Chapter 15

The Western Woods

Eustace had set off through the woods at first light, towards the Western Woods, back to his family's homestead. He followed the Great River to where it split, then headed towards Beaver's Dam, and as the moors became thick woods, Eustace knew he was reaching ever closer to the home of House Scrubb. He felt amazing, the gentle wind caressed his face and hair as he rode tall with a few guards of Winterfell at his back. He was finally doing something, something to inch forward their cause. He had been itching for it for a long time now. Eventually, he arrived at the large wooden castle, which, at first glance, seemed entirely camouflaged. You could quite literally not see the wood from the trees. The outer walls of the castle were covered in moss and leaves, hiding it from people who weren't looking close enough. Its turrets were as tall as the trees themselves, as Eustace looked up, relishing in the earthy smell he so desperately missed sometimes.

"Is it as you remember, my Lord?" asked one of the guards.

"It looks smaller, actually," said Eustace.

"Everything looks bigger when you're a child," the guard said.

"Still, it's grim and earthy," said Eustace. "Always has been. It's a hard place, the Western Woods."

The guards at the gates eyed him suspiciously, and Eustace panicked for a moment that they wouldn't remember who he was. He had been in The North a long time, after all. Still, they opened the gates and let him through into the courtyard, which was as quiet as it had been when he left.

"I wish to see my father," Eustace said, dismounting from his horse and turning to a nearby worker.

Before the man could reply, Harold appeared at the balcony in front of him.

"Father?" Eustace half-asked, squinting up at the man. The sun was splintering through the gaps in the wood, obscuring his sight.

"Well, well," Harold snarled. "Long time, no see."

"I've returned, father."

"You left a frightened boy. What have you come back as?" asked Harold as he walked down the wooden steps towards Eustace in the courtyard. He was a tall man, with long straggly hair that laid down his back like rat's tails, and a jacket that was so brown Eustace didn't know whether it was the material or that his father was covered in dirt. He looked just as Eustace remembered, only older, more wrinkled. Harsher. Harder. Harold stopped in front of Eustace and looked him up and down. He didn't seem pleased. One of the guards came to lead Eustace's horse away to the stables.

"I return a man," said Eustace, trying to bolster himself up as much as possible, puffing out his chest. "Your blood and heir."

Observing Peter as Lord of Winterfell had taught him a lot about what sounded good, what sounded grand, and how to speak to Lords of great houses. He considered House Scrubb to be one of the greatest, of course.

"We'll see," replied Harold, nonchalantly. "What brings you here then, boy?"

"I bring you a proposal from Peter Pevensie, father," said Eustace, holding up the decree to Harold that bore the Pevensie seal.

"Who gave you those clothes?" asked Harold, who snatched the parchment from Eustace's hand and turned his nose up.

"If my clothes offend you, I will change them," said Eustace.

"You will," agreed Harold. "The Pevensies have made you theirs."

"My blood is strong and true, father," replied Eustace.

Harold thumbed open the letter. "Yet the Pevensie boy sends you to me like a trained raven clutching his message?" he drawled, unimpressed already.

"The offer he makes is one I have proposed."

Harold walked around Eustace in a circle, inspecting every inch of his son as he passed. "He heeds your council?" he asked.

"I've lived with him, hunted with him, fought by his side," replied Eustace, trying to hold his head up high. "He thinks of me as a brother."

Harold stopped. "No," he replied, softly. "Not here. Not in my hearing. You will not name him brother. Of have you forgotten your own blood?"

"I forget nothing."

Harold said nothing but read over the message. He closed the lip of the scroll, turning to the few workers in the courtyard who had all stopped to see father and son reunite. They hurriedly returned to their jobs.

"I see," sighed Harold, as he looked back to Eustace. "I must destroy Peter Pevensie's enemies for him?"

"I will lead the attack alongside Peter," Eustace insisted.

Harold laughed bitterly. "Oh, you will, will you?"

"The banners have been called for house Pevensie. Peter is your liege Lord. I will lead them," said Eustace, with a gulp. His confidence was wavering. "Father, I'm your only living heir."

Harold handed the message back to Eustace. "How long do you propose to stay here in the Western Woods?"

Eustace shrugged. "Until a deal can be reached between us."

Harold walked away and then turned back with a snarl. "You think you're playing with the big boys now, don't you? You fight in one war and think you're the dog's bollocks? You don't have me fooled." He laughed bitterly. "I'll consider it. Unfortunately, Peter Pevensie is my liege Lord and I owe him that much. Until then you and your men can take the hammocks in your old room. If you consider them family, you won't mind sharing."

