A/N! You guys know that meme, it's about Frodo at the end of Return of the King and he's being carried away by the eagles and he mutters it's over.
Well that's basically how I feel.
I don't know if there's more to say about this chapter. It speaks for itself in my opinion.
Oh and some good news, I have already written half of chapter 8 so the wait between chapters shouldn't be too long next time.
But wait some bad news, my schedule is incredibly busy for the next month and a half. Not really sure if I'll have time to do much writing.
Oh well. The show goes on as they say
Sigh.
Aurane Waters
Snake's head or leash? Aurane pondered absent-mindedly, riding the front of a gold cloak train. The usual gleam on the watchmen's mail was missing, replaced by a forecast of impending rain. The usual gleam from Aurane's silver hair was also gone, though the smallfolk recognized him still; shouting his name or simply staring. He wondered whether they would recognize him if his hair was as brown as the mud beneath their feet.
The Harbor Hall loomed not far away from the Mud Gate. A large, four-storied building made from timber and stone that served as the seat of sorts for the Harbormaster and all his underlings. It also served as a particular thorn in Aurane's plans. One that he hoped to trim shortly.
As he reached the front of the Harbor Hall, one of his gold cloaks had to shout and jostle to make way. Fishmonger's Square lay behind them and the wharves ahead, just outside the gate. Whether by specific intention or not, the hall was built in between them and so it led to unnecessary crowding from the constant stream of fishermen and merchants and sailors.
Stopping in front, he dismounted and swiftly went up the smooth stone steps to the porch with the watchmen trailing. A few customs officers were standing and staring. Just moments prior they had been dicing and talking between themselves, but when they saw him, they had rushed to clear any signs of vice. After all, Aurane was a superior, and such behavior was the norm whenever a superior came around. When he had been a young lad sailing on this or that ship, he had always rushed to clean his conduct around his captains or first mates. Though those days had passed much to his satisfaction, and the only ones Aurane rushed for now were high lords and kings.
"Captain Aurane." One of the officers stepped into his path and raised a hand to shake his. "What brings you here, ser?"
Aurane didn't shake the offered hand and neither did he bother to correct the fact that he was not a knight. "Would you perchance happen to be named Wat, Dillard, Humfrey, or Pollock?"
The man's eyes widened, but he shook his head. "No, captain. I'm Wesley, I swears by the old gods and new." His hand had gone down.
He bore into the man with his glare. "And you aren't the Harbormaster." It wasn't a question. "Well then," he gave a small smile, "I suppose I can shake your hand." Wesley gaped at him so Aurane reached down to shake it.
A crowd, larger than the one that had already surrounded the hall, was forming, doubtless wondering what was happening. Turning to the other officers, he asked, "Do any of you go by those names?"
A short man, with curly, red hair answered. "No, captain. They be inside." He pointed to the mud gate behind him. "Dillard be at the ships. Carrying out his duties."
Aurane turned to a watchman. "Take two others and bring him here in chains. The rest of you, follow me." He turned on his heels and marched into the building. The first and second floors were the work floors, which were too crowded and untidy by half. The third floor provided their library of accounts and the fourth was reserved for the Harbormaster himself. Their men were all on the second floor and were in chains quickly. Only the one called Pollock struggled, but a well-placed backhand placated him enough to be dragged off.
With the rest of the gold cloaks busy marching off the arrested men, Aurane climbed the steps to the fourth level with only two watchmen trailing him. He did not feel any apprehension. The previous Harbormaster had been a man who'd been built like an ox and had always appeared ready for a brawl. The current Harbormaster was a fat, greedy degenerate named Barth who, despite his person, was rather clever whenever he took a respite from whoring and drinking.
They swept over the antechamber before arriving in the man's solar. Lush Myrish carpets concealed the floorboards and rich tapestries concealed the painted walls. A gold-painted chandelier with garnet patterns hung from the ceiling which Aurane found to be supremely ostentatious, and the Harbormaster's desk, an enormous piece of varnished oak, took up a quarter of the room. Aurane stared at the various ornaments that littered the tabletop with a Myrish spyglass made of pure gold in particular grabbing his attention.
He wondered just how many of them were bribes and evidence of corruption.
"He's in there." He pointed to the thick door on the right. "Once you have Master Barth in chains and have brought him down, you two are to come back up here and guard this floor. No one is to enter without my leave. And pay careful attention to the window," he pointed at the large window behind the desk. A nimble enough sneak could get in undetected and steal away with valuables, and Aurane would not allow that. Not when the noose was tightening.
One of the gold cloaks laid a hand on the door and pushed. It was locked.
"Use your cudgel. Aim for the latch."
The watchman drew his weapon and readied himself to swing. "Whas' he doin' there?" the other gold cloak asked. The one holding the cudgel paused to look back at Aurane.
He shrugged. "I imagine he's having his noon meal, plenty of rich wine to wash it all down, and a whore or two to keep him entertained. He is a man of a rather predictable nature. Now," he nodded towards the door.
A deep breath and a swing later, the latch was broken and the door open, allowing Aurane to march in first.
"WHAT?! WHO DARES?!" Master Barth bellowed.
"I do," he said crisply.
Oh, how wrong I was, he thought, none too wasn't one whore or two, but rather three. He'd been lying on the plush, four-poster bed in the middle of the room with a whore on his lap and two more at his side. When the door had broken open, the whore had been thrown to the side and now he was half-sitting, half-lying, and bare of any clothes.
"Master Barth, we've met before." Aurane ambled over to the table laden with lunch and poured himself a cup of wine.
"Aye, captain, we have. But I must say this meeting is highly improper," he said, eyeing the pair of gold cloaks. He did them all a courtesy by covering himself with the sheets.
Aurane plucked a grape from the fruit bowl. "Stealing from the Crown is just as improper would you not agree?"
"Stealing from—" he muttered. "What vile accusation is this?!"
Aurane ignored the question. "A galley named the Squealing Wench left the harbor two days past. On the ship was a sizeable cargo of linen, cotton, grain, and gold." The harbormaster squinted at him. "Yesterday morning, one of my ships came to report that they found the galley sinking in the bay. Much of the crew was dead, but the captain had survived. Apparently, there was some pirate raid that we didn't catch.
"Though, no matter, the pirates are not a concern anymore. We caught them by evening fall. Seems as though they believed they had found a sea cave I did not know of," Aurane said.
"I am not seeing how this relates to me, captain," he growled.
"The problem is, Master Barth, that we had no records of the Squealing Wench entering or leaving King's Landing. Despite the captain swearing on all things holy that he went through customs."
Aurane watched as Master Barth's face paled ever so slightly. "It is strange. But it began to make some sense when I heard the words coming from the pirates' mouths. You see, Master Barth, they accused you of hiring them to steal the ship's cargo which you eagerly erased from our ledgers to make it so that the ship was never inquired after should we hear of its disappearance." Aurane stared right into the man's eyes. A deathly silence had blanketed the room.
"There are more crimes you must also answer for, embezzlement and corruption being the most obvious," he said, spreading his head toward the rich solar. "As such you are to be arrested and stand trial before the small council. Men, have him dressed before shackling him and then take him down." Aurane turned back to the table just as Barth stood and began howling with rage.
"I will not go quietly! Do you hear me, captain?!" Aurane ignored him and plucked another grape as the man continued his rant. "Do you think anyone will belie– get your hands off me, you pox-ridden whoresons!" There was a scuffle and Aurane heard a punch land and a wheezing sound begin. A thick accent told him to dress, but he heard a spit in reply. All the while, Aurane poured some more wine into his cup. He had been right about the wine; it was plenty rich.
