Andrew

The armoury doors of Riverrun were open from dawn, and Andrew stood with Mikken at the forge of Colren, his hammer ringing as sweat dripped off his bare chest. Colren the armourer of Riverrun had graciously given them the armoury of Riverrun to work on the scorpion bolts. Andrew had come back to the cavernous stone barn where the work was done to help Mikken and Colren with the bellows and look at their work himself.

He had joined them in the forge before dawn could arrive when the world was still shrouded in dark. He had been having a restless sleep for days now. Andrew always slept better with the great white wolf beside him; there was comfort in the smell of him, and welcome warmth in that shaggy pale fur. Last night, though, as Andrew called for the wolf to follow him back to the chambers, Ghost did no more than look at him. Then he had turned away and padded across the outer bailey of Riverrun, and quick as that he was gone. He wants to hunt, Andrew had thought then and left to his chambers alone. There were deers and aurochs to be had in the lands around Riverrun. Sometimes he even heard the howl of wolves. There must be something for him to hunt. Ghost was about the age and size to fear nothing. The direwolf would not even balk at the sight of full grown bears. Andrew had hoped that he would not go chasing after one though. Even for a direwolf, that would be dangerous.

Of late, he often dreamed of wolves. The wolf dreams had been growing stronger, and he found himself remembering them even when awake. Sometimes it was as if Ghost was talking to him, brother to brother, he told himself but come the morn the direwolf would not even make a sound. In his dreams he could almost understand the wolf. All his dreams were of Winterfell and his family and his name. Sometimes he heard his mother's voice, and my father's, as if they were at a feast, other times the whisper turned to have come from Joy. That night he had heard his mother calling for him yet again. But there was a wall between them, and he couldn't get past it no matter how hard he tried. When he knew he could never get past it and he was all alone once again, Andrew had woken up on his bed in the dead of night. He had felt like a little boy then, the little boy from Winterfell who had depended upon his mother in everything.

Once he had dreamed that he was Ghost, climbing up cliffs and running down the slopes of the hills and hunting elk amongst the trees of the Wolfswood, and that dream had turned out to be true. But he was not dreaming now, and that left him only words. She is gone now, Andrew thought to himself. All of them are gone now. Rhaegar killed his mother and father and he had buried Joy himself.

When the armourer opened the door of the furnace to feed the fire, the blast of hot air that came through made Andrew feel as though he were touching and battling the dragon at Winterfell once again. A dozen forges blazed in each corner, and the air stank of smoke and sulfur. Other armourers glanced up from their hammers and tongs just long enough to wipe the sweat from their brows, while bare-chested apprentice boys worked the bellows.

The gaggle of smiths, armourers, and ironmongers that had come with their lords from the North and the Vale and the Riverlands were all toiling hard in the forge of Riverrun crafting swords and mails and armours for the war. At times Andrew saw some of the boys gazing at him working in the bellows with wide eyes, as if they had never seen someone like him. He could never fault them however. Hardly ever does someone see a King working alongside them in the forge. He was content to work with them there. It gave him something to do and he had promised his men to bring the dragon down.

He hoisted the iron rod up into the air above his head and examined it under the light the came through the round window. "This is good work, Mikken. But I don't know if this is enough to pierce the scales of a dragon. We ought to have bigger ones than these." He handed the iron over to Mikken so that he could examine it and note the size that Andrew wanted for the bolt to be. Andrew took a sack he had hung at the wall, yanked the drawstring and upended the bag. Its contents spilled onto the rug with a muffled thunk of metal on earth. "I had seen bolts like these on the scorpions of a Braavosi warship. We would want a hundred more just like them."

One of the smiths knelt to inspect the object: three immense steel rods, with the spearhead made of black iron so dark it drank the light. "A mighty bolt."

"Mighty, but broken," Andrew replied. "And one bolt like this would not serve it's purpose. I want a good deal of such bolts. Do you have a name?"

"They call me Mikal, your grace," he said. "I came with Lord Royce." The smith was squat and broad, plainly dressed in wool and leather, but his arms were as thick as a bull's neck.

"I would like it if you could get this done as soon as possible," Andrew said.

A gentle murmur filled the armoury as they looked at the large scorpion bolt. Finally Mikken spoke up. "We could do it, your grace," he said.

