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Chapter Thirty-Seven: For the Watch
It took all of Jon, Davos and Rhaegar's powers of persuasion combined to stop Mallister loyalists from lynching Black Walder from the top of Seagard's tallest tower. The chaos of the liberation, followed by the out-pouring of anger and the need for revenge threatened to overrule even the most logical minds. The three of them together had spell out their plan over and over, until Jon knew every nuance of the speech off by heart. Kill Walder after winning just one battle and they would lose the war … again. Keep him alive and they could take the whole of the Riverlands back and then some. Even after the cool heads had won out, Jon still felt uneasy about Lord Frey being left in the dungeons with just the Mallisters watching over him. It would only take one guard to look the other way while another stuck a knife in their captives' heart. As such, he sent two of Brynden's men down there and Ser Davos volunteered himself.
Meanwhile, Jon and Rhaegar were left with valuable time to breathe until the newly restored Lord of Seagard was well enough to receive them. If Mallister joined their forces to his own, and Sansa's reinforcements arrived soon, they would have the beginnings of a fine army. But only if Lord Mallister could be convinced to join them, and Jon knew better than to rely on gratitude for that outcome. Mallister may think twice before backing another Northern Lord, especially one only known to him as the bastard get of Eddard Stark. He may think twice before committing lives to another lost cause. However, it was a chance they would have to take.
The day after the liberation, he and Rhaegar walked the battlements together. It was a crisp and clear day and the view of the Iron Islands was second to none. But it was the great foam-capped, crashing waves that so captivated Jon. Having lived all his life in the landlocked North the open sea was a rare sight and a welcome one.
"You don't think there'll be trouble from them now, do you?" asked Rhaegar, looking across the sea toward the Islands. "I asked one of the tower guards here and he said he's seen great fleets of ships sailing out over the last few turns of the moon."
"There's always trouble from them," Jon replied, flatly. "I'd be more worried if there wasn't trouble from the Ironborn. And if I have the good fortune to see Theon Greyjoy among them, I'll have his head myself. There'll be no coming back from that, harder or stronger… Cunt!"
Rhaegar's eyes widened against his son's vulgarity. "Is he the one who first took Winterfell from Robb? And then Ramsay took it from him?"
Jon nodded. "Aye. Ramsay took Winterfell and most of Theon, if what Sansa says is true."
"Do you doubt her?"
"Sansa has a soft heart and a gentle soul, father," he explained. "I think she forgets that Theon was the one who started all this."
He fixed his gaze on the distant islands, lip curled in disdain as he picked each one out. Each misshapen lump of land that passed for an island looked dark, damp and dank in a haze of thick sea mist.
Meanwhile, Rhaegar kept looking at him incredulously. "It pains me to bring it up again, but Sansa spent months being routinely raped and beaten-"
"Enough!" Jon cut over him, suddenly angry.
"Forgive me," said Rhaegar, instantly backing down. "I only mention because firstly, I don't think you realise how strong Sansa really is. She's not made of glass. And, secondly, I think you should remember who got her out of there. Your old tormentor."
Jon couldn't deny the truth of it. "Brave enough to kill Ramsay Bolton's whore and steal off into the night with his wife. But not brave enough to bring Sansa to me directly."
Rhaegar sighed. "A guilty conscience isn't the same thing as cowardice, Jon. Anyway, Greyjoy didn't leave Sansa's side until Brienne of Tarth swore her sword to the Starks."
After making a full circuit of the battlements they decided to take a look at the market stalls. It had been less than a day since Black Walder had been frog-marched through these streets and already the small town square was thriving. Jon remembered that it had taken weeks for the North to get their confidence back after the fall of House Bolton, but the spectacle they had provided seemed to work wonders. Jon paused by a stall selling fresh codfish the size of a small horse that he'd seen being hauled up straight from the nearby port. It was now hanging from a hook in its gullet from the stalls' crossbeam. Fresh sea fish was rare where he came from. It was always smoked and salted to preserve it on its long journey north.