"What authority," Barth wheezed, "… does a bastard …" Aurane paused, "… like you have … the right to arrest me?!"
Aurane turned and the look in his eyes was enough to silence the man on the ground. He forced a smile, but his voice was low as he said, "Littlefinger may pay your wages and you may work closely with Lord Renly, but you, harbormaster, fall under the Master of Ship's power. And with Lord Stannis' absence, I have every right to arrest you. Be thankful you are getting a trial at all. I could still have you executed summarily."
Aurane looked up to the watchmen. "I've had a change of mind. Master Barth has no need of his clothing to walk to the Red Keep." The watchmen put the chains and dragged him out. Thankfully, the man had shut up.
Aurane moved towards the whores who were still on the bed. The red-haired one flinched at his gaze, but that only strengthened his resolve. "Who owns your establishment?"
"Lord Baelish," answered one of them. This one had lighter hair, reminding Aurane of someone. Someone who had been very dear to him.
Aurane nodded. He moved over to the table and placed three gold dragons on it. "For your troubles," he said, and walked out.
Out front, the earlier crowd had swelled and grown loud. A few pompous merchants began to shout his name when he emerged, demanding an explanation, but he ignored them and the crowd. Aurane had already sent his men to spread rumors and truth alike. By evening fall, most of the city would be aware of what happened here. Another chip in the Crown's image, he thought, climbing upon his horse.
Later, Aurane was sitting in his cabin, contemplating whether or not to take a nap. His noon meal had been excellent; roasted fowl drowned in honey and garlic with plenty of Arbor Gold to lull him to sleep. In the corner, the hammock hung enticingly, and he saw no reason to not give in. Aurane had looked over the ledgers, personal and Crown related, written the letters that needed writing, done an inspection over his crew and ship, and spoken with all those who had begged an audience of him. Rest seemed a very sensible option.
Just as he stood from his chair, a knock sounded on the door, stopping him. Closing his eyes, he huffed and sat back down before reluctantly bidding the knocker enter.
"Merek?!" Aurane asked, astonished at the sight of his first mate.
"Captain," he greeted as solemnly as ever.
"What are you here for, Merek? You weren't to return for a month!" Aurane's irritation flashed.
"I found this bottle of rum in the market." He held up the bottle as though it was a proper answer, and Aurane could only stare. "A Summer fella wearing a feathered cloak was selling. Filled from a Summer Isle cask." He moved over to the table lodged against the wall and drew a fresh cup. "The cask had a date on it." Merek finished pouring and brought it to Aurane before taking a seat. "Eighty years prior to this one."
"Eighty years?" Aurane asked, momentarily replacing his anger for wonder.
"So the cask said."
Aurane looked down into the cup. Without the sunlight to shine on it, it was deep teak and looked intoxicating. Saliva pooled in between his teeth as he licked his lips, thinking, wanting to down it all. His lips grazed the edge ever so slightly … before Aurane placed it onto his desk.
"What is the matter?" Merek frowned.
"No matter. I uh …" Aurane wrung his mind, wondering what was the matter before his eyes found the answer. He pointed to the empty flagon on his desk and his first mate seemed to understand. "A step more and I am drunk," he said, questioning who he was trying to convince.
"If this rum is as old as you say then drinking it would be taking more than just a step. Here." Aurane passed the cup to him. "You can drink it. I'll have some later."
"I would rather not, Captain. I took a few swallows before coming here and…" Merek shrugged.
"You would rather not," Aurane muttered, leaning back into his chair. "You also would rather not be where I told you to be. You would rather sit in my cabin than at the healers' home, presenting me with a very expensive bottle of rum." His first mate's face was guarded. "Are you trying to bribe me into allowing you back?" Aurane asked, not very amused.
"Is it working?" he asked dryly.
Aurane smiled despite himself. "No," he said firmly. "And quit avoiding my question. Why are you here?"
Merek stayed quiet and at length said, "I misliked it. The healer, the healing … being so far from the water and the ship. I beg you, Captain, do not order me back. These illnesses of mine are of no importance."
"No importance?" Aurane nearly choked at the negligence. "Is your life worth nothing to you?"
"My illnesses are not grave —"
"— You grow ill far too often to not take them as grave!" he rebuked. "My dear old friend, you must take care of yourself!" Merek looked away in response. Beads of sweat had formed on his first mate's brow as though to prove Aurane's point.
"I will still need you to captain this vessel when the Moonlight has finished construction. And in the meantime, do not be afraid of yourself being replaced or your duties being mishandled. I've had Lonny take up your position for the time being, and he has done an excellent job." Despite Aurane's assurances, Merek looked hesitant and paler.
"Perhaps," he continued, "once you take command, you will take him into consideration for first mate."
"Perhaps."
Just as Aurane was ready to say good and turn the topic back to Merek going back to the healer, he interrupted, saying, "But, I will not go back to that home. I will not."
Aurane sighed and looked at his first mate imploringly. Merek stared back, resolute. "If it is the healer you mislike, then perhaps I can find another."
"Long as it does not stop me from serving on the ship, I agree," Merek said.
Aurane resisted the urge to sigh again. At least, he is willing to go now. "I will find some other healer," Aurane acquiesced. He closed his eyes, feeling an unwelcome wave of sobriety. "Pass me that cup, Merek." Aurane stretched out his hand, waiting patiently until nothing came pressing against his hand.
His eyelids fluttered open, witnessing, to his worry, his first mate sweating and shaking.
He stood and reached over. "Merek?"
"Aye, Captain." He started abruptly. "The rum, here it is." Grabbing the cup, he jerked it into Aurane's hand, causing some of it to spill over and onto his desk.
Looking at him, he said, "Merek, I want you to go and lie down." Placing the cup back, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it over the spill. "Get some rest. It will do you some good, I think." The older man concurred, still shaking, causing a deep frown to nestle on Aurane's lips.
Another knock sounded on his door and the two men heard Lonny's voice asking for entrance.
"Come," he said in answer.
"Captain. Merek," Lonny said after closing the door. "These two letters arrived a short while before." In his hand, he lifted a pair of letters. "One is from Braavos, Captain. Reckon it's Aurion. And the other was left in my hands by a small child. Said it was from an elephant." Aurane couldn't help but shrug and roll his eyes at Merek's questioning eyes over 'elephant'. His first mate had no knowledge of Al. The sneak was a secret only Varys, himself, and precious few others knew of. It was best that way, Aurane had decided long ago.
"Give it here and go tend to your duties." He stretched out his hand and Lonny complied. He stressed to open Al's first, noticing that his report had come so early. His reports were usually sent long after the sunlight had faded for the day. When he noticed Lonny's hesitant presence, he paused.
"Yes? What is it?" Merek asked sternly, reading his captain's thoughts.
"I …" Lonny paused and looked around before leaning in closer. "There's a man on deck claiming to be sent by Lord Stark." Merek's eyes shot toward him but he ignored it, urging Lonny to go on. "Said his name is Vayon Poole. He was discreet and all. Came on board asking to speak to you, Captain. Wouldn't give me his name or his purpose or nothing 'ntil after I got us alone."
"Lord Stark sent him?" Aurane asked.
"That's what he claims."
Aurane worked his jaw, thinking for what reason Lord Stark would have to send an underling for him. Had the lord taken his advice? Aurane had expected summons should Lord Stark have a wish to speak with him. He wondered if the old dog was learning new tricks.
"Did he state why?"
"No. Said he'll only say why once he sees you. Alone."