Colren nodded beside him. "We will do it, your grace." He turned back to face the armours and the apprentices behind him. "We will have Riverrun's forge turned to making these bolts and sharpening them. All other work is to be put aside. You will hear hammers ringing, night and day. And you have all the men right here, to see that all this is done. Isn't that right men?"

"Aye," A dozen voices shouted at once.

"It would take some time though, your grace," Mikal said. "But what of the mail and swords and the other weapons of war?"

"That work can wait," Andrew said. "We would have to get it done first." The men did not lack for swords or axes or daggers, but they lacked for the scorpion bolts strong enough to bring the dragons down.

"My lord, begging your pardon, but we would need a lot of iron to make this possible," another smith said. "Iron and steel and other resources. We would need a lot of them."

"Aye, sire. Iron is grown dear," Colren declared, "and these bolts will be needing much of it, and coke beside, for the fires."

Andrew had not forgotten that. He had known a little about forge from his time in Braavos. He had helped an armourer to design the hidden blades himself. "You will have all that you need to make it happen. You have my word on it. I will have my men see to that you have all that as you need it," Andrew promised. He had to count on the coffers of Winterfell for that much, he hoped. "My men will help you find iron and the coal for the fires. We will have the ships bring in more supplies from Winterfell if it requires."

"In that case, my lord, we would be happy to get these bolts you've asked for," another smith said and clapped his friend on the shoulder and smiled. "So what are we waiting for? Let's help the Dragonslayer to slay more dragons."

A loud roar of smiths filled the armoury of Riverrun which made his smile. As the men get back to work, Andrew went around the forge to assist Mikken with the bellows. He was not good with the hammer of an armourer in hand as he was with sword in hand, but he knew how to work at the bellows.

"Get the fires up," Mikken said to the boy who added some chunks of coal to the furnace. He could instantly feel the heat rise up within the forge.

When the time came for him to blow some air into the fire, Andrew did it flawlessly that even Mikken was surprised. "I never knew you were so talented at this, your grace."

Andrew smiled at him. "I have some secrets as well." Secrets that he was not like to forget anytime soon.

Mikken chuckled lightly for a moment and took a step backward from the anvil and raised his hammer. "Your grace," he said, in a quiet tone. "I believe there is someone here for you."

When he turned, Andrew saw the steward of Riverrun, Utherydes Wayn walking hastily towards the armoury, with half a dozen guardsmen around him. He wondered why the steward would be so quick as to come for him now. He had never had any news of Aegon Targaryen moving away from Stoney Sept. Could the Prince have crept close under the cover of darkness. . . He did not know what he could do if a dragon descended on them so soon.

"Your Grace," Wayn said, breathless. "There has been a visitor for you. Lord Hoster and Lord Arryn are in the audience chamber with them."

Andrew thrust the iron rods in his hand into the wooden bucket and stepped away from the forge. He had not been expecting any visitor to come meet him today. "Visitors for me here in Riverrun?"

Wayn nodded. "They are asking for you, sire." The steward looked at his white shirt he had worn underneath the woolen jacket stained with smoke and dirt at the chest. "Would you like for fresh garb to be brought for you?"

Andrew fastened the jacket along the center with the silver clasps. "Continue on without me," he told the smiths. "I will be back soon." He wanted to see this visitor first and to know what he might want with him.

"Of course, your grace," Mikken said. "We shall have the work going on."

He hung his long leather gloves and leather jerkin inside the armoury, and took the jacket back from the wall and donned the fresh jacket upon the shirt he had worn beneath the jerkin as he worked in the forge. It would not be a proper way for a King to address a visitor, he knew, but he didn't care that much about it. Last of all he collected Frost, and slung the sword across his back.

Wayn was waiting for him patiently outside the armoury. Andrew gestured when he was ready to meet the visitor. Not wanting to waste anymore time, Andrew followed the steward back to the castle. Wayn led him away from the armoury across the narrow walkway along to the rear door of Riverrun. With the steward leading the way, they turned right from the great hall and up a half turn of stair, to Lord Hoster's audience chamber. He saw Lord Royce standing by the fire, his hands folded in front of his chest. Ser Brynden Tully was beside his brother, and Ser Robert Arryn was seated in a window seat. In the center of the room, Lord Arryn and Lord Tully were talking with a couple of men he didn't know. Lord Jason Mallister stood beside them, but the other two knights were strangers to him. Andrew wondered if they were the ones who wanted to meet him.