"I'll take three of those codfish, if I may," he said to the brawny armed woman tending the catch. "How much?"
He had dragons of the gold variety in a purse tied to his belt. But the woman waved it away.
"To the men who freed us from them Freys, it's free," she said. "And here's a little something for that dragon o'yours too. Tell our Lord that Seagard will always be Mallister."
He thanked her appreciatively and accepted the offering of a side of pork for the dragon. By the smell of it, it was nowhere near as fresh as the fish but it was nothing a good roasting from Sonar wouldn't cure. All the same, before they departed for the kitchens, Jon slipped two gold dragons into a discreet corner of the stall where only she would find it.
As they made their way back they chatted easily about nothing important. Until they reached their destination and Jon told Rhaegar to wait outside. He left the fish with the cooks and by the time he returned to his father, he was chatting with a young serving girl. She was of middling height, with honey coloured hair and lively blue eyes. Her Frey livery now looked somewhat out of place, but she had ducked away again by the time Jon returned.
"Who was that?" he asked. "Have you suddenly found yourself otherwise engaged for this evening?"
Rhaegar looked scandalised. "What? No! Of course not. She was employed by Black Walda just a few days back and now has no idea of what to do, poor thing. Anyway, I told her to report to the Stewards just on the off-chance; they may take pity on her."
Jon couldn't help but tease him anyway. Ribbing him all the way back to the great hall, where they were awaiting word on Lord Mallister's progress. After that, they would all dine privately in the Lord's solar, deciding where they went from here.
Sansa broke the seal on the letter with a sharp snap and read quickly. Her nerves were so bad her hands were shaking and, at first, the meaning of the words didn't seem to sink in. After a second read, she paced the dais and grinned like a lackwit.
"They've done it!" she cried out to Marwyn. "They've taken Seagard! They suffered no losses and they have Black Walder under their own guard. This is it, Maester Marwyn, they have control of the Riverlands in all but name."
"I must say that was well done," Marwyn agreed once she read out the whole letter. "Now he needs to march his army back north again."
Sansa disagreed. The time for wolves had come again. They were cresting that wave already. Next would be the time for dragons and they could not stop until they have taken the realm. It was an opinion she kept to herself, but she was now too worked up to sit still. As much as she loved having her home back, it was hard to sit there and do nothing while he was rallying forces to sweep the evils that had engulfed them since the death of King Robert.
Only the sight of her mother pulled her up sharp. Catelyn was sat at the end of the long trestle table, her face expressionless but her eyes near closed as her cheeks glistened with more than just semi-congealed blood.
"Can you excuse us for a moment please, Maester?"
She wasn't really asking and Marwyn rose to leave without preamble. Once they were alone, she took the seat beside her mother and let the silence soothe them both.
"Do you think this should have been Robb?" again, a non-question. A self-answering question. "The bitter truth is, mother, that it could so easily have been Robb. He had the love of his people, he had the army, he had the military expertise and he even had the money. The only thing he didn't have was the wit to play the game."
Catelyn looked small now. No longer frightening, or fearsome. Just small and sad and more dead than alive.
"It wasn't your fault," she continued, touching her mother's clammy hand. "You begged him not to send Theon to Winterfell. You begged him to keep Lord Karstark a hostage. You didn't know he had married that woman until it was all too late. But now Jon's taking it all back and you have to love him for that."
Sansa didn't even know why this was important to her. She didn't know why she needed her mother to love Jon now. Catelyn had lost her power and her opinion changed little for her as it had for Robb. Then it came to her in a flash. She was only searching for some trace of humanity still residing deep in the heart of this stony corpse. The saddest part of all was that, even if the humanity was still in there, Lady Stoneheart had few ways of expressing it.
Catelyn moved her hand and took a hold of Jon's letter before covering her throat with the other. "King," she said. Dropping the letter she took hold of Sansa's hand and added: "Queen."