Aurane closed his eyes, taking a moment to think.
"Captain," Merek called. "What is this?" There was an accusatory tone hidden beneath the confusion that Aurane knew he would have to deal with.
He opened his eyes and, looking at Lonny, said, "I want you to bring this Vayon Poole into the antechamber if you haven't already. Tell him that I will be ready to give audience shortly."
"Aye, Captain," he said, bowing before rushing off.
"Captain," came the voice again.
"What it is," he said, opening up Al's letter, "is, hopefully, goodwill. Why are you still here?" he asked, remembering. "I bid you rest. Go and rest." He tried to focus his attention on the letter, but Merek interrupted him.
"I heard of the four, city watch officers, Captain."
He shrugged. "Much of the city does as well. It seems that Slynt will need to pick new officers."
"I know they were killed on your orders." A drowning, a fire, a stabbing in a dark alley, and a poisoning, though only he knew that the last was poison. Four random acts of violence that, save for Varys and Littlefinger and, apparently, Merek, no one could attribute to him.
"And?" Aurane asked carefully.
"You arrested the Harbormaster because he worked for Littlefinger."
"That, along with many other reasons."
"You burned down one of his warehouses."
"Oh that," he shook his head, "was not me. That was his underling's fault. Though I fail to see what point you are making here."
"Why was I not aware of all this? Why did I hear of this from strangers and not you, Captain?"
"You were absent," he pointed out. "You knowing or not knowing would have little and less effect."
"Do not lie, Captain. These plots take time to execute. You started planning this even before my absence."
Aurane stared at his first mate, almost in disbelief, before exhaling, taking control over his mounting impatience. "Allow me to make something clear since you do not seem to understand:" Aurane began slowly, "you are only a small piece of a very large puzzle. You are not the piece to bring everything together, you are simply the piece to add width to the picture. You are not entitled to know everything because of your status as my first mate. Now, quit your insubordination and go rest."
Merek's face had gone hard. Nodding almost imperceptibly, he left the chamber, leaving a sighing captain in his wake.
What's gotten into him, he thought before turning his attention back to the two letters. Opening his lock-and-key drawer, he deposited Aurion's letter to be read at a more convenient time. His younger brother's missive safe, Aurane grabbed a taper and strode over to the closed lantern. Unlatching it, he stuck the tip of the candle into the burning oil for several heartbeats before pulling back and returning to the desk.
Setting the candle down, he took the paper and hovered it over the flaming tip, revealing the contents of Al's report and revealing just how flabbergasted the young captain could become as he read the very first sentence.
'The Lord Hand has resigned.'
Aurane blinked. There must be a mistake, he thought, waving the paper over the candle several more times. Yet, no matter, the ink remained unchanged and the truth stood bare. Grey-green eyes scoured the missive down to the last letter before deciding to repeat the action.
'The Lord Hand threw his chain down in protest and left with the King roaring at him. Despite his pleading, the small council has gone through with the King's wish. A lordship for the deaths of Viserys, Daenerys and her unborn child.'
Finishing it, Aurane noticed that his mouth hung open and closed it. Setting the letter down, he leaned into his chair, observing the silence of his quarters that were offset by the light pattering of rain before breaking into a laugh. Seven save me; he just drove away his last true friend, he thought laughing harder.
Shaking his head, his laughter wilted as did his smile. He picked at the letter further, wondering how many damaging whisperings and rumors he and Varys could conjure up with this news. 'The fat stag scorns loyalty and honor' or 'The Demon of the Trident fears an unborn babe' though he grimaced at the latter one. News of Daenerys Targaryen wedding a Dothraki horselord had intentionally been kept quiet through his efforts for quite clear reasons, though Aurane was aware that many lords knew of the princess' nuptials. Daenerys' pregnancy will become known soon, he reasoned with himself. Better to control the narrative.
I need to speak with Varys, he decided.
The light pouring from the portholes darkened as the pattering grew stronger, letting the candlelight and lamplight create a mood perfect for reflections and useless questions. Aurane made much use of the mood, questioning how their lives would be had Varys been able to find the Targaryen children when they had been on the run.
At length, he knew it did not matter. Viserys had kept them evasive and now Daenerys Targaryen was wedded to a horselord and carrying a child that could lead to many troubles in the future.
Not that he feared a babe still in the womb, he thought suddenly, feeling the need to clarify that to himself in the wake of Robert's decision. The Dothraki may have been near unmatched on an open field, but open field or no, it did not matter when they were a continent away. The child would grow up to be as horselord as his father and every man, woman, and child from Braavos to Qaarth knew that dragons would sooner return than the Dothraki deciding to cross what they called the poison water. Even if, one day, the son of Daenerys Targaryen displayed any inclination toward crossing the narrow sea, then Aurane would meet them amid their crossing, and there, he would stop the threat and spare the Seven Kingdoms from the bloodshed. The thought of failure did not even cross his mind, noting with calm that any decent-sized fleet would be able to cut the Dothraki to kindling on ships.
It became clear to Aurane that neither Robert nor his lickspittles on the small council had considered that before making their decision. But then, a reasonable side of Aurane surfaced, remembering that the Master of Ships was not there to offer his counsel. For some reason, Aurane could not see Stannis Baratheon agreeing to the assassination of anyone, much less a child.
With his contemplations bringing clear answers to his mind, Aurane took the report and watched its tips, and eventually, the entire white parchment turn black from the yellow flames. He tossed the burning carcass into a metal, circular tray whose entire purpose it was to store away the ashes and charred remains. Quickly ordering his desk, he strode to the door and pulled open the wooden slab to meet with the man waiting in the antechamber.
"Lord Poole, take a seat," he gestured. Searching for some refreshments, he was surprised to find that only the cup of rum Merek had half spilled remained, and, like a good host, he gave it over to the steward.
"Many thanks, but I think now is not the time," said the steward, placing it back down toward Aurane.
He smiled. "Drink, my lord, please. It's the finest cup of Summer Isle rum in all of King's Landing, I beg you not let it go to waste."
Vayon Poole hesitated for a moment before displaying a sheepish smile, "Just a swallow, perhaps." Aurane smiled in encouragement. He took a swallow and held in his coughing fit for a heartbeat before releasing it wild. Aurane suppressed a giggle but he couldn't quite wipe the wry grin.
"Strong, no?" He took the cup, noticing the swish and slosh of the rum to be gone.
"Seven hells … A warning could have been decent, Captain."
"And rob me of my amusement? I think not." Sensing his annoyance, he said, "Don't fret, Lord Poole. Can't you feel the sweet aftertaste by now?"
"I … can," he said.
"First it burns, then it soothes. It can be quite addicting. Now," he said, leaning deeply into his chair. "My first mate informed me that you were sent by Lord Stark, tell me, what business does the Lord Hand seek with me?"
"Hand no longer, I am afraid."
"Truly?!" he asked, faking his shock so well that his mummer friends would be profoundly jealous if they could bear witness.
"Aye. A quarrel with His Grace, I believe."
"So … Lord Stark wishes to return to the North, and he desires to test his sea legs?"
"Sea legs?"
"It means to be able to walk steadily on a rocking deck of a ship." Aurane shrugged and smiled apologetically. "A jest commonly made by us sailors."
"Aye. My lord told me to relay to you that he did not care for comfort on the ship so long as it is swift and safe with a skilled captain."
