Chapter VII: Call to Arms
He watched Lady Elissa pace from one side of the great hall to the other, a fire roaring in the hearth.
"It's been three days," she reminded the Small Council, "and Duncan Tuttle is yet to be located."
Maester Ortengryn buried his hands in his robes, his eyes fixed on Lady Elissa; there was a fear in her eyes like he had never seen before, as though she felt lost and afraid within the walls of her own home.
"Alas, this is a large castle, my lady," Maester Ortengryn reminded her, "the Ironwood is even larger." Lady Elissa stood over the fire, her hands on the mantle as though it was the only thing keeping her from collapsing. "If, as you suspect, foul play is involved, and House Whitehill are responsible, they could be keeping the Castellan anywhere."
"What if they're not keeping him at all?" Ser Royland Degore chimed in with yet another one of his grim but realistic theories. "What if Tuttle is already dead, slain at the hands of Lord Gryff Whitehill." The Master-at-Arms stroked his chin as he spoke, the same way Duncan once had done. "It has been said that Lord Gryff and Roose Bolton's natural son Ramsay have spent an awful lot of time together. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the bastard's psychotic behaviour has rubbed off on young Lord Gryff."
"No," Lady Elissa denied, turning from the hearth. "Not even the Whitehills are dishonourable enough to kill a Lord in his own Castle."
"Do not underestimate the Whitehills, my lady," Maester Ortengryn suggested. "They had as much a stake in your son's murder as House Bolton did."
"Also, Tuttle was no Lord," Ser Royland reminded her. "Only a washed up old farmer."
"Ser Royland, I did not summon the Small Council to discuss formalities," she exclaimed. Maester Ortengryn looked down the table. The Small Council, smaller than ever, consisted of only him and Ser Royland. "I summoned you to share my fears."
Lady Elissa, approaching the table, placed her hands flat on the oak, glancing between the Maester and Ser Royland. "I fear we have already lost this war, and it hasn't even begun yet." She bowed her head. "After all, how can we hope to protect the people of Ironrath from enemies like House Whitehill, when we can't even protect ourselves?"
Maester Ortengryn cleared his throat. "My lady, if Duncan truly is dead, and if the Whitehill truly are responsible, should we be able to gather the evidence that proves it, we may find ourselves with an opportunity to remove every last member of House Whitehill from Ironrath until the end of time."
"My son, the Lord of Ironrath, was murdered under this very roof, in front of my own eyes, and his death remains unavenged," she reminded the council. "Do you really think that, even if we could prove that Duncan was murdered, the rest of the North would even care to listen?"
Maester Ortengryn sat forward, placing his hands on the table. He placed one of his hands on Lady Elissa's. It was as cold as Winter night. "My lady, if I may, there are those who would come to our aid should we call."
Lady Elissa seemed puzzled, as though the thought alone of House Forrester having a friend somewhere out there was enough to bewilder her. "Continue, Maester Ortengryn," she urged.
"Ashtown is but a two day ride from Ironrath," Maester Ortengryn explained. "As you know, it is the seat of House Ashwood, who are yet to bend the knee to King Joffrey and have not yet sworn fealty to Roose Bolton as their Warden of the North. In this 'War of Five Kings', House Ashwood remain neutral, and, if urged to do so, I believe would come to our aid."
The Maester heard Ser Royland sigh from the seat behind him. "There has been bad blood between House Ashwood and House Forrester for centuries; ever since Lord Gerhard Forrester broke the oath he'd made to Lord Stavros Ashwood to wed his daughter." Ser Royland turned to Maester Ortengryn. "As a Maester, I'm sure you've hear the story before."
Maester Ortengryn did recall the story. As far as he remembered, Lord Gerhard had instead married a daughter of House Manderly. She had been a pretty girl who wore her golden hair in curls. He remembered reading so in a copy of The History of the Greater and the Lesser Houses.
