A/N: I tried to take some time to plan and write the following chapter because this was one of the big events in this story (so I apologize for the delay in publishing it). The appearance of Hichigo was also one of the key things I always wanted to be able to write correctly. He is such an interesting character; one that I thought can be explored fully through the dark tinted world of Game Of Thrones. My take on his presence is more psychological than magical, so I hope his fans would forgive my brazen re-imagining. The timeline in this chapter is pretty linear, with the third section being a temporal continuation of the same section in the last chapter. So if it's been a while since you've read the story, you only really need to (re-)read the last part of chap 7 to get back in the flow.

ACK: Thank you again for the reviews/faves/alerts! I was going to publish this for Valentine's, but stuff happened. So please, travel back in time, and imagine you're reading this in Feb 14. There is going to be plenty of HitsuRuki in this, but IchiRuki fans should not despair; there will be plenty for this pairing as well down the road. There is no lemon, but it would be very suggestive and borderline HBO rating, so please be advised.

~ Chapter 8 ~

Blood pools.
Blood clots.
Blood drains dry.

He grasps the shard of ice, and plunges it into his heart;
There is no pain, there is no agony;
As his life beats slower, he only smiles at the sky.

Blood sings.
Blood dances.
Blood cries out.

She cuts her heart out and offers it silently;
There is a cost, there always will be;
As her eyes implore the moon, she is wracked with doubt.

Blood spills.
Blood splatters.
Blood thickens to rot.

He turns away and covers his face in shame;
There is a way, yet none he could see;
As his mask slips on, he thinks t'was all for naught.

Blood…
…begets blood.

- an excerpt from A Story Time Forgot (GSY)

~o~

TOUSHIRO

Toushiro gently ran a finger around the smooth stone set in the white gold ring on his little finger. It was a curious stone, and he had never seen the like. It was round and bead-like, with alternating colors of dark green and black that covered the surface, except for a splash of crimson that stained it.

Lady Rukia had called it dragon's-blood jasper.

She had come to him the previous night, a soft knock on his door, a slight lift in her chin. He had told her that it was not seemly for a lady to come in a man's presence so un-chaperoned. And she had replied that surely, after the morrow's wedding, there were far more unseemly things that would happen between them.

The flame that consumed his cheeks had been enough to silence him and allow her entry.

"There are things that need to be said between us," she had said. Her eyes had looked out towards the night framed by his windows. "Yet now may not be the time. Perhaps later, when we leave this place of secrets."

He had demurred, and had told her that even before they utter their vows to each other, she should not feel any qualms in speaking with him.

She had made a slight noise then, an intake of breath that seemed to him almost a gasp. "Vows," she murmured. "Vows are the lifeblood of Northmen. They vow to survive the winters that no sane people endure, they vow to hold the Wall from an enemy that only dead tales know of…and they vow to wreak vengeance when naught else remembers."

He had looked away from her then. It had seemed that he intruded on something so private, so deeply part of her, that he felt he had bordered on desecration.

Her voice had called him back to her, however. "Since we must hold this ritual here, where the rule of the First Men of the North no longer hold sway, the wedding ceremony must follow the Andal tradition then." She had raised her hand towards him, revealing a small intricately carved wooden box. "But that does not mean that I could not satisfy at least one Northern custom."

He must have given her a look of incredulity. The Andals believed that a woman's family should provide for the wedding celebrations, in gratitude to the poor sop that would take her from their hands. He had protested vehemently to the High Septon that his own coffers can cover the expenses, but the High Septon had quietly pointed out that they must follow the local traditions to avoid offering insult. After all, avoiding insult had led them to this in the first place. Yet now, on the eve of her costly Andal marriage, she was offering him even more.

"It is our tradition," she had said quickly to avert his refusals. "The bride picks out a token, one from the land, that speaks to her of what kind of man she marries, or what kind of marriage she thinks to have." Her voice turned soft, distant. "She is to offer it to her husband, to show her faith that she enters the marriage fully knowing what is in store for her."

Toushiro once again ran his finger over the smooth stone. Dragon's-blood jasper.

When he had opened the box that she had given him and saw the ring nestled within, he could not help but feel a warmth steal over his body. It was a beautiful stone. He had made quiet enquiries, and found that the stone was extremely rare, found only in the Northern mountains.

He studied the swirling colors in the stone, and tried to think what they might mean to the Lady Rukia. Green, he had once heard, was a sign for fertility and growth. For a woman from a desolate land, it could portend something else entirely, one that his mind shied away from. Black was the color of mourning. To Northerners it was the sigil of the Brotherhood that stood watch, a sign of undying faith and loyalty. And red. A slight tinge of it, barely there and yet a stark contrast.

