Errol V

Storm's End, 298 AC

"...and tell me, how fares young Eddard?" asked Maester Cressen from his bed, after taking a sip from the cup that Errol had just given him. He had been recounting him the day's events, after personally bringing him food and water.

"Well, so far he hasn't had a chance to actually do something, but from what I have seen he seems to be a capable and intelligent young man. He takes much after his uncle." answered Errol.

The old maester chuckled. "He is going to be a good lord, that one. I have always known it." Errol nodded. The old man had always been fond of Lord Robert's sons, particularly his firstborn Eddard. Errol, too, liked him. They were almost of an age and shared a quiet attitude and a love for books. Once again Errol thought of how much young Eddard resembled his namesake in personality, and his father in looks. He had taken something from both his parents' families. Hopefully, the best parts.

"And what about the war?" the old man suddenly asked.

Errol sighed. He had hoped Cressen wouldn't ask about that. Although it wasn't going badly, so far at least, it was still a heavy and stressful matter, something for healthier men to discuss.

And Cressen was anything but healthy. His age aside, he was now stuck in bed for the foreeseble future. A new fall down the stairs a couple days earlier had broken a few ribs and a leg. It would take a while for him to recover.

If he recovers, that is. His inner voice sneered. You know what it's like with old men. You know how frail they are. It wouldn't...

Shut up! Errol hated to even just consider that possibility. Of course, he knew that sooner or later Cressen would have to die. And he knew that even a small accident could very well mean death for an old man.

He just wanted to spend some more time with the old maester. He still had a lot of things to teach him. He...he couldn't die just yet!

You sentimental fool. He is just a man that you are going to replace. He is not Uncle Doran or Father. He isn't even Dornish!

Ignoring his inner voice, Errol thought about what to say. "The last letter from Lord Robert said that they had sent an envoy to greet the crownlander host. I suppose they have met, by now. The invaders haven't been idle, though. They have managed to conquer a few castles here and there in the Rainwood, and it pains me to say that some of the smaller houses have joined them." They were all houses that had previously supported the black dragons. Although none of them were too individually rich or powerful, their combined forces had still managed to help the enemy. Errol still couldn't believe it. Why would they support someone who had always failed in his previous invasion attempts? Were they all that loyal to the black dragons? Or perhaps they had been blackmailed?

"Also, this morning we received a raven with news about an attack on Dragonstone. It seems that the enemy wants to take the island, too."

"Fools...what do they think they are doing?"

"They are clearly insane, maester." answered Errol. Either that, or they have a secret plan. There had to be something, a method behind that apparent madness. It couldn't just be a last, desperate gamble by the remnants of the Blackfyre line. But what in seven hells could it be?

What if the rumors are true? What if this time they mean to win through magic? There were a few rumors circulating among the household of Storm's End that the enemy employed Essosi priests and warlocks to further their agenda, and that even the one aiding Maron Greyjoy's rebellion was on their side. They had yet to be confirmed, and perhaps they would never be. But what if...

Please, that is just nonsense. Magic, real magic, died a long time ago with Valyria. Whatever they call "magic" nowadays is just a few parlor tricks. And the invaders are just a bunch of deluded fools who hope to succeed where others failed.

Strangely enough, for once his inner voice wasn't trying to annoy him.

You should listen to me more often, you idiot.

"These are dark times, Errol. Dark times, indeed." Cressen said. "I hoped I would never have to see another war in my lifetime..."

"And you won't see it, maester. This...this uprising will be crushed before it has a chance to spread beyond the Stormlands. Before you know it, the imposter's head will be stuck on a pike in front of the Red Keep." Errol was sure of that. Unless they used actual magic, the invaders had no hope of winning.

Here's hoping the rumors are wrong, he thought.

The old man sighed. "I really hope you are right, young man. Still, I can't help but feel that something bad is going to happen."

Is it just me, or has the old fart turned pessimistic all of a sudden?

"You don't have to worry. Everything is going to be alright." Errol reassured him.

"I wish I was as optimistic as you, Errol." He groaned and shifted in his bed. "I also wish I had another pillow. Could you please go get another one?"

"Of course, maester. I will be back at once."

From maester to serving boy. What next, is he going to ask you to empty his chamber pot? How low you have fallen, Errol Sand.

Shut up, you blabbering pest! This is the least I can do for Maester Cressen!

If you are happy, who am I to complain?

Errol then went to get the item Cressen had requested. True to his word, he was back after just a few minutes.

"Here I am, maester. Do you need anything else?"

When no answer came, he stepped further into the room. The old man didn't seem to have heard him. Perhaps he had fallen asleep?

"Maester?"

I have a bad feeling about this.

Maester Cressen was still in the same position Errol had left him, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. His chest didn't seem to be moving, and no sound came from him. Errol froze as he felt a pang of fear creeping through his heart.

"Gods, no!"

He let the pillow fall as he ran to the maester's side.

"Maester! Maester, can you hear me?" He tried to shake the older man. He checked his breath and eyes. He cried in despair as he did everything in his power to make Cressen wake up.

However, in the end Errol realized his efforts were pointless, and begrudginly aknowledged the bitter truth.

Maester Cressen had just died.

AN: What can I say? I just enjoy killing characters.