One of them was tall and handsome in a cloth-of-silver cloak and a suit of grey enameled scales. His companion was armoured like the sun, golden and beautiful. On the breastplate a large gilded sunflower opened its petals, reflecting any light it caught like the sun. Lord Arryn saw him first and announced his presence to the two men. "Here's the King, sers," he said. "The true heir of Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North."

Both men turned their heads around to face him and Andrew studied their faces, wondering if he could have met them before and forgotten them in his time at Braavos.

A bright smile lit up the face of man in the silver cloak. "I have seen you at last," he said and walked over to him. The knight put his hands on his shoulder and looked at him at an arms length. The question must have been clear on his face as the knight quickly stepped back and knelt in front of him. "I am sorry, Your Grace. You do not know me but I knew your mother well. Queen Ashara visited Oldtown many a times with her mother in her youth. I am Ser Gunthor of the High Tower. My sword is yours."

His companion followed suit. He crossed his arms against his chest and bowed his head. "And mine as well, Sire. I'm Ser Emmon Cuy of Sunflower Hall."

Hightower, he remembered then. His grandmother had been from Oldtown. His mother had told him a lot about her own mother's home at the mouth of the Honeywine. And the last he has heard of Oldtown was that Lord Leyton had called his banners. Andrew was glad to see them here. Though he did not know who this Ser Gunthor was. "My grandmother was a Hightower of Oldtown," Andrew said.

"She was, your grace," Ser Gunthor said. "Lady Alysanne Hightower was her name. A good woman she was and mine own sister."

Your sister. . . That would make him a son of Lord Leyton and an uncle to Andrew. "Anyone from my family is always welcome in my camp." He offered his hand for his uncle and the knight took his arm in a firm clasp.

"My Lord father would like to apologise for his mistakes in the past, your grace," Ser Gunthor said. "Oldtown never lifted a hand against the atrocities of House Targaryen in Starfall. We had nothing more to fight for after your family's demise, your grace. But it didn't mean we forgot your mother or your family. It's time to show that we have not forgotten our family."

"There is no need for any apologies, Ser," Andrew said. "My mother had told me a lot about her grandfather and her family at Oldtown."

"Your lord grandfather have sent me with enough men to join the your ranks and ships with supplies and weapons," Ser Gunthor said.

"We are most honoured to have the good men of Oldtown to join us in this war, Ser Gunthor," Lord Arryn said.

Ser Gunthor nodded. "We are honoured to join you all along with the strength of Oldtown, my lord."

"Lord Jason informs me that you came to Seagard with twenty ships. War galleys and galleas, and cogs," Andrew said.

"Just so, my king. The crossing can be perilous in this season. One ship alone may founder, or fall for prey to pirates or Ironborn, where twenty together may aid one another and chase of anyone who might be hoping to prey upon us."

"Perhaps before we leave here we might have a quiet word, my lords?" Andrew asked.

"I am at your service, Your Grace," Ser Gunthor said. "And there is no time like the present."

"As good as any. Shall we stay here in the solar, or would you like to have a breath of fresh air?"

Ser Gunthor glanced back to where his companion stood. Ser Emmon Cuy gave a ponderous shrug. "Its fine that we stay here, your grace," Ser Gunthor said. "After a long day in the saddle, a warm room sounds preferable to me."

"As you wish, then," Andrew said. "Would you like any refreshments? Some mulled wine, perhaps."

Ser Gunthor nodded as he sat down with Emmon Cuy on the other side of the table. Andrew sat down with Lord Arryn to his right with his son next to him, while Lord Hoster, Ser Edmure and Lord Jason Mallister took the seats to his left.

The audience chamber of Hoster Tully by the center of the castle was quiet enough for the talk, and especially warm. The servants had the fire going bright in the brazier; and the flames washed the solar in a welcoming warm.

Andrew poured wine for Ser Gunthor and Ser Emmon. "You came here by way of Seagard, I suppose?"

"Aye, we did, my lord. The narrow sea is too treacherous to cross at times. But my lord father wished it that I reach you with enough support as soon as possible. We had a rough time crossing Shipbreaker Bay and lost three of our ships. The matter that your grandfather mean to put to you is too delicate to entrust to letters."

"You come bearing any word from Oldtown, ser?" Andrew asked.

Ser Gunthor removed his glove, and drew a small parchment from a hidden flap within his sleeve. "It would please you to know that Oldtown as a whole has revoked any allegiance to the Iron Throne, your grace. And when I say as a whole, I mean it."