And with that Harold stalked off back to his office, Eustace feeling like the exchange hadn't really gone to plan.

Cair Paravel

Miraz sat on his throne, deep in thought. The messenger from the Night's Watch had given not much information, and Miraz was inclined to dismiss the whole thing altogether. But Glozelle, his Hand, was well-read and pressured the King to consider what the men at The Wall were saying. In truth, the frozen hand had been enough to convince anyone, but Miraz knew of the harsh winters in The North and put it down to nothing more than frostbite. Miraz had never heard of the White Walkers and didn't believe in the magic of an army of the dead. If you were dead, you were buried in the ground and nothing more came of you. Witches and hags simply didn't exist in his mind. Still, he thought highly of Glozelle, even if he believed in riddles and prophecies, and children's fairy tales.

Glozelle sat at a small desk at one side of The Throne Room, where a Maester would write the King's official decrees, but today he just needed space to think and write and be near to the King to talk him out of any rash decisions, which unfortunately was most of the time.

"Glozelle," Miraz called to his Hand.

"Yes, your Majesty," Glozelle replied, looking up from his books. A small pair of glasses were perched on the edge of his nose.

"Why are the White Walkers my problem?" he asked, his head lolling to where his Hand sat.

"What do you mean, your Majesty?"

"Well, the way I see it, the White Walkers are North of The Wall, so it's a problem for the Night's Watch, and if it's not their problem, it's Peter Pevensie's problem, as he is Warden of The North," theorized Miraz, his fingers steepled. "I am many, many more miles away from both. So why is it my problem?"

Glozelle sighed, taking his glasses off. "Because you are King, your Majesty. We delight in your divine rulings. Every decision you make must be for the good of the realm, for all the realm."

"Ach!" Miraz replied in disgust, sinking further and further on the throne. "I knew I shouldn't have asked you."

Glozelle went back to the parchment, his quill scratching away, making a dent in the silence of the serenity of The Throne Room. "Can't you do that somewhere else?" Miraz cried. "It's setting my teeth on edge!"

"Of course, your Majesty," nodded Glozelle. "I was only here to serve you, should you need me."

Glozelle got up, tucking his books under his arm, and stepped away from the desk.

"Go on then," said Miraz.

Glozelle turned to him. "Your Majesty?"

"Tell me what you really think, I know you're just dying to say it."

"If the King commands it," Glozelle said with a bow.

"I do."

"You're losing the people," said Glozelle, without hesitation.

"The people?!" scoffed Miraz, which turned into a rapturous laugh. "Do you think I care?"

"I have considered it, your Majesty, that you might find it difficult to rule over millions who may want you dead. Half the city will starve, half the city will plot to overthrow you," replied Glozelle.

"This is what it's like to lead, Glozelle," said Miraz, sitting forward on his throne. "You lie on a bed of weeds and you rip them out by the root, one by one, before they strangle you in your sleep. I don't care if they hate me. I won the crown; it is mine by rights."

Glozelle sighed. "Peter Pevensie will come for us sooner rather than later. His silence speaks volumes. And if he finds out that Caspian is alive then they will join forces. It will be the battle of The Shuddering Wood all over again."

"They can try. Look what happened the last time," said Miraz, gleefully.

"It is likely that Lucy Pevensie carries the knowledge that Caspian is alive, well and beyond the sea. If she reaches Winterfell, it will give Lord Peter all the encouragement he needs to develop his plans."

"I've told Susan she needs to find her sister," Miraz replied. "I've sent men out looking for her. What else can I do?"

"Nothing, your Majesty," confirmed Glozelle. "You just need to be ready for what happens, and in the meantime, keep the civilians happy. You might need them in your hour of need."

"Kings do not have hours of need!" spat Miraz, his hand clenched into a fist.

"They are going to attack us," Glozelle said simply. "We need to be ready." Miraz said nothing and mulled over his Hand's words. "I need to know what you would like to do about Peter Pevensie and the White Walkers, your Majesty."

Miraz sat back, the lust of gore dancing in his eyes. "Burn them to the ground," he said through gritted teeth.

"Who?" asked Glozelle.

Miraz shrugged. "Either. I don't care much either way."

"Yes, your Majesty," Glozelle bowed and left the King to his thoughts.