The sun's rays peeked out of the horizon and reached through his window to his hand. He looked towards the waking day, remembering. Dawn was the Maiden's hour. According to the Andals, a bride must be garbed at the hour of dawn in her vestments.

The wedding ceremony was beginning.

His mind instantly whirled through the many rituals. His servants would soon come in to lightly arm him, a flimsy jeweled dagger, in honor of the Warrior. He thought that tradition likely had more to do with men of old wielding real weapons, raiding and stealing the women they desired. The High Septon, as the Father's embodiment, would hear their vows, to sanctify and bear witness. And then would follow the mid-day feast, the Mother's hour, a time for generous food and copious drink. He hoped that Matsumoto would not embarrass herself in her cups. Their guests would then approach them, bearing their gifts and well-wishes, a nod to the Smith and his craftsmanship. He grunted in annoyance as he remembered that once they leave the hall, the matrons would be standing and crowing obscene counsel on how he must perform in his husbandly duties in the bedchamber. That was surely one Crone's custom that he had hoped they overlook, yet one that he knew Matsumoto would stay sober for, if not for her own propriety.

"My lord? Are you awake?" a voice called out from behind his door. "It is time, my lord."

As he bid them to come in, he looked once again to the stone on his finger. The filtered sunlight etched out the red threads that marred the exquisite surface. The seventh offering to the gods, the final seal that binds their marriage, was a cost that he was not sure the Lady Rukia was prepared for, no matter what stone she picked out.

Her voice called out to him again, a spirit-wraith, lulling him from the present to the past. "Do you have any custom you would like to follow?" she had asked him the night before, pausing by the door before she stole away into the gloom.

He had shrugged, and made an innocuous remark. In truth, Valyrians had myriad customs and rituals when it came to marriages. It was a hallmark of power, after all, and one that no Valyrian would hesitate to exalt in profligate ostentation. However, he did not think the Heavenward Meet would look kindly on him taunting their traditions in a pairing that they most certainly would not have condoned.

"I…had heard that you follow the tradition of paying a brideprice," she had said.

He had nodded curtly. Brideprice was a payment in service or goods offered by the man to the bride's family, and was the measure by which the value of the woman was gauged. He knew of brides from some Houses whose extravagance in their demands for their perceived worth were sung in legend. He did not think that the Lady Rukia was one such.

"It might be that the price I ask of you would be too high," her voice had been querulous, held too tight. "Would you still be willing to wed me?"

He heard his own response to her, echoed down to the present, as he mouthed it to the room once again. "The cost is not nearly high enough."

~o~

RUKIA

Rukia stood in her husband's bedchamber and tried not to weep.

Or to gnash her teeth. Both actions seemed equally likely for her at the moment.

His words still haunted her, even now, with the day almost gone. The entire day had gone by in a colorful blur. After she had left him the previous night, she had a restless sleep, and had been well awake before dawn. Lady Yoruichi had then stalked in to her room, followed by a grinning Lisa and a sulking Hiyori. They had dressed her in a beautiful gown of a material that seemed thin as parchment but soft as butter. The gown was cream-colored for the Maiden's chastity, with slashes of the crimson and dark ash underskirts, from the flames on Valyria's banners. Her House emblem was stitched in silver and onyx on her chest. It hugged her slim torso and flared coquettishly over her legs. Drops of brilliant rubies graced her ears and neck.

Once she finished dressing, Lady Yoruichi had then hustled her out of her chambers, muttering about ungodly hours for decent folk, and thus started a morning of parading her sins to the world. The Andal folk must have fervently believed in showing off their wealth, she thought. Otherwise, why have a custom where the bride is taken around the town to be subjected to strangers' gawking and leering? In the North, the only place they go is the godswood, and the only witness is the heart-tree, with its red leaves and white bark.

She had been told that this part of the Andal custom was to allow her time to think on the coming marriage, and to allow any naysayers to speak their piece. She could not imagine a worse way to mull on one's life, however. The early hour had not prevented curious onlookers from coming out in droves. Their cacophony and merry-making had been enough to deaden her ears, much less allowed her the chance to think again on her actions.

When she had thought that she would start kicking in someone's face soon if she were not returned to a place of sanctuary, the carriage had finally turned around and made its way towards the keep. Shinji, walking beside her carriage door, had looked up at her with an apologetic grin, followed with a slight relieved smile that his face was saved from a near-inevitable pummeling from her dainty feet.