Aurane nodded to convey his understanding before humming in contemplation, the pulsating rain drops helping him once again. He was not contemplating ships as he was aware of the ships that were leaving to White Harbor soon. In its stead, he contemplated Ned Stark's resignation and whether it was best to keep the northern lord in King's Landing. If Aurane delayed enough, then perhaps Robert would come to his senses again as he was wont to do after experiencing a raging fit. "Hmm," he hummed.
"Will he be taking his entire household with him on the ship?" he asked, to deflect the lord steward's curiosity at his ruminations.
"He means to take his daughters and a few guards along. My Lord Stark wishes to depart quickly, you see."
"I do," he said. "Perhaps, I should speak with Lord Stark himself," he said, looking at Vayon Poole. "I mean you no offence," he stood up, the older man following suit, "but I've learned that two men in a room can accomplish more than two men and a proxy in between."
Grabbing his cloak and wide-brimmed hat, Aurane led the way out and had two horses saddled and ready before too long. Above them, a starless sky wept warm, fat tears as the two men trotted through the deserted city streets. The rain had driven everyone to shelter and left an eerie barrenness. Well, he thought almost annoyingly, not quite everyone. He twisted in his saddle and looked behind him to spot the shadow jumping from one cousin of his to another.
Aurane frowned. Ever since Lenfer's execution, Littlefinger's sneaks had grown more earnest in their actions and harder to elude. One had tried following him earlier in the morning when he'd been preparing to arrest the harbormaster, but Aurane had left that one with an early bedtime. They clung to him like monkeys on the backs of their masters; always grabbing and never letting go. It seemed that Baelish had little intention of letting Aurane roam free of eyes and ears. He's scared or cautious, he realized. Either way, it was confirmation to Aurane that his moves were disturbing the little lord, and with that thought running in repeat in his mind, the route to the castle was spent in mild amusement and excitement.
Arriving with a gallop, they found, much to their confusion and disquiet, the bronze gates wide open and a state of chaos and what seemed to be brawling within the walls. Shouts and screams and bellows all reached his ear, jarring him into sitting still as a statue, watching it all unfold. The rain poured down in droves, greatly limiting his visibility, and, of course, the darkness that was barely offset by torches availed him little. Aurane squinted to witness dark grey cloaks rolling in the mud nearby with dark red ones as different colored cloaks rushed to and fro.
"Is that –" Vayon Poole muttered. "Gods be good!" The steward jumped off the grey gelding and ran to the men brawling. Jolted from his stupor, Aurane also dismounted. A column of gold cloaks came marching through and Aurane forcefully pulled aside the serjeant.
"What in the seven hells is going on here?" he asked, pulling off the wide-brimmed hat so the serjeant could recognize who he was. The serjeant stared at his silver hair for a moment in shock before swallowing and answering.
When the answer was said and done, Aurane left the serjeant to his duties before slowly sinking into the shadows. From there, he stood, unobserved but observing; thoughts racing from Dorne to the Wall and back again.
"Let the wolf and the lion beat and bloody each other," he murmured, remembering Varys' words. How prophetic, he thought as he squinted up to the floating lights from the tower of the Hand where Ned Stark was surely getting treated by Pycelle. Placing his hat back, he paused to wipe his face free of the warm raindrops. Deciding to take a stroll, he left through a postern gate, wondering how far the Kingslayer had gone already and what Robert's reaction to all this was. On the streets, his boots sloshing through the puddles, a brief flash of light illuminated the world before a rumbling clap of thunder sounded as though to herald the coming war. Blinking against the rain and toward the black sky, he wondered if the spider had caused that too.
Bran Stark
Robb and Jon were far ahead, but Bran was catching them slowly, his cloak billowing and rippling in the wind while the light snow rushed into his face.
He snapped the reins and whispered a command. Smoother than silk, Dancer slid into a gallop. Neither of them was looking back at Bran or the rest of the party; too absorbed in their discussion. By the time he caught Robb and Jon, they were on the edge of the wolfswood, miles beyond the winter town and some distance beyond the others.
"I can ride!" Bran shouted to announce his joy. It felt almost as good as flying.
"I'd race you, but I fear you'd win," Robb said, smiling.
"I'd race you both, but I fear for Robb's pride. I'm not sure it can handle losing to the both of us." Jon's tone was light and the slight smile on his long face was genuine, Bran could see, but there was still something troubling him. Troubling the both of them.
"Where are the wolves?" he asked, shifting the attention.
"Hunting," said Jon.
Bran looked into the forest. They had vanished into there, no doubt. "Did you hear Summer howling last night?"
"All of Winterfell heard, Bran."
"Grey Wind was restless too," Robb said, dragging a hand through his locks. His auburn hair had grown shaggy and unkempt, very unlike Jon who had cut his hair to his ears shortly after deciding to stay. Yet despite their contrast appearances, they looked older than fifteen years; Jon with his gaunter, paler appearance and Robb with his reddish stubble and constantly growing. Bran thought it suited them "Sometimes I think they know things that we don't." Robb sighed, glancing toward Jon who, sensing the gaze, shifted his head at Robb.
There seemed to be a mute conversation, one which Bran was not privy to, going on. Robb's eyes and countenance betrayed what he thought to be some hesitance while Jon stared back, face guarded as ever.
"I need to tell you something, Bran," Robb said. "But you're so young still."
"I'm eight now." Bran reminded him. "Fifteen isn't much older than eight, and I'm the heir to Winterfell after you."
"So you are." Robb sounded sad, and even a little scared.
"Robb, you may as well." Jon wheeled his horse closer. "It's best he hears from us rather some maid or guard with a loose tongue," he said irately.
Bran could understand the source of Jon's irritation … or he thought he could. A great many deals of whisperings and rumors of something had spread like fire on kindling throughout the castle weeks ago. Though, Bran hadn't even been aware of it until he'd woken up to voices arguing right outside his door. They'd been his guards and while his walls and door muted much of their words, he'd been able to pick up several, like 'ill-born', 'bad blood', and 'unnatural'. That same day, he'd asked Robb what it had meant when he was out in the yard, learning to ride Dancer. Robb had grown quiet and assured him that it was nothing. He'd spoken in his Robb the Lord voice, so Bran knew that it was not nothing. A little after that incident, a meeting for almost all of Winterfell had been called. Only Bran and Rickon had been forbidden from attending. Instead, they had spent that time playing in his rooms, watched over by the maester who had done his earnest not to look worried. After the meeting, the castle had been quiet, eerily so. The guards stood at their posts mute and the maids rushed place to place in complete silence. When Bran prompted Robb, the only answer he'd received was lordly and cold, that the matter was done and that Bran should not worry himself with it.
"There was a bird last night. From King's Landing. Maester Luwin woke me."
Bran felt himself stiffen in sudden dread. Dark wings, dark words, Old Nan always said, and her words became truer with each day. The bird from the Wall, the one from the Eyrie. Uncle Benjen still missing, Mother taking the Imp as a prisoner. The latter news had caused Robb to lock himself in Father's solar for the rest of the day with the maester, Theon, Jon, and Hallis Mollen. Jon and Robb had mentioned Moat Cailin and calling the banners when they'd thought that Bran was not listening. Soon after, he'd seen the riders hurrying south. Jon had not been happy after that. Bran thought it had to do with the Imp being imprisoned. They had struck up a friendship, he remembered, while traveling together.
And now another raven, another message. Bran clung to hope, a small part of him feeling foolish for doing so. "Was it from Mother? Is she coming home?"
"The message was from Alyn in King's Landing," Robb said, taking a breath before continuing. "Jory is dead. And Wyl and Heward as well. Murdered by the Kingslayer." Robb lifted his face to the pale sky, letting the flakes melt on his face, making them look like tears. "May the gods give them rest."