If that was a blessing Sansa was prepared to take it.
There was a cold wind blowing from the north that evening. It could be heard in the rafters, shattering the peace of the night by pulling tiles from the rooves and smashing them into the cobbles below. It blasted the shutters over Sansa's bedroom windows wide open and brought squalling hail stones pelting against the mullions. She had to reach out of the open windows and slam them shut again. As she did so, she saw Marwyn in the yard below holding his peculiar glass candle. The flame was still lit and it did not so much as flicker. He told her he used it so "send and receive messages", but it was one more aspect of the world's awakening magic that she did not understand.
She returned to her books, going over the household expenses that Ramsay had left to gather dust. Before him, Theon hadn't troubled himself much and prior to him Robb had been otherwise engaged. In reality, no one had been balancing Winterfell's books since her father's day. And these endless columns of figures had been her inheritance. She tried to concentrate, but the blank inky numbers blurred and swam before her eyes. Arya was the one with the head for mathematics, she remembered.
When she pushed the books away, her eye fell on the small vial of Shade of the Evening. The blue liquid shone, still stoppered in its wax-sealed vial. Visions of the future, visions of the past, visions of things that could have been. It sounded like an interesting way to liven up a dull evening. But so far she could not bring herself to try it. It stank like rotting meat and sour milk, she remembered. All the same, she knew she would. Eventually.
As she went to reach for the bottle now, a horn blast sounded over the storm. Once and then twice. Voices called out in the yard below, startling her even more. Worried, she dropped what she was doing and reached for her cloak before hurrying for the door. As she made her way, the horn sounded again, soon followed by the clatter of hooves on wet cobbles. She pushed her way through the doors and out into the night, ignoring the pleas of her handmaiden to stay inside.
As the men stood aside for her, she saw the visitors at the gates. For a moment, she could not decide what to do. People calling at this hour was never good news. But she would not allow the horrors of the past erode the hospitality of the North, especially not in weather like this.
"Open the gates," she commanded. "Open them."
They were on horseback, shrouded in cloaks and roughspun covers. None of it was adequate to keep the hail and blustering winds off them. One of her men-at-arms came cantering over the cobbles toward her.
"I do not like the look of this, my lady," he called out to her. "One insists he knows you, but I can tell he's lying."
"Did he give a name?" she asked, reaching for a lantern.
Marwyn had gone, taking his glass candle with him. She had been left with a mere mortal light. Meanwhile, the man was hesitating. "No, my lady. Please, do not go out there. They're dangerous. Brigands, outlaws or wildlings – I cannot tell."
All the same, she wanted to see for herself. There were more of them than she at first realised. But in the poor light she could not make them out and their hoods were up, covering their faces. As she drew nearer the portcullis she held up the lantern in an effort to get a look. The largest one, a man who looked as if he had been hewn from rock, dismounted his horse. He was soaked to the skin, huge and bulky, even his companions seemed to want to keep their distance from him.
"Who goes there?" she called out to him.
He moved forward slowly, pressing his face between the latticework of the portcullis so they were almost at kissing distance. Then he lowered his hood slowly. She held up the lantern and shone the pale light on a face all scarred down one side; his smile causing the scar tissue to twist all the more. His smile never had been friendly.
"Well, look here, the little bird has spread her wings and flapped up a storm big enough to blast this whole realm to the ground."
She thought she would never see him again. She thought that he was dead. She was glad she was wrong.
Sansa smiled into the storm. "And faithful dogs always find their way back to you, in the end," she replied.
The solar was an intimate place, with a brazier burning in place of a hearth. Jon warmed his hands against the burning coals within, studying the tapestries that covered the walls. They showed storm tossed ships in a perfect reflection of real time weather conditions happening outside.
"That storm's coming down from the North," Rhaegar observed as he joined his son at the brazier. "A good thing we're not on the roads this night."