That had not been too hard to grasp though. The Hightowers had done that the moment Lord Leyton declared for his long lost grandson. Andrew wondered why there was the need to pen it down in a paper and get it to him though.

He got the parchment in his hand. It was sealed with the Hightower in white wax. Andrew broke the seal and read it slowly and studied the signatures and seals pressed at the bottom of the letter. "The High Septon has disputed and denounced the sovereignty of the Targaryens on the Iron Throne." He handed the parchment to Lord Jon, so he might read it for himself.

Lord Arryn read the letter slowly. "This changes everything," he declared. "Without the Faith the Targaryens lose all credibility and the legitimacy of their rule and hold on the Seven Kingdoms."

Much of this Andrew had surmised the moment he read the letter. He did not know what was supposed to happen now. Lord Arryn would know what to do with this massive move.

"We will have to wait for Robert and Lord Tywin to come to develop from here," Lord Arryn said. "Has the High Septon issued his announcement publicly?"

"Word will be getting out of Oldtown by now, my lord," Ser Gunthor said.

"Good," the old man said. "Has there been any word on the war in the Reach?"

"My brother Baelor is marching on from Oldtown to confront Lord Tyrell and Princess Daenerys. We captured some of the unhindered ships from the Royal fleet. Some required repairing and the port of Oldtown is working on it to put them back on sea."

That startled Andrew. He hoped that they would fare well, going against the dragon. He had lost enough to the dragons already. And he did not want to lose anyone else to the dragon's wroth.

"And the men who accompanied you?" Lord Royce asked.

"My men are on their way from Seagard as we speak now, my lord," the knight said. "I rode ahead of them to meet King Andrew."

"I require something of you, Ser," Andrew said.

"What do you require, your grace?"

"I might need your ships. With their crews."

"All the ships, sire?"

"If it comes to that, yes," Andrew said. "I only need them for a single voyage to the North. When the iron we have here run dry, I would like for your ships to get some from the stores of Winterfell. I can provide you with horses, provisions, guides, whatever is required to get you to Winterfell and back."

"Of course, your grace," Gunthor Hightower said. "Anything you need."

They talked for the better part of the day planning their next moves, and talking about his mother and grandmother with Ser Gunthor who knew both of whom. The flagon of mulled wine that the servants delivered made the time pass away without him realising it. By the time he had finished his talk with his Hightower uncle, Andrew had been quite happy, as happy as he could get. He thought that a good sign.

The ships from Oldtown would bring the fleet at North up to a strong number, including the great dromonds, the Quiet Wolf and the Lady of the Stars. With all these ships he might be able to strike straight at the heart of King's Landing or Dragonstone. That could wait for now, though. The tidings with the dragons should be taken care of first. It was not wise to sail too far south when the dragons still ruled the skies, especially when the beasts could put the fleet to torch while they are still crossing the waters with all his men on board. Those scorpion bolts should come first, and they should work for good.

The day had darkened by the time they left the audience chamber of Riverrun. A light chill had begun to settle in the evening air. "Our respite was a brief one, it would seem." Andrew drew his jacket about himself more tightly, smiling softly.

"Life is short, your grace. Autumn is nigh upon us," Ser Gunthor said. "The archmaesters of the Citadel would tell you so."

"Some of my men passed through Oldtown not long ago," Andrew told him. "Good men from the Company of the Rose. They were flying the banners with a violet rose. I do not suppose you chanced to encounter them?"

"I fear not, your grace," Ser Gunthor said. "A lot of ships pass through the Whispering Wood and the Redwyne Straits everyday. We had closed the harbour for some time before the Redwyne fleet and the Targaryen fleet arrived. And Ser Loras and Lord Redwyne claimed that they had met some sellsails and pirates along the way. We could ask after them if you would like."

"No need. By now they should be safe past Oldtown." If they are not laying dead at the bottom of the sea.

"Let us hope so. The narrow sea is perilous this time of year, and of late there have been troubling reports of strange ships seen amongst the Stepstones."

"Stepstones?"

"Aye, Stepstones. Some say the pirates have grown brave enough to return back to their old haunts, this is so. And the Ironborn longships creeps through the Broken Arm as well. On its way home, no doubt. But from trade or plunder? No one seems to know. There is also a queer talk of krakens in the sea. I suppose I am hungry now. Sailing and riding continuously for days will give a man an appetite. Will you be so good as to point me to the great hall?"

