Jon Snow
"Perhaps we should stop now, Jon," Wayn panted, exhausted. Yet as tired as Wayn was, Jon was thrice so. Wayn was his third sparring partner that day, following Donnis and Hallis Mollen. Jon had fought each in quick succession, with few breaks in between, allowing his body to become one giant bruise.
Jon swallowed, though it did little to alleviate the drought in his throat. To answer Wayn, he lowered the blunted sword's tip into the mud and nodded. Donnis tossed him a skin of water which flooded down his throat and head until it ran dry. His arms hung like dead weights and his legs burned so much so that he fashioned his sword into a cane to reach the bench. Setting aside his shield, helm, and sword, he reached for another waterskin and drained half before beginning to feel sick.
"You're pushing yourself too hard, Snow," Donnis said, rolling the shoulder where Jon had caught him with a wicked quick forehand slash.
"I know," Jon answered, looking at the darkening sky. The smallfolk he had been drilling along with most of Winterfell's guard had long gone, leaving Jon with Donnis and Wayn.
"Is something the matter?" Wayn asked. "I can't recall you ever training this hard before."
Jon opened his mouth but nothing came out. How could he explain it to them? How could he explain to them the army with blue eyes? Bluer than they had any right to be. How could he describe to them the terror he felt every time he thought of the Wall and what lay beyond? He could not even begin to describe his terror to Robb, his brother whom he trusted more than anyone else. So, he sent his thoughts south and when he opened his mouth once more, he had his answer.
"We'll be marching off to war soon enough." Jon shrugged. "And I'd be loathed to be unprepared."
Wayn laughed. "Not sure how much training can help you against some of them bastards."
"The Kingslayer for one," Donnis provided.
"How is he?" Jon asked, suddenly curious. He had been comatose for much of the king's visit, and bedridden for the rest. "The Kingslayer, I mean. I didn't have the chance to see him."
Wayn shared a glance with Donnis.
"Arrogant."
"Golden."
"Too pretty."
"He even had a sword gilded gold," Wayn said.
"What else can you expect from a Lannister?"
"And in the yard?" Jon asked.
Donnis' eyes glazed with slight awe. "If there's a better swordsman, I do not know him. He made us look like first-day recruits."
"You sparred with him?" Jon asked in surprise.
"Aye," Wayn said in a clipped tone. "Came out to the yard one morning, gleaming whiter than the snow, saying he was bored and wanted to test Lord Stark's men. He said he would fight three of us at once in a show of fairness. Well, he did. Then it was four, then five. He beat us all down, mocking all the while."
"What else can you expect from a Lannister?" Donnis repeated.
They then began to bicker about arrogance and confidence. Jon kept quiet. In his mind appeared a golden shadow with a golden blade. The shadow was quick and masterful, defeating a dozen men with ease. Meanwhile, Jon sat on a bench. Battered and bruised after just three guards, and all of whom he had faced one at a time. I'm getting better, he told himself. And it was true. Few of Winterfell's guards could match him these days, despite all of them being older and more experienced. Even Robb, in spite of the rivalry between the brothers, could equal him no longer. Although Jon excused him, noticing Robb's increased responsibilities as the reason for his straggle.
As often was the case, his thoughts drifted towards his old memories, as he had dubbed them. The Dragonknight, who had slain Dornish champions and vengeful assassins. Daemon Targaryen, a man who slew kin in the same fashion as he had pirate lords. Jon could see the blur of the sword, Dark Sister; the blood splattered through the air, the silence that followed afterward. As a child, he had dreamed of being as skillful, as great. Now, having seen what had truly happened as opposed to the singers' songs, he prayed his old dreams remained as dreams, and that the long summer would come before another war. Yet, watching the indigo sky and the awakening stars from Winterfell's muddy yard, he knew he would have to face those great knights and champions. Sure as he knew that one day, he would stand before that dark army with burning blue eyes.
Jon prayed he would be ready then.
Donnis and Wayn, still bickering, left for the bathhouses. Dinner was fast approaching. He could see the servants carrying trenchers and pots out of the kitchens. His belly growled as he stood and made his way to the armory.
A pair of maids came across his path, casting furtive glances before hurrying their strides. He stared after the pair irately until a wet feeling pushed into his hand. It was Ghost, staring up at him with his eerie eyes. Absentmindedly, he scratched the spot behind his right ear before stalking into the armory; his mood soured.