Bran stayed silent, feeling as though there was a large bruise on his stomach and something was pressing it hard. It was almost too hard to imagine. "Jory is dead?"
"Aye. And Father was caught underneath his horse in the fight. His leg shattered and …" Jon swallowed and shook his head. "He hasn't woken up yet."
"But … he'll wake up, no?" Bran asked, clinging to hope again.
"He will," Jon said. His head jerked toward Robb, and his eyes were wide with fear. "Father will wake," he repeated in revelation.
"He will," Robb agreed though warily. But Jon's tone had struck a chord of fear into him. Bran knew it did because it had struck that same fear into him.
A thundering of hooves reached them as Theon Greyjoy reined up within the little circle, Maester Luwin plodding not too far behind. Their guardsmen were closing in but at Robb's raised fist, they stopped short, out of earshot. "Telling him the news?" Theon asked, not smiling as he had been before.
"Couldn't find any turkeys in those girls' skirts?" Jon deflected, reining his horse around to face Theon.
The ironborn scowled. He had only joined the outing with a mind to feather some turkeys, Bran remembered Theon saying, but so far, he had only shown interest in jesting with the guards and speaking with some girls in Winter Town. But why their skirts? Bran wondered.
"No more than you can find steel in those peasants you train."
"We shall see who finds what first, Greyjoy," Jon said, cool as ever.
A short pause declared itself as the maester reached their circle, only for it to be broken by Theon. "Perhaps we should ask for Bran's thoughts on what to do." His tone held no mockery, confusing Bran.
"My brother is eight, Theon. I don't imagine your lord father sought out your thoughts during his rebellion," Jon retorted.
"Theon thinks I should call the banners," Robb said. Jon shot Robb a glance but kept quiet while Theon conveyed a smug expression toward Jon.
"Blood for blood," Greyjoy explained. Jon just shook his head. One by one, all pairs of eyes turned to place their attention upon him. Greyjoy with mild interest, Jon with his unreadable expression, while Robb and Maester Luwin held patience. They were waiting for him to say something
"Only the Lord of Winterfell can call the banners," Bran said, uncertain.
"If your father dies then Robb will rule the North."
"Theon!"
"He won't die!" Bran screamed at him.
Maester Luwin was the one who had scolded Greyjoy with his name. Jon's glare was dark and foreboding, like when a recruit would make the same mistake in the training yard over and over, but it was Robb who spoke. "Enough, Theon," he said with restrained calm. "Still . . . with Father incapacitated, the strength of the north lies in my hands."
Bran shivered, though not from the cold. Miserable, he felt the desire to lock himself in his chambers and stay alone, away from everyone. Maybe Summer would join him. If he came back from his hunt. He looked to Maester Luwin on his donkey. "What do you think, maester?" Luwin was wise and his advice would surely be wise too. Father and Mother always listened to him, he remembered. He knew Robb did too.
"The maester advises caution," said Theon, answering just as the elder man had opened his mouth.
"Let him speak his mind," Robb said.
"Aye. We listen to yours, don't we?" Jon asked Theon.
"This is a very complicated and delicate situation." Maester Luwin began after a deep breath. "It is a political situation where the tides shift and change with every conversation. We know little and less about the matters happening in King's Landing and the rest of the south. Ravens and riders can only travel so quickly and carry so much information. We could call the banners now and learn in a fortnight's time that all has been resolved. Worse yet, our actions could harm Lord Stark's efforts, whatever they may be. We simply do not know enough to commit to such a bold act as summoning the banners," he finished.
Bran nodded, thinking that the maester had a gift of saying little with a lot of words. He wondered if all maesters were quite like that.
"Not all. But most."
Bran stiffened visibly, catching Jon's attention. His brother cocked his head in question and Bran nodded.
"Blind sheep I like to call them. Herded from one pillar of knowledge to another. Never seeking a pillar on their own for how can they when their eyes are taken in their youth?"
"Can we go back now?" he asked tersely. "I'm cold."
Robb glanced toward the forest. "We should find the wolves. Can you stand to go a bit longer?"
Maester Luwin answered for him. "Perhaps Bran and I should head back. It's important to not overwork him and you need not his assistance in finding the wolves."
"I'll leave it to my brother to decide, maester."
"… I can go on a bit longer," Bran said reluctantly. He didn't want to go on, not really, but he was tired of being fussed over. He wasn't a baby like Rickon. He was the heir to the North after Robb. He didn't want to be seen as weak.
"Let's be on our way then," Jon said. Together, the three brothers trotted into the forest, looking for their companions. Theon dropped back toward the guards and followed well behind them while Maester Luwin fell behind on his donkey.
The snow grew gentle under the trees, and the world beyond Winterfell – which Bran had not witnessed in so long – opened up in its entire glory, bringing a blanket of peace to his mind. The damp, blackened, and browned leaves pricked his nose, and the cold gusts of wind that rattled off the trees stung his skin. Sharp caws and the rapid fluttering of wings whipped his head right to left and right again. A blur from the right drew his gaze. Bran frowned, seeing nothing there before the red eyes became visible to him. It was a rabbit in its winter fur. It stood there for several seconds, twitching, before dashing away; free to roam the forest. He wished he could have joined it.
Bran had slowed Dancer to a walk, matching Jon as Robb took the lead. Theon and the others had fallen out of sight and soon Bran could hear their voices no longer.
"What did it say?" Jon asked him, concern clear in his voice.
Bran told him, relaying his thoughts beforehand as well. Jon stayed quiet.
"Do you know?" Bran asked. "As to who it is."
"I suspected someone ... But it's not him. It can't be him"
"Who can't be him?"
"Not a man you need know of," Jon said. "Bran, have you ever heard its voice when you were alone? No Summer, no Rickon, no Hodor. No one but yourself."
Bran frowned, wondering why. He thought hard on it, thinking back on every word the voice had said and where Bran had been. "Aye, I have," he said. "It was when I was hanging on my window, watching you train the recruits. Summer was gone and the room was empty save for me." He looked up to Jon, who as usual did not give a reaction.
"But … why?" Bran asked, knowing that his questions seldom drew proper answers.
To his surprise, Jon did answer properly. "I wondered if it was some sort of skinchanger, sending his voice forward from leagues away for a creature to relay." Jon shook his head. "Of course, there would have to be powerful magic involved to get a creature to speak like the children of old could, and speak omnipresent at that."
"Skinchanger?" Bran stared. He wondered if this was some elaborate jape involving Old Nan and her stories like the time Jon dressed in flour to scare them in the crypts, but Jon's expression was serious. But then again, Jon's expression was almost always serious.
"Skinchangers," Jon affirmed at Bran's puzzled face. "They are more than just Old Nan's tales or myths from the Age of Heroes. Ride far enough beyond the Wall and you'll witness wargs with packs of wolves for company and skinchangers riding massive snow bears. South of the Wall, however," Jon's voice grew quieter. "You're like to find perhaps one skinchanger per kingdom. Living quietly and without any true animal companions lest they endure the persecution that comes after their exposure."
As Bran listened to Jon, he began to feel more than a passing fear at the idea of wargs and wizards. In Old Nan's tales, it had always been a cheap thrill, a cold tingle down the spine, or the building dam of anticipation in his gut that would burst at the story's conclusion. Even in his dream with the three-eyed crow, the fear had ended soon after the dream had. Listening to Jon, however, he understood that it was not just a story. The ending would not burst the dam and the cold tingle had a sharper edge stored away.