"I will take you there myself." Andrew gestured. "This way."

The great hall of the castle was situated directly beneath the audience chamber. Once there, Andrew sat down with the knights from the Reach to finish the dinner with them. With most of the lords from the North, the Riverlands and the Vale and their noble knights and valiant champions occupying Riverrun, the long, dank hall of Lord Hoster was crowded and warm.

Lord Arryn and his goodfather himself were absent, but Andrew saw Ser Edmure japing and laughing with his nephew, Ser Robert, Ser Marq Piper and Ser Patrek Mallister. Andrew saw Daryn Hornwood and Eddard Karstark, entertaining some of the men from the Company of Rose with an account of the battle at Riverrun. His squire Olyvar sat with a couple of other squires, sharing a flagon of ale and telling them about the white direwolf of his King.

Andrew sat down with his uncle and Ser Emmon in a table nearby the doors, far away from the raised dais where Kings were supposed at the high table. The cooks brought them crusted capons glazed with honey, fresh bread hot from the oven and a pitcher of thick northern ale to wash them down. Dinner was not a solemn affair by any means as it had been once. And by the time Andrew finished he was completely content, both with the food and the words of Ser Gunthor Hightower.

He took his leave of them in the yard. It had been a long day for the knights and they would need their rest. Andrew left for his chambers after seeing them off. He crossed the yard to the tower which Lord Tully had granted him during the stay on the northen end of the castle overlooking the Tumblestone.

From his chambers he could see the river beneath as the swift and wild Tumblestone plunged like a spear into the side of the broad Red Fork. Andrew could not find the direwolf there. He must be still at the hunt, he thought. He had hoped that Ghost would be back by that night. He missed the white wolf very much, the one who knew him very well. They were both one and the same. They had even lost their mothers as a child.

Andrew sighed and sat down at the oak-and-leather chair behind the trestle table. He had his grandfather's gift still left with him. Andrew read it over thrice. That was simple, he reflected. Simpler than I dared hope. Simpler than it should have been. A simple piece of paper having the power to make and break Kings.

It gave him an uneasy feeling. He cared naught for the gods and their will, but there were those who still believed that Kings were chosen by gods themselves. And the High Septon spoke for the gods, with the voice of the gods. A carefully placed word in the right ear and there would be unrest within King's Landing itself. Then he could round up his ships and put Rhaegar down for good.

Andrew closed his eyes. Just for a moment. . . And when he closed his eyes, he dreamed of direwolves.

He was alone once again, scattered away from his family. He felt a deep ache of emptiness, a sense of incompleteness. The forest was vast and cold, and he was so small, so lost. The family he had once known were out there somewhere, but he had lost their scent, all except one. He sat on his haunches and lifted his head to the darkening sky, and his cry echoed through the forest, a long lonely mournful sound. As it died away, he pricked up his ears, listening for an answer, but the only sound was the sigh of night air.

Andrew. . .

The call came from above him, softer than a whisper, but strong too. Someone knew his name? And the sound felt so familiar. He lifted his head up to the sky, searching for a glimpse of someone, something . . .

A star.

It seemed to flicker in the dark, its light bright and purple. The star was the only thing in the vast black plane. As he waited it descended down and the it's beautiful light reached down for the earth. . . no for him. Wary, he circled around it and looked at the star. The call came again and the light blazed so bright that it almost blinded him.

And suddenly he was back in the forest, his paws sunk deep in a heap of grass as he stood upon the edge of a great cliff surrounded by woods. The hill he stood upon was so lofty that from atop it he could see half the world. Around its brow stood a ring of huge pale stumps. The hill was so high and the surrounding lands so flat that no prey could escape from him unseen.

From the hill he could see a great town far away, its stone and wooden houses blackened by fire and smoke. There were men in the town as well, he saw now; many men, thousands, a huge host. Some were gathering around a fire in front of a huge building, while others trained for war. He watched as a line of armoured riders charged a shield wall, astride horses no larger than ants. The sound of their mock battle was a rustling of steel leaves, drifting faintly on the wind. Outside the gates neat rows of sharpened stakes guarded the walls. Everywhere he could see there were shelters and tents with men close by. He smelled goats and sheep, horses and smell of black smoke and the warm brown smell of earth and something else, something terrible. Fire, he knew. He was smelling fire and death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.