The armory was cold save for the burning brazier. Ghost, seeming to sense the cold, quickly curled up beside the fire. Jon worked his armor off in anger, tugging at the straps and belts with excessive force while his bruises chided him with throbbing pain. He stripped off his muddy and sweat-soaked clothes too. A barrel of cold water was always kept in the armory, as a way to wash up after practice. By the time Jon had wiped himself clean and donned fresh clothing, he was shivering and so stumbled his way towards Ghost.
He wrapped his pale cloak around his shoulders and sat on a bench, his breath leaving traces despite the burning brazier. At least they've stopped whispering, Jon thought. It was one thing to endure the occasional furtive glance, Jon had been the target of such gazes for as long as he could remember. It was another thing to endure a storm of whispers in which he was the target.
Ghost raised his head, his red eyes looking at him, accusingly, he thought. "I know the fault lies with me, Ghost," he said, irritably. He leaned back and stared at the blackened rafters, wishing that he had acted differently.
Ever since that night when the assassin struck and the library burned, the night that he revealed to Robb and many others of his ability when he exclaimed that Lady Stark had been hurt by a catspaw. Ever since that night, he had known the problem. Skinchangers were not welcome. They had not been welcome since the age of heroes, and Jon doubted that would change soon, if ever.
He had acquitted himself with Robb that night, answering his questions, telling him of his dreams, even declaring Robb to be one as well. Yet, he had not absolved himself with Winterfell's prejudice and fears. Instead, he had fled to the Wall, hoping, childishly, that they would come to reason on their own, and remember that he was Jon, not some monster from the old tales.
Fool, a voice cried in his head. When he returned, all of Winterfell seemed to know what he was, and most of them feared it. Scared and unsure, Jon had done nothing but let the whispers grow and fester. Bloodraven had often executed or removed the tongues of those speaking treason. Aemon had dueled to the death any who dared slander his dear sister. But neither of those examples helped him, he thought. Jon considered having Robb interfere and forbid such talk, but he feared that would not keep the resentment from growing. And it was resentment more than the whispers which frightened Jon. Whispers are words, and words are wind, he had assured himself. So, knowing not what to do, he did nothing.
Until the winds shifted. The words turned hostile.
As Jon eavesdropped more and more using Ghost and his ravens, he realized the gossipers had become conspirators. They visited his chambers one night, intent on cutting his throat. A band of three, Loma, Byrd, and Tillon. Loma worked in the kitchens with Gage the cook. Byrd, the tanner's apprentice who liked to laugh at lewd japes. Tillon, a groom that had buried a wife and a son.
They were dead, and the taste of their betrayal lingered bitterly on his tongue.
Jon had known they would come a day before they did. He'd overheard them through a crow, and once he told Robb, their fates were sealed. His brother had been angry, angrier than Jon had ever seen him be. In the end, Hal had laid the trap. A group of guardsmen had lain in wait inside Jon's chamber. When the would-be murderers came, they were quickly overwhelmed, shackled, and thrown into a cell.
"You're a fool!" Robb had told him angrily afterwards. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" They had gone up to the rookery at his insistence. It was early, but the ravens had awoken already and begun their chorus.
Jon shrugged. "I didn't see the rumors or the whisperings as a problem." They were watching the sun's ascent over the horizon. "I … also came to the wrong conclusions."
"What conclusions?"
"… When Aenys Targaryen came to the throne, he was considered weak and indecisive by many. The High Septon denounced him, the faithful rebelled, the smallfolk jeered his children, and his lords criticized him. Even his own brother defied his wishes and married a second time. In the end, he died while his children were besieged, his capitol lost, and his kingdom dissolved slowly before his eyes."
"I don't see-"
"He did nothing," Jon interjected. He turned to Robb "He did not challenge those who slandered and defied him, and in not doing so, he allowed their truth to prevail. When Ser Morgil spread slander over the queen's reputation, Prince Aemon slew him in single combat. When Bloodraven came to power, a whisper of treason would be enough to hang. Thus, the supposed truth was challenged and brought down. I failed to see the challenge in their actions. I only saw the blood."
Robb looked puzzled. "Their truth?"
"The story, the lie your enemy spreads. Challenge that story, the lie and you sow confusion and uncertainty. Now there are two stories, two truths, and people must decide which to believe."
The next day, the gallows were put to use, the three men hanged. It was a long drop, so mercifully they died quick, their necks snapping in an instant. The gathered crowd, already cowed silent by Robb's orders and threats, broke their stillness and began to scatter. Mindful of Robb's words, none dared say a word, though several still glanced his way. As they died and their youthful faces turned blue, Jon was grateful that Bran and Rickon had been kept away by the maester.