Jon agreed as another squall of rain hammered off the shuttered mullions. It had rattled and howled all through the evening and into the hours of darkness, closing in suddenly on what had been a fine day. But that was winter. The sun would be a rare thing now, soon blown away by the cold white winds from the north. It was only a matter of time before they were caught out by one on the open roads.
Turning from the brazier to make room for his father, Jon returned to the table. Lord Mallister's servants had laid out wine, fresh baked bread and the codfish he purchased earlier that day had been fried up in oils and butter, crusted in toasted breadcrumbs. The wine was good too, served in a manner fitting for such a violent night: heated and generously spiced. They weren't left waiting for long before Jason Mallister joined them, his son Patrek in tow.
Lord Jason was a lean man to begin with. But his year of captivity had left him gaunt and hollow cheeked. His indigo cloak looked like it was drowning him. Although his hair had turned completely grey, his eyes remained a bright and piercing blue. The supper was informal, so the four men seated themselves around the one trestle table set up in the middle of the solar and served themselves, for the time being.
"Yesterday, I lacked the presence of mind to thank you for all that you have done for House Mallister, Lord Snow," Mallister began. Before Jon could wave it away, he pressed on: "My son and I wish to make it plain to you, whatever wars are to come, House Mallister will stand with you and fight beside you until this realm it set to rights."
"Then I thank you also, my lord," replied Jon. "But this is not as before, when King Robb was campaigning. The war we fight comes from the North, from the winter."
Patrek frowned, but his father looked more understanding. "I hoped Ser Denys was exaggerating. I prayed he was mistaken, or playing some jest. But now you are about to tell me he speaks truly in the letters he sends."
"I cannot speak for what Ser Denys puts in his letters, my lord, but I can tell you what I've seen on rangings beyond the wall," explained Jon. "The Others have returned and with them the armies of the dead. The Great Other grows stronger all the time, more and more free folk villages are falling. The more they kill the bigger their hosts get and they're marching on the wall."
Patrek appeared to his lost his appetite. "But… the wall itself. It will stop them. It will hold them off. That's what it's for."
Jon turned to him and answered: "The wall will hold them. But it will not stop them. Even if the wall is to contain the threat, it needs men and equipment. And I'm sure ser Denys has told you all about that."
Ser Jason coloured in the face. Jon thought he could tell what was coming next. Undoubtedly, like all Lords across all seven kingdoms, he had been meaning to help the watch. He had been meaning to send men and supplies… but never quite got around to it. Jon wasn't angry, but it was the same story they'd been hearing ever since the war of the five kings began. Everyone would love to be able to help such an ancient and noble brotherhood such as the Night's Watch … just as soon as they've won this battle, settled that old score and planted another crown on the head of another pretender. Where the Night's Watch was concerned, 'tomorrow' never came.
"So now you're going to march north again?" Patrek asked.
Rhaegar took over now. "It's not as simple as that. We already have the North and the Knights of the Vale have rallied to our cause through the intervention of Lady Sansa Stark and her cousin, Lord Robert Arryn. We're here to take back the Riverlands. If you agree to follow us, we will take the realm. And then the realm will turn North and fight the oncoming winter, as it should have been from the beginning."
While Rhaegar talked, Lord Jason was studying him intently. Growing more intent, those piercing blue eyes now as sharp as knives.
"My Lord," he addressed Rhaegar. "They say you are Viserys Targaryen already come from across the Narrow Sea. And I will grant you, my many months of captivity may have addled my wits. But I never forget the face of a man who has beaten me in the tourneys – in my youth it happened to so rarely. And you beat me at the Tourney of Storm's End. You and Ser Barristan Selmy, if I recall rightly. You, Prince Rhaegar."
Jon suddenly became much more interested in his fish supper, while Patrek coughed and spluttered.
"But that's impossible!"
"It's certainly a long story, my lord," Jon agreed, looking up from his food again. "But can I just say there are many powers afoot since the return of dragons and the rise of the Others."