When they had reached the doors to the Starry Keep's great hall, however, she had thought that she might have preferred the carriage ride after all. It had seemed as if a snowstorm was raging inside of her, burning her and freezing her at the same time, as she stood outside the hall where she would soon be married. To him, the Valyrian prince.

His reply to her the previous night seemed to be clamoring against the bulwark of her mind, asking her to pay heed to it, to accept it. And behind this voice, another's was whispering, a faint one, clothed in sunlight and a hard-won smile. As she stood by the hall doors, her whole body had refused to follow her commands. The floor had grown roots and held her in its grasp, refusing to allow her a further step.

She had not known how long she had been standing there, until she felt a light touch on both her arms. By her side, she had found Urahara and Lady Yoruichi, smiling down at her. With their help, she had been able to take that single step, and had opened the door to the hall.

A path from the doors to the end of the hall had led towards the High Septon, regal and smiling on his elevated seat. Prince Toushiro had been seated in front of him with his back to her. When she had taken her own seat besides the prince, the High Septon had cleared his throat and had started the ancient Father's invocations that bound a man and a woman.

She hardly heard a word.

All of her senses had left her when she opened the hall doors. She could hardly see the Maiden's candles that had been lit throughout the hall. She could hardly smell the rank odor of dozens of Warrior's Sons crowding it. She could hardly feel the rough grain of the wooden chair she sat on. She could hardly taste the salty trail of crimson moisture that burned its way from her bit lip to her tongue.

Throughout the day, from the Mother's feast through the Smith's offerings, she had not dared to glance at the prince sitting by her side. Instead she had looked onto the crowd, exposing nothing in her face.

It was only when he had stood up and had gently taken her hand, that she had noticed he was wearing the dragon's-blood jasper ring she had given him the previous evening. It had startled her so much that she had looked up to his eyes. Verdant, swirling green. The color of the sea trapped in ancient ice. She had stood up then, raised her chin in acknowledgement, and walked with him towards the hall doors.

They both ignored the lewd suggestions from the matrons as they had exited the hall. Yet Lady Yoruichi's shouted remark seemed to have penetrated her numb fog to burn her ears. She still could not forget how the Lady Yoruichi would sway her hips to demonstrate a certain courtesan's skill that she had needed to pass along to Rukia. And Rukia did not think that she would opt to make those breathy sounds either, no matter the Lady Yoruichi's insistence on something called affecting a climax.

When they had finally reached the prince's chambers, dusk was slowly setting in, the day's light fading outside his windows. He had excused himself to disrobe and had allowed some servants to come in to prepare her as well. The servants had grinned at her mischievously and had chattered on about their master. Once they finished, they had flitted out of the rooms and closed the door shut behind them.

Standing alone amidst her husband's rooms, garbed in nothing but a wispy shift, her senses returned to her with a vengeful force. And his response the previous night chipped away at her defenses to roar into life within her again.

"The cost is not nearly high enough," he had said.

She wanted to rail at him, to tell him that he did not know of what he spoke. She would be asking him to betray his own people. For was that not how he would see it, when she asks him to aid her in seeking justice for her brother? She now knew that he could not have been involved in her brother's murder. He was not that kind of person. Yet that did not change the fact that someone from the Valyrian Houses had plotted Lord Byakuya's murder.

From what she had seen of him, he was fiercely loyal to his people, even when they had hurt him. She had heard from Urahara how Valyria's Central Court, the social focal point for their High Houses, had effectively banned him from their circles. Valyria's governing body, the Heavenward Meet, still grudgingly dealt with him, but only because of the wealth behind his name. Yet he still clung to the Valyrian mode of dress, he still wrote missives in the Valyrian tongue, and he still wore the distant and slightly arrogant expression that Valyrians were known for. Why would he then help her point an accusing finger at one of his people?

She knew if she had been placed in his position that she would rather cut out her own tongue than deny her own brother.

She looked out towards the window, towards the bleeding light of the dying day. Its light surrounded her and pooled around her. She shivered slightly. A ghostly touch skimmed over her left shoulder.

Toushiro was standing right behind her. His hand hovered over her skin. His eyes were lidded, sensuous and languid.

She felt her breath catch in her chest. She tried to remember Lady Yoruichi's words, and all she could remember was the swaying of hips. She turned slightly, so that she could better see. In doing so, she swayed her hips ever so delicately, rubbing against his thigh.

He gasped. His eyes dilated. His hand trembled slightly.

She felt both of his hands grasp her arms now. She was pulled towards him.

His lips parted. He leaned forward towards her. "Rukia," he whispered.