His belly growled again and Jon took that as a sign to get up. He looked down at Ghost to find the direwolf staring at him. Jon smiled, having brooded out of his irritation. He rubbed his companion's head. "Hungry for some lamb? I overheard Gage say he added some spices to it." The doors banged open, startling Jon before he realized who it was.
"Jon!" Robb greeted, red-faced from the cold.
"Robb." He nodded. "Close the door if you will. It's cold."
Robb smiled his easy smile. "You jest, brother. Surely a man named Snow would not mind a mild breeze such as this one."
"Your face has turned as red as your hair in this mild breeze of yours."
Robb swore, then laughed. Before closing the door, Grey Wind loped in and began to nip at Ghost's ear. When that didn't entice the albino to get up, Grey Wind shadowed him by curling up beside the brazier. "You'll be pleased, I think, to find that Mikken has finished it." With that, Robb opened his cloak to reveal a bundle of cloth.
Jon stood abruptly. "Already?"
"Aye. Mikken left the scabbards to his apprentices, but the sword he made himself." Robb unwrapped the bundle where a slender sword and two similar-sized sheaths lay. The sword hilt was as plain as the scabbard housing it, but the second, empty scabbard, inlaid with a gilded steel mouth and tip, shone like gold, with red garnets studded across the metal.
"Well?"
Jon wrenched the sword out and studied its blade. He nodded. "It will fit."
"Only one way to be sure."
Jon heard the eagerness in Robb's voice and agreed with it. Dark Sister was a beautiful blade, one that inspired awe and terror, and such a sword needed an appropriately ornate scabbard. Dark Sister had come without one, so with some cleverness, Jon had commissioned from Mikken a slender sword of similar size and two scabbards, one plain and one ornate.
"We'll check after supper," he told Robb. "It wouldn't do to be caught by a snooping maid or servant that happened to wonder where we wandered off to."
The pair of brothers trudged out into the cold, muddy yard, their direwolves loping ahead of them. The sky had turned starry and dark, but the yards and corridors of the keep were lit by torches, the chambers, and halls by hearths and braziers. They entered the Great Hall. Approaching the dais, Jon saw Hallis Mollen and Maester Luwin waiting with their stew served. Theon was still sleeping off a blow to the head from training, Jon guessed. Rickon, he saw, had begun already, though he eyed the toddler with suspicion when he viewed no Shaggydog by his side. Rickon rarely let his wolf out of his sight. Five they were, he counted, and Bran was missing. Again.
"Is the sleeping draught not working?" Jon asked once their stew had been served. Lamb stew, and pinched with some spice as he'd known. Jon tossed Ghost a few legs. Robb did the same.
"Even with my draught, he sleeps irregularly. Up too early or asleep far too long." The maester sighed. "I dare not give him any more of the sweetsleep. It does not leave the body, you know. Too much now could cause him great harm in the years to come."
"Does the draught give him a dreamless sleep?" he asked.
"It does," Luwin confirmed. Jon sighed.
"Do your best, Maester Luwin," Robb commanded and the old man bowed his head.
Jon ate his stew without relish as prickling frustration came over him. The voice! It was the voice that troubled Bran greatly, he knew. The voice had almost led Bran to his death in the wolfswood. It continued to pour poison like a waterfall into Bran's ear, and all Jon could tell Bran was to not listen. Who and what was that voice? He pondered without answer, only suspicion.
His eyes pored over the twisted, thin tower of black. The edges were sharp in a way that no wax could match. But Brynden knew already that it was no wax he stared at. Two pale fingers reached over to grasp at the tip, careful to not break his skin. "Strange," the boy muttered as his fingers lightly grazed it.
"Brynden!"
The boy jumped back and twisted around to find his half-brother, Daeron, framed by the door.
"You should not be here," he said gravely. He hurried to put away the black candle, though he noted the precaution with which Daeron handled it. "Who let you in?" Daeron demanded as he locked the bureau.
"I … I did."
He narrowed his eyes. "The key." He gestured with his hand. Brynden reluctantly handed it over, unable to look his older brother in the eye. "Come." Daeron wrapped an arm around the boy gently. "There shall be plenty of time to ponder on what you've seen here. But for now, ponder on which knight I should wager on for the joust." The boy hid a small smile as he was led out by his loving brother.