Rhaegar drained his wine glass, as if fortifying himself. "I'll start from the beginning, shall I?"
"I would appreciate that greatly," Mallister replied.
But the beginning was Jon's assassination at the hands of his brothers in the Watch. Something Mallister already knew about courtesy of Ser Denys, as well as his lingering coma and sudden return. Rhaegar, however, had been kept well under wraps. While all the explaining was going on, Jon finished his supper. No matter what else was happening in the realm, the cod was excellent. And by the time they were done, the wine was almost running out too and they all needed a stiff drink.
"So what is Lord Commander Snow's connection to you, my lord?" Mallister asked Rhaegar.
Rhaegar smiled and answered bluntly. "He's my son. My only living son."
The revelation was met by silence. No one even moved. Jon could feel the colour rising in his face as all eyes turned to him.
"No matter what else is happening," he eventually said. "We must remain focused on the war that's coming. There will be time enough to work it all out later. If we tarry too long, there will be no time for anything."
"All else is a distraction, I agree," said Rhaegar.
Coming so close to getting them focused on the war in the north, Jon was beginning to feel frustrated that his own personal history was once more becoming an issue.
"Well, that explain the late Lord Stark's reluctance to name your mother," Mallister concluded, quite magnanimously. "And I will be honest, your grace, I fought against you in the rebellion. I fought against you at the Trident. I did what I thought was right and followed my Lord Paramount-"
"And it will not be held against you," Rhaegar cut in, drearily. "If it was held against you I would not have helped take back your castle. What's done is done and, what's more, it was done a long time ago."
"We cannot be any fairer than that," Jon agreed. "Now, I say we drink to our new alliance and leave the past where it is."
His suggestion was met with a murmur of approval and a servant was summoned to bring more of the spiced wine. It was the girl from before, with the honey coloured hair and bright blue eyes. She came through the door with the wine on a silver tray, in a silver decanter. Rhaegar seemed happy to see her, Jon noted.
"You got the job, then?" he asked, looking up the girl.
Suddenly, her hands trembled and she spilled the wine over the prince's lap. She began apologising, reaching for a napkin to mop up the spillage.
Jon laughed, trying to break the tension. "You're frightening the poor girl, father. Leave her be."
He tried to help, but the girl choked and glared at him as if he had wronged her somehow.
"Girl, I think we can serve ourselves from here," Lord Mallister said, not unkindly. "My lords, it's her first day-"
For a long moment the girl seemed rooted to the spot, her gaze locked into Jon's with tears in her eyes. He tried to tell her it would be all right, that even the best servants made mistakes and even he had once done her job for the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Badly. But she tore herself away and fled the room, breathing raggedly.
"Is the girl sick?" Rhaegar wondered. "I think we should check."
Jon's nerves twitched, there was something off about her. "I'll go."
Without waiting for agreement, he got up and went through the same door as the girl and found himself in a passageway to the kitchens. A passageway used only by servants that connected to every room in the castle, enabling them to move freely without being seen by important guests. There was no sign of her, at first. He kept going, checking every alcove that led to another outer door and he wondered whether she hadn't risked hiding in one of the castle's actual chambers. But the sound of stifled sobbing led him farther through the passageway, until he found its source. Only, it wasn't her. The crying girl didn't look anything like her but for the fact that their clothes were identical and the bow in her hair was the same.
"Girl," he said. "Look at me."
She looked up and Jon felt his mouth run dry. He thought he might be seeing things, like poor Lord Jason when he first saw Rhaegar back from the dead.
"Arya!" he yelped as if he'd been bitten.
Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.
Guys, just so you know, I accidentally deleted pretty much all of my work including outlines, notes and plans (while trying to recover an old story, hilariously enough). While this story won't be unduly affected as it's so close to completion now, it does mean my new one "King's Blood" will be on hiatus until I plan it out again. Also, the Before the Dawn re-write is unaffected (that's the one I successfully recovered) and will be uploaded once it's done. Apologies.