Jon saw the fear reflected on Bran's face for he reached over from his horse to clasp Bran's shoulder. "Bran, it's alright. Don't fear what I've just told you. A skinchanger does not make a monster out of a man." As he said that, Bran thought he saw some hurt in Jon's eyes, but he didn't understand.
"But in the stories … Old Nan always says—"
"—Stories are told to scare and amuse us, not to teach," Jon insisted. "I do not doubt that there are inklings of truth in those stories, but no more than inklings."
Bran nodded, feeling though as it had grown colder. From ahead came the faint sound of rushing waters. It grew louder until they reached the stream where Robb was waiting for them.
"Bran?" Robb asked, frowning. "What's wrong? Why have you grown so pale?"
Bran shook his head. He didn't want to answer, so Jon, almost as if reading his mind, answered for him, saying that Bran had grown slightly frightened at something he'd said. Robb didn't tease nor even look amused, he only glanced at Jon before saying that they should cross the stream.
Stark and Snow went first, leading their mounts by rein while the current ran fast and up to their thighs at the deepest. Tying his gelding to a tree, Robb returned for Bran while Jon crouched on the bank, inspecting the parts of the stream where foam formed to masquerade as snow. On his crossing, Bran couldn't help but laugh when the spray of the stream hit his face. His laughter echoed in the snow-filled quiet.
They were on the far side when the howl echoed through the sky and forest. They raised their heads to listen. "Summer," Bran said. No sooner had he spoken, a second voice joined the call, though the third never came.
"They've made a kill," Robb said as he remounted. "I'd best go and bring them back. Wait with Jon. Theon and the others should be along shortly."
"I want to go with you," Bran said.
"I'll find them faster by myself." Robb snapped his reins and vanished into the sentinels and firs.
Once he was gone, Jon stood and handed the reins of his mount to Bran. Muttering beneath his breath, he walked a small distance away, searching for something. Soon, his pale figure was hidden by the trees and snow. Bran stretched his body and picked at his straps to relieve the chafe that had formed there. Around him, the world grew whiter on the stones and branches, and wetter on the leaf-covered forest bed. His breath steamed and his breathing sounded too loud. It made him feel alone. It was what he wanted. Or … had wanted, a short while ago when they had told him of Jory's death and Father's fall. Now he just wanted Jon and Robb to return.
"Bran!" Jon shouted. Bran startled at the alarm in his voice. He appeared from the tree, running back with all haste and his steel bare of its sheath. Seizing his mount's rein back, he whispered, low and hard, "Bran, I need you to go! Now! Ride off in Robb's direction and don't stop unless you see me or Robb or the guards, do you understand?"
"What? Wh—"
The leaves rustled. Jon paused, taking two steps back. Bran made Dancer turn to the noise and was met with the sight of ragged men stepping out onto the stream's bank. They were strangers, four of them, with two more appearing behind Bran.
"Good day to you," Jon greeted coolly, steel still bare. With a look, Bran knew they meant no good intentions. Their clothes were almost falling apart from heavy use, and the filth and grime on their skins and hair made it clear they had no comfortable dwellings. He became suddenly conscious of how richly he and Jon had dressed. New leathers, silver buttons, fur-trimmed cloaks. They looked cleaner as well, some of the men looking though as they hadn't bathed in months.
"Put down the sword now, lad," said the biggest of them, a bald man with a raw, red face. "No need for blood-shedding."
Jon shook his head. "I think not. It would be wise of you all to flee and pray you'll get away. Or you can take the time to kill us and loot our bodies, and our guard will come and slaughter you all."
"Your guard, is it?" a second man said warily. Grey stubble covered his gaunt face. "No. I know your face." He spat. "Them Starks. You're Benjen Stark's blood." His gaunt face turned to Bran who worked to keep his breathing calm.
"Aye," said Jon. "You'd best leave, deserter." Jon raised his sword, though Bran noticed how loose his grip was.
The man with the grey stubble laughed. "Boy's Stark for sure. Only Starks make threats where fools would beg."
"They're just pups," said a short woman with greasy yellow hair. "Cut off his cock and shove it down his throat."
"You're stupider than you're uglier, Hali," said the woman with the spear. She was taller than both his brothers and bore an iron half-helm on her head. "The boys are worth nothing dead, but alive . . . gods be damned, think what Mance would give to have Benjen Stark's own blood to hostage!"
Bran watched Jon anxiously while they bickered. His brother had closed his eyes but now had them open and eyeing the two behind them.
"… more the fools you, Osha … Now, boy, hand over your steel and your cloaks," the big man said, lifting his knife as a warning.
"We'll take the horses too," said Hali. "Get down, and be quick about it." A knife slid from her sleeve into her hand, its edge jagged as a saw.
"If you want them, come and get them," was Jon's reply.
The big man growled and marched forward. At that moment, Jon's horse went wild, rearing on its hind legs and charging toward the big man, knocking him to the side.
"Bran, go! Run!" Jon shouted, grabbing his dagger and causing it to sprout in the throat of a man behind them. "Go!" Jon shouted once more. The second man had rushed to cross swords with Jon, but just then, Ghost leapt out from a thicket and sunk his teeth in the man's calves. The man screamed and turned to drive his sword through Ghost, but Jon appeared suddenly, slashing at his throat before the man realized what had happened.
Bran's heart raced, his palms clammed upon seeing the snow ripen red with blood. He almost closed his eyes and froze up, but he remembered Father's words. Can a man still be brave if he's afraid? That is the only time a man can be brave. He whipped Dancer around and leaned down to whisper a command when -
"Ah! Abandoning your brother to die, I see."
Bran did freeze now, command dying on his lips. A harrowing neigh shot through Bran's body like a thousand tiny needles. Jon's horse, who had been occupying the rest of the ragged band of wildlings and deserters, had taken a spear to the belly. Now was on his side, screaming all the pain in the world. Another swift thrust from the tall woman and the poor creature was allowed mercy.
"Bran, go!" Jon pushed Dancer's head as he and Ghost put themselves in between Bran and the raiders. He seemed in great pain, and Bran's heart grew cold at the thought of him having taken a wound.
"Give it up, boy," the big man said, eyeing Ghost. "You're outnumbered even with your dog. Put down your steel, take your brother and just run while you can." The big man stepped forward slowly, followed by the rest. He was right, Jon was still too few even with Ghost, and now, with his horse dead, he could not flee like Bran.
"Put down your steel now, and I promise you shall have a quick and painless death,"
Robb called out.
Bran looked up in desperate hope, and there his brother rose. His voice had cracked, but that did not deter the sight he made: mounted with the bloody carcass of an elk slung across the back of his horse, his sword in a gloved hand.
"Who's this one?" asked the man with the grey stubbly face.
"Another boy," mocked the short woman. "You mean to fight us, boy?"
"Don't be a fool, lad. You're outnumbered still." The tall woman leveled her spear, though it seemed to shake in its stance.
"Off the horse, drop the sword, and leave. We'll thank you for the venison, and you and your brothers, I take it, can be on your way," said the big man.
"I think not," Jon said darkly. Robb whistled and the low-hanging branches parted to reveal Grey Wind and Summer. "I gave you the chance to leave. You refused. Now we only offer a chance at a painless death."
"Wolves," gasped Hali.
"Direwolves," Bran said. Half-grown still, they were as large and as frightening as any wolf he had ever seen or heard of. And there was something bone-chilling about them as they stood there amid the snow; fresh blood painting their muzzles.
"Now," Jon said. "Lay down your steel."