A wooden spoon clattered against the empty bowl. Black candle, Jon thought darkly. Brynden. Bloodraven. Could it be? Surely the aged sorcerer had no quarrels with Bran. He had visited his brother in a dream, much like he had visited Jon. He had meant no harm then. Yet Jon had seen how quickly men could change their minds. Like a flip of a coin. And Bloodraven had been no different from other men in his youth and prime.
"Care for another bowl?"
"No," Jon replied. "But Ghost would enjoy some more legs." He reached over.
"That wolf eats more than you," Robb japed, accepting another bowl.
"Of course, he does." Ghost snatched the mutton from his hand. "He's a wolf."
Robb paused, then shook his head good-naturedly. Jon looked over the Great Hall where Winterfell gathered each evening. Mikken and his apprentices. Donnis, Wayn, Tym, Lew, and the rest mostly gathered together. The washerwomen and the maids. Gage and his small army of helpers who baked the bread, gathered roots, brought honey, and churned the butter. Septon Chayle was arguing with the brewer, Barth. Farlen, the kennel master, and her sweet daughter, Palla. They were warm and laughing and alive. They were a part of Winterfell. Yet, for the first time, Jon did not feel their warmth. He did not know why.
"Have you given any more thought on how best to help the watch?" Jon asked Robb.
Robb swallowed his mouthful. "I have an idea."
"What is it?"
"The mountain clansmen," he said after another mouthful. "They've answered my call to march. Thousands will head south with us, but I reckon there'll still be hundreds left behind who can assist the watch."
"Father always said that the mountain clans are good friends of the Night's Watch."
"And if the Stark in Winterfell calls upon them to help the watch in great numbers," Robb mused.
"They'll man the Wall."
They discussed it further. The logistics, the numbers, the wildling threat. Maester Luwin and Hal joined in not long after, each contributing their thoughts and knowledge. Robb would speak with the mountain lords when they arrived, he vowed, while Hal questioned who would have authority on the Wall should the clansmen show up in their hundreds. As always, Maester Luwin reminded them of issues of harvest and supplies. "We can ship them grain. But we would have to do it early to avoid any heavy snow that may come with autumn," suggested Robb.
"Lord Commander Mormont should be informed of this. It would not do to have several hundred men sprung upon him like a trap," said Jon. In the end, their discussion was halted by Rickon. Shaggydog, who had been absent the entire evening, had slinked unseen into the Great Hall. Rickon, wild and willful, had used his companion as a mount to make an exit. Laughing and screaming on the way out, despite the shouts for him to stop.
"I'm off to the godswood," Jon declared suddenly, standing.
"I'll join you." Robb stood. Maester Luwin stared at the pair with exasperation that was directed at Rickon. "Hal, I'll trust you'll get Rickon off?"
Hal sighed. "The lad has no fear," he stated and went off after the youngest Stark sibling.
"Would that the gods had fashioned Rickon with some inhibition," Luwin muttered.
They left Ghost and Grey Wind in the hall, curled up and asleep. Robb grabbed a torch as they stepped back into the yard; the ground was now hardened by the cold. In different, distant parts of Winterfell, yells and shouts sounded out, with some sounding suspiciously like Rickon's to Jon. Putting a hand on Robb's shoulder, Jon closed his eyes and reached out. The familiar path to Ghost was ahead, but he turned to another he had begun to use more and more these days.
Suddenly, he was a hundred feet above the ground, staring down at the keep in its shrouded form. The air was sharp and filled with a thousand tiny scents, some enticing, most not. He crowed before fluttering his feathers, chasing the noise. He caught up quickly, for wings could outpace any of the legs of land dwellers. A small boy clung on a dark wolf's back while other men chased behind, yelling. He circled high above, the stick fires providing him with the light to see clearly. They chased and chased, and the boy laughed and laughed before the black wolf turned his snout and disappeared into the mouth of the stone cliff. He crowed again, ready to –
"Jon!"
His eyes snapped open. It was Robb, shaking him gently. Jon let his hand on Robb's shoulder drop. "Rickon's fine. He went into the castle," he said.
Robb gave him an undecipherable look before nodding. "We're here." He gestured to the iron gates.
"Then come," he said, pushing past the doors.
Immediately, Jon felt it. The unusual air that domed the godswood of Winterfell. Strange to say, he had never really noticed it before returning from the Wall. He had always felt it at the back of his mind, yet now it had become something he could not ignore. When he had asked Robb about it, he'd had the same thoughts. Though if it bothered him, Jon could not tell.