She thought she would be confused. She thought that she would be numb. Instead, a bright heat started from her core and climbed its way towards her throat. It etched out the whole room, his touch, his breath on her cheek, in exquisite detail. It froze the moment when he silently asked for her permission, in painful clarity, a dewy drop arrested from its fall from the heavens, as prismatic as rare glass, and just as delicate.

She parted her own lips in acquiescence.

His touch and his breath roamed her body, marking her white skin. It sought a way into her defenses, and besieged her completely.

When she finally felt the veil tear, she could not help but cling to him. A moan of both pleasure and pain escaped from her mouth.

He stopped, his breathing heavy, his eyes heavily lidded and hidden from her. Despite that, she knew that he waited for her, holding himself in check, bearing his own brand of pain to allow her a moment.

The image of swaying hips tickled her mind once again, and she followed suit. She felt him stiffen against her, and heard him moan treacherously against her ear.

It was much like a dance, after all. And Rukia found that she could follow the steps as naturally as her own Art of Zanpakutou. It had its own rhythms, its own beats, and, to both their sudden joined cries, its own sweet zenith.

Afterwards, they laid together on the bed, his arm slung over her waist, his eyes closed in sleep. She looked out towards the window again. Dusk had slipped off like a thief already, but the night was far from over. It had only begun for some.

She felt a dampness between her thighs. She reached out to gently touch it, and brought her hand up to the moonlight. Her fingers were dipped in blood.

It was the seventh offering, the one that the Stranger came to claim at each marriage bed. The gods always seemed to require blood for their price.

~o~

ICHIGO

It was howling for blood. Ichigo could feel it rising within him, waking.

They had just returned to Oldtown when Ishida found them. Ishida had told him, gently, understanding behind his spectacles. Rukia had married the Valyrian prince.

The Valyrian prince was the one that had protected her.

Voices rose and fell like the tide against his ears, yet he could not make out the words. He heard his name uttered, Ichigo Kurosaki. His father had told him that his name meant to protect one thing. He could not protect his mother. He could not protect her. The name was nothing but a lie.

It rose up again, that hidden voice. It hissed and slipped through his thoughts. I have no name, it said, but I can protect.

He remembered how it had started. The voice was birthed from the ashes of his mother's burning death. It had bided its time, surfacing only to whisper. There would be moments he could not recall, fights he could not explain. When the Valyrians' slave hunters came to harvest his two younger sisters, it swallowed him whole. He had passed over to unconsciousness and had awoken in his father's arms much later. His father had shielded him from seeing the mangled bodies of the slave hunters, but he had seen it all the same, reflected in his father's eyes. That was the day he had been given over to the priestesses. For his own protection, his father had said.

He tried to shake off the past, to look to the present instead. He bit his lip to clear his thoughts. Four shadows waited for him in the dark corners. They mentioned her; they sought her out as much as they sought his blood.

It stirred up again, the voice in his head. It was not a mocking voice this time. It was a scream, a guttural rage that tore itself out of his stomach and climbed its way to his throat. It said one name.

There are four of them, it growled. These four are going to harm Rukia.

His eyesight started to dim. A sensation much like drowning overwhelmed him. All sounds were distant, opaque. He saw the four figures undulating like waving fronds in a pond. They had named themselves, Shawlong, Nakeem, Edrad, and Yylfordt, they had said.

I have no name, it grinned, and they would have no need for names in the place I will be sending them.

He saw three other figures retreat, dragging a fourth one with them. He named them each, and tried to call them back: Chad, his silent Eye; Mizuiro, his philandering Ear; Keigo, his boisterous Mouth, and Ishida, of the dank crypts. But his voice started to fail.

The four sellswords advanced towards him, walking with the confidence of the strong and the powerful. They had their weapons in hand, ready to claim the vengeance that they required. He looked down, the last of the light leaking away from his sight. Ichigo then realized, with the calm that came before the storm, that he was losing consciousness.

When the young man with the bright orange hair looked up again, he was grinning like one of the moonstruck. Except for the eyes. The man's eyes were dilated like a savage beast.

"Your companions have abandoned you, and yet you continue to gloat. You must relish the thought of your own death," drawled the one with the long, thin face.

"Shawlong, this man is not right in the head, we should finish him quickly and move on," remarked the one with the lean figure and long blond hair. "It would be a mercy to him."

The thin-faced one nodded to the other two. "Edrad. Nakeem."

"We should make him scream for a while yet; t'would be his penance for Di Roy's death," replied the stocky one with the cropped hair.

The last one, a giant with his head shaved on one side, merely grunted and moved off to the side.

The man they surrounded, lean and whip-like body relaxed, looked up towards the heavens and started laughing. The movement opened up a small wound on his lip. A crimson trail flowed down like a secret stream down his chin.