The tension ran thick but it was quiet aside from the big man's breathing. His eyes blinked wildly from Jon to the wolves to Robb and back, betraying his hesitation. The other ones were similar. They were at a loss and Bran thought he could almost smell the reek of fear and desperation.
"Bloody …" the big man couldn't speak, so he brandished his dagger, his unspoken words clear as day.
Jon sighed. "Theon!" he shouted. "I found your turkeys!"
A low thrum came from the woods behind Bran, and an arrow took Osha in the mouth, causing her to collapse in a sprout of blood. His head spun around to see the guardsmen rushing out of the woods while Greyjoy stood fifty paces back, arrows thrust into the soft ground beneath his feet.
The tension broke. Hali turned to flee, the grey stubbled man taking after the same idea just as the big man gave a war cry and charged him and Jon.
Unbidden by any command, Dancer lurched, then turned head and galloped away just as the big man swung. Bran barely held on as his horse raced towards Theon and past the rushing guards. Behind him, steel met steel, then met flesh, and a piercing scream echoed through the woods. There were more screams, but those were further away.
Reaching Theon, Dancer quit his mad charge, and Bran whipped his head back in time to see the big man's body crumble to the forest bed like a puppet cut of its strings. Jon had taken the big man's head with one, clean swing. He'd been on his knees, screaming and bleeding through his hands which were covering his eyes.
"Seven bloody …" muttered Theon, bending to retrieve his arrows.
Bran turned back and began his struggle with Dancer. She was acting stubborn and dismissive, refusing to follow the rein and whisper commands she had learned for weeks. He leaned down and whispered to the filly. Only after much coaxing did she agree to follow his command and turn.
Maester Luwin appeared by his elbow then, asking if he was unhurt. "I'm fine. The bandits didn't even lay a finger on me." Bran told him as the older man felt through his body for any injuries.
The maester nodded and stepped back. A sharp clang sounded and Bran looked for the source. It was Jon. He'd thrown aside his sword and now sat beside the rushing stream, washing his hands and face. Bran looked past him and saw the wolves and what had become of the Hali and the grey man. They were both dead. They were both being feasted upon. Hali, her guts slinking out like blue snakes, eyes glassy. The grey man on his back, Summer's body blocking the sight of his ruined throat and face.
Bran looked away.
He snapped his reins and Dancer started towards where Robb was berating the guards and Theon. "Did you see how Dancer ran off without warning or command?" Bran asked the maester. "Why would he do that?"
"She's just a horse, Bran. She must have become frightened by the blood and noise. All horses run off similarly when faced with such situations. Only the stupid or experienced ones don't."
Bran thought it made sense, but he thought it had felt different. Dancer had not been afraid, he thought.
"Is my brother hale?" Robb asked Luwin.
"I'm unhurt. The bandits did not even lay a finger on me," Bran said.
Robb nodded. "The gods are good."
"Two of them don the black," the maester told Robb.
Robb glanced down to where Stiv's body lay severed from its head, his ragged black cloak slowly becoming whiter. "Deserters from the Wall," he said grimly. "How many of them this year already?"
"Six by my last count."
"Four deserters last year. Perhaps eight the next. Then a dozen. A score. I wonder who'll be manning the Wall in twenty years' time."
"Men will be found," Maester Luwin assured him.
"They must have been fools to come so close to Winterfell," Theon said, joining in.
"Folly and desperation are ofttimes hard to tell apart," said Maester Luwin.
"Shall we bury them, m'lord?" asked Quent.
"They would not have buried us," Robb said. "Hack off their heads. We'll send them back to the Wall. The carrion crows can have the rest."
"And this one?" Quent jerked a thumb toward Osha. She was writhing on the floor, her jaw and throat a bloody ruin from Theon's arrow. Bran had forgotten about her.
Robb walked over to her, grimacing at the sight. She looked at Robb, though with what emotion, Bran could not tell. "She won't live long. Not with those wounds," Robb said. The woman coughed up a brief fountain of blood. With her hand, she reached toward Robb though he stood too far away to grab.
Theon Greyjoy sauntered closer. "Leave her here. Alive and suffering," he urged Robb. "She'll die regardless." She coughed again and shuddered. The guardsmen looked queasy. Maester Luwin stepped forward from Bran's side to offer his wisdom when Jon spoke up.
"No." The word came out hard and snapped everyone's heads toward him.
Jon rose from his seat by the stream and moved toward Osha, stooping to reclaim his sword. His face showed evenness, but his breathing betrayed the feverish feelings he was feeling.
"If you want someone dead, Greyjoy," Jon said, looking at Osha's bloody face and wide eyes without a hint of emotion. "Then you kill them." Switching his grip to reverse, Jon drove the tip into her heart, killing her instantly. Wrenching it out, he tossed the sword aside again before walking away.
"She was a woman," Robb told Jon, uncertain.
"Aye." He didn't pause walking away. "So was the other one." He kept walking, away from the group and away from the carnage.
As the guards moved to carry out Robb's orders and as Robb ordered the march home, Bran could not stop thinking of the dead wildlings and the wildlings who had breathed and lived. He could not help but picture Osha's ruined face and Hali with her guts open and spilling. Just a little while past, they had surrounded Jon and him, and now they were as dead as Jory.
Aurane Waters
The clash of steel on steel met his ears before Littlefinger met his eyes.
He stopped twenty paces away, letting his eyes take in the scene. To his right was the yard where the Kingsguard sparred frequently and in his path was Littlefinger in between two pillars. Aurane watched as Trant and Blount hacked away at each other like butchers in a slaughterhouse. Littlefinger had not seen him yet. He was too busy watching the two knights in their shiny armor.
A smile tugged on his lips as he crept up behind the Master of Coin.
"I did not think to see you here, Lord Baelish." He did not jump as Aurane had expected him to. "I would have expected that a man with as many friends as you would be able to stay well-informed from afar."
He kept his gaze on the yard. "Captain Aurane. I could say the same for many. You, to name one."
"Oh no, my friends cannot be compared with yours."
Littlefinger took his eyes away from the hack-and-slash and gave him a smile that quite didn't reach his eyes. "I was paying my respects to his daughters. As is expected by us lords." Aurane nodded, resisting the urge to laugh at the insinuation. Baelish in his plum-colored doublet and silver and cream cape, Aurane with a weathered tunic, worn boots, and dusty wide-brimmed hat. At least I am prettier, he japed with himself.
"I hope Lord Stark is faring better."
He shrugged. "There is no change. He sleeps as he has done for the past three days."
In the yard, Trant had Blount stumbling back, shield barely raised, and head open for a slash. Yet he failed to press his reeling opponent, allowing Blount time to recover. Aurane rolled his eyes.
"Ten dragons on Ser Meryn."
Aurane pondered a minute. "I'll take it," he said, though he knew that the dragons were likely lost.
Blount came back hard and thrust roughly into Trant's shield, forcing him backward … or so Blount had thought as he pressed forward only to find a riposte scrape off his plate. Blount tried his luck once more with a low swing, but Trant's shield came down in time and his foot kicked off Blount's shield, establishing distance.
"Do you reckon they will take poorly to my visit?"
"It's not in my position to say," Baelish said neutrally.
Now, Blount was circling a still Trant. He circled and circled and kept circling until he came to a still. Exchanging several words with his sworn brother, Blount handed the blunted steel to his squire and left for the armory.
"What a travesty. The bards would sooner eat their tongues than write a ballad of this."
"I agree," Baelish said. He looked down at his doublet and spotted a piece of lint hanging on the black mockingbird sigil. "And our bet has not concluded."
"Perhaps another time. And between more worthy contestants."