"What does it feel like? The skinchanging?" Robb asked as they passed a wild, overgrown berry bush.
Jon glanced at him. "It's as if I have a different head, and that head, depending on the animal I skinchange into, has better eyes, a better nose, better everything. I see and think of things in a way I've never imagined before." They hopped across a stream.
"And how do you do it?" Robb stopped to stare at him.
Jon shook his head. "It's sort of like a path, but one that I can only see with my third eye."
"Third eye?"
"Aye." Robb hummed in thought before continuing his way. Jon followed after the torch. "Why do you ask?" He called after him.
Robb didn't answer. He stayed quiet until the firs and oaks cleared, and a bone-white tree came to view. He paused there, waiting for Jon to catch up. "Does it ever hurt?" Robb asked in a low tone.
Jon frowned, not understanding the motive behind the sudden curiosity. "It can. Should the creature die while I inhabit his mind, the pain would be …" he struggled for a moment before deciding on, "… blinding. Indeed, any pain the creature feels, I feel too, but only whilst within the creature."
Robb hummed in thought again. Jon broke the pause, heading for the heart tree. "Why is it you ask?" Jon repeated as he circled the dark, unfrozen pool with Robb following.
"I have …" he shook his head. "It's not of importance right now." They had reached the heart tree's face whose eyes seemed to glow as though it had awakened to eavesdrop on the conversation.
"Is something the matter?"
Robb shook his head once more. "It's not a problem. Just some thoughts that have circled my mind to exhaustion."
Jon looked at him. "Very well." A strong breeze gusted through the clearing, whistling in his ears and making the trees rustle. In the distance, an owl hooted, but nothing answered. "I'll get the sword," he declared. Jon jumped and managed to get his arms around a branch before hoisting himself up. Dark Sister was here, away from any curious eyes or snooping hands. War was coming soon, however, and Jon would need to wield it before long. So, the blade's time in its velvet prison, sheltered by pale wooden fingers was coming to an end.
Grabbing the chest, Jon carefully made his way down, thankful for the light emanating from the torch. He set it down atop a bunch of damp leaves, but it remained closed. He was thinking. Something was wrong.
"Why the sudden interest in skinchanging?" Jon looked to his brother.
Robb hesitated for the slightest moment. "Do you ever dream of being a wolf?"
"I do." He nodded. "Usually, it's Ghost, and usually, it's no dream." Robb let out a breath as though relieved. "You know, Robb … you could try doing something during those … wolf dreams."
"Like?"
"Anything. Anything that might make it that much more real. It could strengthen your bond with Grey Wind." He could see the racing new thoughts on Robb's face. Jon held out his hand. "Scabbard," he said.
Receiving the ornate sheath, he crouched down, unclasping the latches and pushing back the lid. Gently, as though it was glass, Jon lifted the sword. The ripples in the steel shone, and the flaming hilt glowed gold. The round ruby in the hilt glinted as Jon aimed the tip and brought it down into the sheath.
It fit perfectly.
Benjen Stark
The Sealord was a very patient man.
It had been a month since Benjen had been arrested. A month since they'd marched him blinded into a square, stone tower and locked him inside the cell. A month that had felt like a year to him.
At first, Benjen had cursed his naivety. What in the world should he have expected when he came strolling into the Iron Bank presenting papers and documents to a Targaryen vault? A Targaryen vault that had been kept shrouded in secrecy even after all this time.
But as much as he cursed himself, Benjen cursed the greenseer more. The greenseer had his queer way of knowing things that should have been impossible to know. Benjen was sure that he had known that it would happen, and yet he'd said nothing.
"You know all you need to know," the greenseer had said back beneath the weirwood hill. Benjen had been told what to do and say, how to present himself, and when to lie or confess. Yet before being afforded the chance to do so, he'd been chucked into a cell. No warning. None at all.
It could be worse, he conceded. While the greenseer was vague and unscrupulous, his intentions could be trusted. Howland trusted him, and Benjen doubted that he had been saved from the Others only to be sent to die in Braavos. There was indeed a reason for his arrest. And Benjen figured he would know soon enough.
As of now, there wasn't much to do but sigh and hope for the best.
From the light entering from the barred window, Benjen could see the sky darkening. His dinner would arrive soon. He stretched on the floor and let his eyes wander around his cell like they had done a thousand times before. His compartment was large but not as significant as his chambers had been at the Wall. The walls were made of a polished, white stone, while a single rugged rug covered most of the floor. The barred window was high up and narrow, its purpose being to provide light during the day and little else. Much to his surprise, he'd received an actual bed. The mattress and pillow were hard, but it was still a far better sight than the straw heap he had expected.
