their orange glow flooding the night with unnatural brightness. Even in darkness, the king's encampment was as exposed as midday. If they climbed down now, they'd be seen before their feet hit the ground.
Sauron shifted slightly, eyes scanning the glowing sprawl below. That was when he heard it — a bird call, sharp and close. He turned instinctively, but no bird greeted him. Instead, he saw Isul, crouched in the crook of a thick branch across the way, his fingers pressed to his lips. With a series of subtle, deliberate hand motions, Isul signaled him to stay where he was and observe.
Then, with the silence of a shadow, the old man slipped down the tree, disappearing into the undergrowth. Sauron tracked him with wide eyes as Isul crept through the brush, vanishing behind one of the nearest tents. Moments later, a faint rustle and muffled grunt broke the stillness. A brief scuffle — quiet, efficient — then nothing.
A hand motioned again from the tent's rear flap.
Sauron inhaled sharply and began his descent, limbs tense and trembling as he gripped branch after branch. Every creak of bark sounded like a war horn in his ears. When his boots finally touched earth, he slunk low, darting between cover until he reached the tent.
Inside, two Lannister soldiers lay unconscious, slumped against crates and cot posts. Isul was already tugging off one of the crimson cloaks.
"Put their armor on," he hissed. "We need two horses or we're not getting out of here. There's nowhere to hide if they start looking."
Sauron knelt, hastily unbuckling a chestplate as Isul spoke again.
"When you find a horse, walk it — don't run. Lead it all the way to the edge of camp, then ride. I'll regroup with you down the road. Go quiet, go smart."
Sauron nodded and, once armored and cloaked, slipped into the night.
The camp was alive with drunken chatter, metal clinks, and the idle murmurs of men around fires. He passed by several groups — most too deep in their drink to pay him much attention. Just another Lannister, another faceless guard. He kept his head low, moving tent by tent, careful to maintain the slow, relaxed gait of a soldier at rest.
Then he heard it: the deep, familiar voice of King Robert Baratheon. Sauron paused behind a stack of barrels, peering through the flicker of flames.
Robert sat beside a large fire, tankard in hand, surrounded by Northern men — the same ones who had stopped the entourage earlier. The old king looked weary, but sober, eyes narrowed as one of the Stark soldiers spoke.
"There were four dead, Your Grace. The stablemaster and his wife, both murdered in their beds. One of our guards — throat cut. And one other, unknown. Might've been the killer."
Robert leaned forward, scowling. "And your only suspect is a stable boy?"
"Aye," the soldier said grimly. "Went missing that night. No one's seen him since. And we followed tracks — south, down the Kingsroad. That's what brought us to you."
Robert's brows drew low. He tapped a finger against the rim of his cup.
"You swear there were tracks?"
"Yes, Your Grace. I swear it on my mother."
The firelight danced across the king's face as realization dawned. Slowly, he stood, tankard forgotten.
"If there were tracks…" he said, voice dropping to a growl, "and none crossed our path — then there's only one place your fugitives could be."
He turned on the nearest knight. "Start a full sweep of the camp. I want eyes on every tree, every tent. Wake the archers. Put arrows in the canopy if you have to."
Panic bloomed in Sauron's chest.
He ducked away, heart pounding, and pushed deeper into the camp. Torches flared to life near the perimeter as soldiers roused from their rest, bows already in hand. He quickened his steps, breath shallow behind the stifling helm, until — finally — he spotted a saddled horse tied near a half-abandoned post.
He approached it slowly, whispering soft reassurances as he untied the reins. The horse shifted but didn't neigh. Carefully, he began to lead it toward the edge of camp, eyes never still.
He was just steps from the treeline when a voice rang out behind him.
"You there. Stop!"
Sauron froze.
Footsteps crunched on gravel.
"Where are you going with that horse?"
He turned slowly, every muscle rigid. The Lannister soldier stood a few paces back, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"I asked you a question," the man said. "Now lift your helmet. Let's see your face."
Sauron hesitated for a breath too long.
"Now."
With trembling fingers, he unfastened the chin strap and raised the helmet just enough. The soldier's eyes widened in sudden recognition.
"You're—"
Everything went black.
Sauron's awareness returned in a blur of galloping hooves, the wind lashing his face. His helmet was gone. His stolen armor clattered as he rode hard into the night, trees flying past, campfires distant behind him.
The stars were bright again, and the Kingsroad stretched south like a path carved by fate itself.
" what... what happend?"