Then a sudden gust of cold made his fur stand up, and his ears picked up the sound of boots behind him. He turned his head, searching for the sound. He caught the scent of a stranger, the man-smell well mixed with leather and earth and iron.

The intruders had pushed a few yards into the hill when he came upon them; two females and a young male, with no taint of fear to them, even when he showed them the white of his teeth all in silence. Still they did not run.

"Here he is," the small female said. She had a white twig in her hand, helping her walk. Her hair was the same as his own fur.

The other female had a knife with her. "Did you know he would be so big?"

"He will get bigger that this," the young male said, watching them with eyes large, green, and unafraid. "He is strong . . . and sad. Can you feel him sister?"

"No," she said, moving a hand to the hilt of the long brown knife she wore. "Go careful, Jojen."

"He won't hurt me. This is not the day I die." The male walked toward them, unafraid, and reached out for his muzzle, a touch as light as a summer breeze. Yet at the brush of those fingers the wood dissolved. "Ghost!" Andrew shouted, sitting up in his bed. Another wolf dream, he thought and pressed his hand against the temple.

From the way the light had shifted, Andrew judged that he had been asleep for four or five hours. His head ached, and the dreams. . . it felt so real. That night at feast he found two more guests come looking for him. Desmond led the two new guests into the yard of Riverrun and Ghost was with them. The direwolf padded around the men and horses and came to his side. Andrew hugged him around his neck and scratched him beneath the jaw. "Your grace, the Lady Meera of House Reed," the guardsman announced. "With her brother, Jojen, of Greywater Watch."

Men looked at the newcomers from all around the yard. Lord Hoster nodded lightly. "Be welcome, friends."

Reed, Andrew thought. These must be Lord Howland's children. And the girl, Meera, she was the one in the wolf dream.

She wore the same lambskin breeches and the jerkin armored in bronze scales. Though near his own age, she was slim as a boy, with long brown hair knotted behind her head and only the barest suggestion of breasts. Her brother was several years younger and bore no weapons.

"Your grace," the girl said. "My lord father has sent us here to be with your side and serve you as the Reeds have always done for the Starks."

Andrew smiled. "Your father have always done a great service to my family. I thank him for that."

The boy, Jojen, looked around the yard curiously. "Can we talk to you alone, Your grace?"

"Of course, yes," Andrew said. "Would you like to come to my solar?"

"Perhaps we could have a walk in the godswood?" Jojen asked.

Andrew nodded and walked with them to the godswood. Ghost padded alongside him, not minding the Reeds.

When they were halfway into the wood, Jojen spoke first. "You know us don't you, Your grace?"

Andrew knew what he meant by that. Though he didn't know how Jojen Reed knew that. "You are Lord Howland's children. . ."

"You knew us before you even saw us. Last night."

"It was only a dream," said Andrew feebly. "I was Ghost, I was on the edge of the hill looking down at some army."

"It's all true. Like us. Tell me all that you remember, from first to last," said Jojen.

Andrew was confused. "It was only a dream."

"A wolf dream," the boy said. "An army is really gathering in the Riverlands. And your wolf was pursuing them for days. You saw them when you wore his skin. You are a warg, your grace and a strong one at that."

"Warg? As in Skinchanger from Old Nan's stories?" Andrew asked. Skinchangers and wargs belonged in Old Nan's stories, not in the world he had lived in all his life. It couldn't be true. He had seen these dreams before and he heard his mother and father and Joy often in his dreams. It was just a dream, he thought. They are dead. He had buried Joy in the cold earth himself.

"Yes, your grace," Jojen said looking at the direwolf. "I have seen it in my dreams as well."

Ghost walked close to Andrew and rubbed his head against his hand. "Does this mean my dreams are true?"

"All of it," said Jojen. "With enough training you could wear his skin any time you want. You can think with his brain, act with his heart and move using his body."

"How do you know all this?" Andrew asked.

"Because I am one," Jojen said and a raven flew from the trees to land on his shoulder.

Was he a skinchanger as well? And could he be telling the truth? Did he see the Targaryen army? He didn't know. There was only one way to find out about it. "How do I know you are telling the truth?" Andrew asked.

"What can I do to make you believe?"

Andrew scratched the scruff of Ghost softly. "There is a letter that I want to sent off to a certain hand."

"Where to, your grace?" Jojen Reed asked.

"Stoney Sept."