As large and comfortable as his accommodations were, it was still a cell. The bars on the windows left no other impression upon him, and the stony silence he received from the guards and servants further reminded him. During the first few days, he had attempted to speak with them every chance he got. Whether it be when they brought his meals or when the guards switched shifts, the only answer he ever received was more silence.
Still, Benjen had taken solace in the fact that it was only silence and not his screams that filled his ears.
Dutifully, he had marked the days as they slowly became weeks, and weeks crept even slower into a month. There was no chalk or piece of rock he could find, so he had made do by marking the wooden panels on his bed. His fingernails had grown long enough for him to accomplish the task with ease. Sometimes he gnawed on them, like Lyanna so used to. He had teased her often for having hideous nails, but she wasn't here now to tease him back.
Bored beyond belief, Benjen had asked the guards for a paper and quill to write down his thoughts, perhaps even write a letter that would most likely not be delivered. They'd not answered him. He'd asked for a ball or a book too, but they ignored him then as well. Nothing to do, Benjen decided to do something he had not done in a long while: let his mind wander.
From north to south, it wandered first. Tentatively, like a newborn babe taking his first steps before falling into old rhythms. It walked east from the south, through the Free Cities and their many religions and politics, to the demon road and the Dothraki Sea. Toward east, it continued, to Qarth and the Jade Gates and beyond, picturing sights that Benjen had never seen and would never see. Benjen's mind went north, beyond the shivering sea, where the ice never melted. Then it rushed south, past Dorne and the slaver cities to the continent so vast that not even a dragon could cover it from end to end. Eventually, his mind travelled to where it always travelled, back north and into the past.
A fortnight into his captivity, he had begun speaking to the guards posted outside. They stood silent as ever, yet Benjen did not mind. He was speaking for himself much more than them. Castle Black in its dilapidated state; riding through the haunted forest; dealing with wildlings; wondering about his brothers. But as those topics became exhausted, he spoke more and more of his youth. Riding in the woods with his siblings, losing to them in every horse race, practicing his swordplay for hours in the yard only for his sister to put him on his arse. Benjen would often fall silent after listening to himself speak those tales, and, more oft than not, Benjen would cease his ramblings for the day.
For a week, he spoke before stopping. In the silence that had followed, he had retreated to his bed. He had forgotten why he had spoken to such length, and even now, with a clearer head and time to reflect, Benjen still could not explain why.
He remained on his bed for long afterward, waiting and counting down the days. He left his bed only to take his meals and relieve himself in the privy. On his bed, he sank deeper and deeper with each passing day while watching the sun's light streak through the window.
While he lay, the queerest of thoughts began surfacing in his mind. At first, it had been the image of naked Summer Islanders manning the Wall, looking like Night's Watchmen despite their lack of garbs. Then it had been the sudden and irrational belief that he was constantly watched. Only after combing through the walls and door and pulling himself up to the barred window did he dispel that belief, though one night, Benjen could have sworn to have been woken up to the sound of his cell door closing shut.
More and more bizarre thoughts and images had continued to surface, although he could not recall all of them. He remembered picturing Jon dancing naked through the halls of Winterfell. He'd thought of an enormous snake coiling itself around the Wall, east to west, and crushing it to pieces. Benjen had imagined the Others had killed him that day along with all of his rangers, and Coldhands had not arrived with his ravens and giant elk to carry him off; that his white cell was to be his hell for all of eternity.
That final thought had snapped out of his delusions, and he'd fled from lying in his bed.
After that, he had taken to sleeping on the white rug. It was hard and cold, and it caused the scar the Others had gifted him to flare with pain at times, but Benjen liked it that way. Too much of lying on the bed had made Benjen feel like sinking in quicksand, now the cold, stone floor kept him level, and the pain from the wound kept his mind from wandering too much.
He sighed. The Sealord was a very patient man.
When he heard movement coming from outside his door, he shifted and sat up. Dinner has arrived, he thought dully. He wondered what they would be feeding him tonight. He'd received a small steak and potatoes the night before, and he numbly hoped he would get it again today.
The footsteps came to a halt, and a key was slipped into the lock. Hearing that, Benjen jumped to his feet as the door opened for the first time in a month, letting in a man holding a torch.
"Lord Untrit," the man greeted.