"You speak truly, Ser Royland," Maester Ortengryn agreed. "Still, the incident never led to any bloodshed between the Houses. If only the same could be said for Lord Stark after the Young Wolf broke his oaf to the 'Late Walder Frey'."
"Such does not mean that House Ashwood would ever agree to fight for us," Lady Elissa commented. "I thank you, Maester Ortengryn," she said, "but we cannot allow ourselves to spend our time relying on other Houses, when we must be taking action ourselves."
A pity, Maester Ortengryn thought, as the raven to Lord Ashwood has already been sent.
He had sent a raven to Ashtown that very morning. It carried a message pleading Lord Dagmer Ashwood to send men to Ironrath as soon as fate would allow, promising a great prize in return for his services. Such was all, for now, the Maester's secret.
He only hoped he hadn't sent the message too late.
"You speak of taking action," Ser Royland noticed, tapping his fingers against the oak table impatiently. "Do you mean to say that you have some plan, of sorts?"
"Lord Ethan is dead," Maester Ortengryn reminded the table. "As is Lord Rodrik. Lord Ryon is a captive at Whitehill, their brother Asher remains in exile across the Narrow Sea." The Maester paused. "What good is a plan without a noble lord to carry it out?"
Lady Elissa sighed, rising from her seat at the head of the table. "Ser Royland. Maester Ortengryn. There is something you both must know," she announced, her back to both men. "But first, you must promise me that what I am about to tell you shall not leave this room."
"Of course, my lady," both the Maester and Ser Royland replied simultaneously.
Lady Elissa turned to face the men on the council, an expression on her face more dire than Maester Ortengryn had ever witnessed. "My son is alive."
Maester Ortengryn felt his heart sink. "Lord Ethan?" He wondered, scarcely believing what he'd just heard. If what she says is true, he thought, this game has just changed entirely.
"But...How?" Ser Royland questioned by his side.
It was not a question Maester Ortengryn needed answering. The North Grove, he knew immediately. So the myths and the legends speak truly. It exists.
"All will be explained in good time," Lady Elissa assured them. "Above all, we must ensure that this secret remains between us. Lord Gryff can never know."
"Know what?" A voice called from across the hall.
Maester Ortengryn had failed to even notice Lord Gryff step through the giant oak door that led into the Great Hall. Now, he and his Master-at-Arms, Britt, were pacing down the hall, an inquisitive look on Lord Gryff's face.
"A jape, my lord," Lady Elissa lied,the fear visible in her eyes. "Nothing more."
Lord Gryff smiled. "I take great pleasure in knowing that you still find a reason to laugh in these dark and desperate ties, my lady." He took a sincere bow before Lady Elissa. "Alas, I must ask that your meeting of the minds be cut short this afternoon. There are urgent matters I wish to discuss with you, and you alone. They regard your daughter."
"My lord, I fear my council are still-"
"My lady," Ser Royland broke in, interrupting Lady Elissa. "With all due respect, I have much to do, and very little time to do it in. First and foremost, I must find my squire, Edric Snow. If you see him, tell him I have need of him. That hopeless boy is far behind in today's duties."
"Very well, Ser Royland," Lady Elissa said. Ser Royland rose, bowed, and made his way out of the hall.
Soon enough, Maester Ortengryn was following him out of the Great Hall. "I too have urgent matters to which I must attend," he lied to Lady Elissa. "I trust you'll forgive me for leaving with such haste." He fled through the oak door, turning his back on Lady Elissa.
Pacing through the Ironwood, Maester Ortengryn felt himself begin to sweat. The pieces were moving so quickly, the Maester could no longer keep up with the game and its players.
Now, everything has changed, he thought. If Lord Ethan is truly alive, and if the North Grove is truly to thank for such a miracle, then perhaps there is a chance that Ironrath and its people will survive.
The Maester's pace increased. I cannot allow that to happen, the treacherous Maester thought.
END OF CHAPTER SEVEN
What's that dastardly Maester up to?
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