The thin-faced one sneered and said, "I daresay the sight of your own blood amuses you, eh, Ichigo Kurosaki?"

The orange-haired man's head snapped back to glare at him. "I am not Kurosaki." He smiled at them, showing his teeth. "But you are correct. I am amused by blood."

It would have been difficult to determine how he moved, this man with the bright hair. He stood at one spot, and suddenly, he was in another. His movement was fluid, graceful, and frighteningly fast. His muscles became taut, strained of their boundaries.

He stood behind the one with the long hair. His one hand reached over to grab a handful of locks, the other hand grasping the chin. A loud snap reverberated to attest to the broken neck. Without pausing, the hand that had gripped the chin moved towards the long-haired one's sword.

The orange-haired man's hand still buried in the dead man's hair, he threw the body at the stocky man barging into him. He used the sword in his other hand to ram it into the belly of the giant.

The giant man stepped back. Undaunted, he raised his arm once again. His target, however, was long gone.

The orange-haired man spun. He came behind the stocky one. He used both hands on the pommel of his sword and beheaded the other.

The thin-faced one came close, and jabbed a long serrated knife into the orange-haired man's side.

It did not even give him pause. He turned and pulled out the knife from his own flesh. He buried it in the eye of the thin-faced one. He grasped the blade of a second knife in the other's hand. Its edges bit into his hands, savaging them. But he won it free from the other man. He spun again to the thin-faced man's flank, and buried the second knife in his skull.

The lumbering giant screamed and rushed over to his companion. Yet he was too late.

The orange-haired one picked up the fallen sword. He kneeled close to the ground and swung low. It tore through the knees of the giant, bringing him down closer.

The giant man was screaming in agony and swinging his arms in dazed confusion.

The orange-haired man walked with ease towards the third body. He slowly pulled out the knife buried to the hilt in its eye. He looked to the maddened giant, and with unerring accuracy, threw the knife. It found its mark in the giant's neck, severing the artery. The giant plopped over to his side, never to rise again.

He walked over to the giant's body. He pulled out the knife once again. And in perfect arcs, proceeded to slash away at the mountainous flesh.

"Kurosaki! Kurosaki! You must stop!" cried someone behind him. "What you are doing is an abomination."

The orange-haired man craned its neck. There were four more figures. One, a bespectacled man, was the one speaking. The others were holding on to his arms, keeping him from something. "I have told you. I am not Ichigo Kurosaki." His lips widened into a grin. "I do not have a name."

His one hand gripping the knife still, he started towards the other four. The buzzing voice was annoying the orange-haired man.

Mid-step, however, he stopped. The wound in the man's side had not abated, and the loss of blood was finally claiming him. As he dropped to the ground, his last breath was a curse on the frailties of flesh.

"Keigo! He has lost consciousness. Let the maester approach and tend to his wounds." The voice was controlled yet high-strung. It must be Mizuiro giving commands once again, Ichigo thought.

Ichigo felt people crowding around him, though he could not see. It seemed like a black veil hung over his eyes, refusing him entry.

"What in the names of the Seven happened?" That must be Ishida and his worrying, thought Ichigo. "His face…it…it was twisted, somehow. Contorted. And why did he not collapse sooner? With this wound, no one could have possibly-"

"Hush, maester, I am supposed to be the one shrieking like a molested maiden here, and yet you best me in my efforts." Keigo's hysterics were unmistakable, thought Ichigo.

"I certainly do not shriek." Ichigo could almost feel the glare from Ishida magnified by the spectacles. "I have stopped up the bleeding for now. However, we need to move him to the sept. He would need stitching, and plenty of it."

Ichigo felt strong hands lift him gently. Chad, he thought in satisfaction.

"However else you may try to divert my attention, you will not deny what occurred just now. That was…" Ishida was momentarily silent. "That was not him. It was not Kurosaki. Was it?"

"No, it was not," muttered Chad.

"It happened after he witnessed his mother's death," replied Mizuiro. "He would go into these states. He would be in a constant bloodthirst. And neither mortal wounds nor pleading friends could pull him back."

"I have…heard of this condition," Ishida mused. "They referred to them as amok in the far forests of Yi Ti. The crazed men."

"Whatever it is, it was only the loss of blood that caused him to fall," said Mizuiro. "And we hope it would also bring Ichigo back."

Ichigo pulled back from his companions' conversation. Their words washed over him, touching him and yet leaving him clean at the same time.

He did not dwell too much on the feel of blood that stained his body from his hair to his feet. It felt too much akin to water. And water was life, as much as blood was. As much as Rukia was to him.