Benjen squinted against the sudden, bright light, but he recognized the voice, and he noticed the bravo swinging from the man's hips. "Qarro Volentin," Benjen croaked out. It had been so long since he'd spoken.
"Just so." As Benjen's eyes adjusted, the First Sword of Braavos came more into view. He was a man of middling height and age and handsome face. Soft brown curls crowned his head while a thin, well-kept beard bestowed him a noble appearance. His voice was cordial but distant as he spoke, saying, "My Sealord has asked for your presence at dinner. I have arrived to learn of your answer to his request."
"Yes, yes. I gladly accept," Benjen said with no hesitation.
Qarro Volentin nodded. "A bath first, I think. Then you will be escorted to my Sealord's side." He turned and exited after placing the torch into a sconce on the wall. As soon as he had gone, two maids entered carrying a tub and buckets of steaming water.
A little while later, Benjen left his cell, damp and scrubbed raw by the two maids, but feeling cleaner and surer of himself than in some time. They had given him new clothes, which he had recognized as being from the case Howland had prepared for him. Wearing them, with his hair and beard trimmed and the sweat and dirt washed away, he felt again like a man ready to meet and treat with high lords and great bankers.
Swiftly, Benjen was escorted down the tower by four guards. The building was indeed a prison, as he had guessed weeks prior. On each level, Benjen caught glimpses of more cell doors and guards. As they descended lower and lower, he noticed that the number of entries continued to increase despite the tower itself not growing wider. Benjen grew puzzled for a bit before realizing that the cells grew smaller and smaller the lower the tower went. At the bottom level, before leaving through the gate, he witnessed two things that convinced him to pause thinking upon it further, them being: doors so closely clamped together that Benjen gave a proper wince and a pair of guards descending even more steps.
The gate led out to a covered cobblestone bridge. The tower prison was located on a large rock jutting out from the lagoon, not far from the peninsula where the Sealord's palace lay. Beneath the bridge, the lagoon waters churned, and a mild breeze reached up to Benjen and the guards.
Reaching the palace, Benjen was only given a glance at the large domes and tall towers before being led down a flight of steps to the side. The steps went down and down, straight then in spirals then straight again, their path being carved through the earth and stone like the wormwalks at Castle Black.
"Does the Sealord always eat his dinner in the dungeons?" Benjen asked as they passed an iron door. Whether it was through orders or their nonunderstanding of Common, the guards did not answer.
Sounds of water crashing against stone reached his ears, and it was then that their destination was revealed. A large, torchlit sea cave housing several ships. The guards took him down to the piers before a pleasure barge bedecked in laughing faces from bow to stern. A walk up the plank took him on deck where he noticed that it was empty, save for the lightermen who poled it. A young bargeman mutely took him by the arm and guided him towards the enclosed pavilion raised near the stern.
Benjen entered through the parted curtain doors. Inside, a long table was set to the brim with expensive food and wine. The lighting was very dim with a scarce few candle scattered here and there along with the yellow torchlight coming through the gauzy drapings, but it was enough for Benjen to spot the Sealord of Braavos sitting hidden in the shadows.
"Lord Harold Untrit of Sea Dragon Point," he greeted from his seat at the table. There was nary a hint of an accent in his tone, which in itself was strong. "Come, sit. The food shall not stay warm much longer."
"Forgive me, my lord," Benjen said, taking a seat, "I do bear the name you speak, and I do hail from Sea Dragon Point, but I am no lord." As soon as he had finished his sentence, servants appeared like apparitions from each corner of the pavilion. Goosebumps riddled themselves through Benjen's arms, and his heart skipped a beat. In the moody lighting, he had not seen them, and after they had filled his plate with some of each dish and filled his cup with wine, they retreated to their corners once more, barely visible.
"Not a lord, you say?" His voice was amused. "I disagree. You speak properly and punctual. You bear two names, although the second is one I do not recognize." Benjen frowned, wondering where this was going. "But if you insist," the Sealord leaned forward, and the candlelight caught his face. "Harold Untrit it will be."
The Sealord was old, he thought with surprise.
Though, to be sure, Benjen knew old people. Maester Aemon at the Wall and Old Nan came to his mind immediately. But from what Benjen had heard, the Sealord was reputed for being sickly and failing, not old. His hair, which was long and white, remained full. His face was wrinkled and spotted in such a way that Benjen's mind could not help but think of Maester Aemon or Old Nan, but the Sealord's shapely mouth and jaw indicated that he still had his teeth, and his countenance was mild and clear whereas both Old Nan's and Aemon's was foggy and withered.