"Indeed."
Aurane glanced up towards the Tower of the Hand and its closed windows. The sun gleamed harshly against the crenelated battlements, making Aurane note that the chambers had most likely become stifling. He wondered which was inconveniencing Ned Stark more, the heat or the injury.
As Trant followed his brother out the yard and other knights and squires picked up their places, Aurane spoke, "I've heard that Lady Sansa is taken with songs of valor and tales of courage."
"A passing fancy," he waved off. "She will learn soon enough that life is not a song."
"As you did, my lord? That day against Brandon Stark?"
Baelish smiled, but Aurane could see the annoyance build in his gray-green eyes.
"I should go. I have important matters to attend to." Baelish turned, his cream and silver cape fluttering sharply.
"The trial?"
"I am required to attend by the will of His Grace," he said, walking away briskly.
Aurane followed, matching the shorter man's pace with ease. "Will the smallfolk get their wish, I wonder. They have been very vocal in desiring to see his head on a spike."
"Their wish or yours?"
Aurane shrugged. It was true that he had spread the rumors of him wanting the former harbormaster dead, but his true wish was more generous as it ended with Barth and his conspirators at the Wall. The King had wanted it over quickly and so wished for the man to be released from the cells and removed from his position, but Aurane had spoken with Renly and convinced him to convince Robert. The letters from the Wall and Winterfell asking for more men and supplies were reason enough, and the final nail was Renly telling Robert that it was what Ned Stark would want.
"It's strange, do you not think." Baelish stopped to look up at him. "We hang the commonfolk, yet they want him to receive the noble treatment of a spike."
"It's strange you see much difference. Hanging, beheading, quartering. Death is death, is it not?" Aurane asked.
"A rope is cheaper."
"Ah, of course. The Master of Coin is required to be frugal." He laughed.
Baelish shrugged. "It is the first lesson I was taught."
"Very well, my lord. I shall take my leave." Aurane didn't bother nodding his head, he turned and walked away, hearing Baelish do the same.
At the foot of the tower, the Stark guardsmen stopped and questioned him briefly before allowing him in. They were not in good spirits, Aurane saw as they eyed him with much suspicion and thinly-veiled anger. He did not blame them. Had it been Aurane injured, he would have been disappointed if his guards had not reacted in such a similar way.
"Captain Aurane," a voice greeted him from above. He stopped his ascent and witnessed a man similar in age with him climbing down. He offered his hand. "I am Alyn. The captain of the guards."
Aurane clasped his hand. "Well met, ser."
"I am not a ser, Captain, though I aspire to be one day," Alyn said.
You and half the realm, Aurane thought, but he didn't give voice to those thoughts. Instead, he smiled and offered him some empty flattery. Alyn refused to bite however and brusquely asked for his manner of coming.
"I came to pay my respects to Lord Stark," he answered.
Alyn eyed him up and down for a brief moment before asking Aurane to follow him. They labored up the steps to the very top where a pair of guards stood. "Wait here, Captain. Let me inform his daughters."
Alyn rapped lightly before disappearing into the chambers. The two men on guard stared at him hard as though he had a part to play in the incident. Aurane frowned, but then he reminded himself that most northmen acted hostile to 'southrons' as they called the people below the Neck. Standing there ruminating, Aurane recalled a conversation he once held with Salladhor Saan. The pirate had explained to him over a bowl of grapes and sweet wine that labels were tricky things. "If many thousands of years ago, my friend, you had lived to create the map and you came to the puzzle of naming what was up and what was down, would you have cared if you had decided to label north as south and south as north? If you had done as I say, then northerners would be southerners and southerners northerners." Salladhor had laughed at his expression and went on to explain further, saying that potatoes could have been called apples and apple pickles and we would have been none the wiser of the swap.
Aurane wondered why he had recalled the conversation just as Alyn opened the door and bid him enter. He realized as he stepped forward, that he had been right about the shining sun and the closed windows; the chambers were arid and stifling. The room contained fewer nurses than he had expected. Only one woman, dressed in light blues to denote her profession, hovered by the bedside with a damp cloth. Aside from her, the two Stark girls were there alongside a few guards. Pycelle was nowhere to be seen.
Lady Sansa was sitting by her father's bedside, hair frizzy and eyes red. He reached her and bowed low, catching a glimpse of the Seven-Pointed Star at the table.
"Lady Sansa," he greeted.
"Captain Aurane." She would have stood to curtsy had Aurane not put up his hands.
"Please," he said. "I have no desire to inconvenience you, my lady. I only came to offer my support and to tell you that your father's recovery is in my prayers."
"I thank you for your generosity, Captain Aurane," she croaked.
Aurane bowed his head. "Has Grand Maester Pycelle said anything about Lord Stark's recovery," he asked Alyn.
"The grand maester comes and goes. He checks up on the cast and feeds m'lord the milk whenever necessary. Says only the gods know when Lord Stark will wake."
Aurane looked at the northern lord's sleeping body. The nurse placed back the damp cloth on his sweaty forehead as she took another cloth to wipe away the rivulets of sweat forming on his neck and chest. The cast on his crushed leg was large and ungainly, yet despite it all, Ned Stark's face only expressed peace. Aurane wondered if he was dreaming.
He glanced toward the second sister, Arya, and grew surprised at the anger brimming in her eyes. She was quiet and her gaze toward her father was unwavering, he noted. Unlike Lady Sansa, her eyes were not red and her body did not spell worry. Her expression was of anger and hatred. This is not the first time the Lannisters have threatened her or her family, Aurane realized, remembering Darry.
"I will take my leave now," he said, more to Arya than the others. He wanted to see if her gaze would shift. It never did.
Speaking his farewells to Lady Sansa, he departed the chambers followed closely by Alyn.
"Has there been any cause for concern regarding the Starks' safety?" Aurane asked him.
"This does not concern you, Captain."
"I only mean well," Aurane reassured him.
"… There isn't any cause for concern. The King would go mad if there was another attack, and the Lannisters do not want that, I reckon."
"Perhaps," he said, his uncertainty clear. "Alyn, where is Lord Vayon? I have matters to speak on with him."
At the mention of the steward's name, Alyn's head suddenly hung and a low worry appeared in his guts. "Lord Poole is … Vayon is dead, Captain." Aurane stared, nonplussed. "He took a fever shortly after Lord Stark returned to the castle. He was fine the first day, then the fever ravaged him through the night, he could barely speak in the morning." Alyn rubbed his face with both hands. "He died by nightfall. We gave him to the silent sisters. Poor Jeyne … been inconsolable."
Aurane stepped back, staggered. The tears of Lys. But who and why? The Kingslayer had fled and Cersei did not have the access to spread poison through the Tower of the Hand? Littlefinger, he thought. But he did not see the end goal in the poisoning. Not this one at least.
"Alyn." The man's head wound up fast when he heard Aurane's tone. "You need to find a taster." Alyn shook his head in incomprehension. "Alyn. Wake up. Lord Poole was poisoned," he hissed. "And I am sure that he was not the intended target."
Now the captain of the guards looked thunderstruck so Aurane kept talking. "You need to find a taster for the ladies as soon as possible. Until then you must watch over every meal they take. The same applies to Lord Stark. Every milk cup, every potion, every tonic that is served to him, they must be watched over."
He stepped back, getting ready to leave. "And should Lord Stark's condition or the ladies' health worsen, call for a second maester. One other than Pycelle. Now go, Alyn. Time is slipping away." He turned and hurried from the tower.
All the while, he kept wondering what Littlefinger's wish was.