"Eat. Please. My cooks were tasked with preparing this just for you, a northerner." Ever so lightly, Benjen could feel the barge shift, and looking at the windows, he could see the rock patterns of the cove moving behind him.
Benjen, keeping his face composed, replied, "My father always told me that it is impolite to begin eating before your host."
The wrinkly corners of the Sealord's mouth stretched up before he reached out and took a fig with which he then gave a careful bite. Eyeing the Sealord – who was staring back at him – and, to a lesser extent, the shadowy servants, Benjen began his meal. It was well prepared. Some minuscule, exotic flavors arose to his tongue, which Benjen believed to be the frustrations of an Essosi cook tasked with preparing the plainer fares of the North. Yet, it was not a smidgen worse than any traditional dish he'd eaten.
"You know why you were arrested, I assume?" The Sealord asked after letting him eat for several minutes in silence.
"I believe I do, my lord." He took a sip of his wine, feeling an eruption of flavors.
He smiled. "Imagine, if you can, my great shock when I was informed that a northern man like you, Harold, had somehow acquired documents that should not exist regarding the contents of a vault that scarcely anyone knows of.
"Greater was my shock," he stood from his seat and guided his slim figure to the cushioned lounge chair half-hidden in the shadows, "when I learnt that this man was at the Iron Bank, begging audience with a banker. Are you aware of the history surrounding the vault, Harold?"
"Well enough," he answered, taking another sip of the sweet, sweet wine. Outside the pavilion, he could hear the lightermen going about their duties. The barge was out of the cove, and now yellow rays were replaced by silvery pale ones.
"Daeron the Good's contingency plan, should his sons and lords have failed, and Daemon was victorious on the field. Then, it was enough for the Targaryens to live comfortably in exile and perhaps even raise a small army. Now, with the interest and certain clauses, it would be enough to build a city out of marble."
Benjen kept his silence and continued eating. The Sealord wished to talk, and he saw no reason to interrupt him. His lord father had done much of the same when dealing with his bannermen. Let them speak and speak until a mistake, or a contradiction slipped, or until a proper response came to his mind.
"Speak, my lord," said the Sealord, in perfect response to Benjen's thoughts."Tell me of yourself, tell me how you came about these papers. Tell me whom you serve."
Benjen set down the silverware and finished his chewing. "I hail from Sea Dragon Point," he began after a moment's pause. "I was born there, although I spent much of my youth serving House Glover at Deepwood Motte. My father did Lord Glover a boon shortly after my birth, and in return, he was sworn into Lord Glover's service. It was just my father and me. My mother passed away from a fever when I was still a suckling babe. We were happy there until Robert's Rebellion began when I was fourteen. My father went to fight, and I followed him, seeing no reason to stay at Deepwood." Benjen sighed, pausing to remember the rest.
"I fought at the Trident. My first battle and my father's last. It would have too been my final battle had Ser Patrek Darry not deigned to save me. Instead of striking me down, he simply struck my sword from my hands and pushed me aside. Ser Patrek was Ser Raymun Darry's brother. He was slain later that day in the fighting, but I did not forget his mercy. I held no valid oath to House Glover with my father dead and buried, so I entered House Darry's services. I've served them loyally since then.
"As for the documents, I am not aware how Ser Raymun found them, but he did, and he tasked me with coming to Braavos to see if the vault still existed." Outside the pavilion, waves crashed against the barge, giving it a light sway.
"And why is it that you decided to depart Westeros from White Harbor rather than Maidenpool or the Saltpans, both of which are closer and more convenient for House Darry?" Benjen noticed the shift in his voice. It was no longer amused.
"Lord Spider," Benjen answered. "He has fewer eyes in the North, and a northerner going north would bury any suspicion on Ser Darry dispatching one of his men." Just like the story he had told the Sealord; the answer was the greenseer's. A complete falsehood. He knew I would be arrested. Benjen was beyond sure now.
If the Sealord's previous tone had no longer been amused, now it was outright hard as he asked what Ser Raymun's intentions were with the vault.
"Should the vault exist and be as valuable as expected, then I was commanded to find the Targaryen children and inform them of it, if they did not know already, and to also reaffirm them of Ser Darry's loyalty."
A long pause ensued where Benjen sat quietly in his seat, and the Sealord lounged in the shadows. The servants in the shadows, who had periodically left their posts to fill his cup or refill his plate, left their positions again; this time, they replaced the dishes with sweets and cake and then returned to the shadows once they were finished.
"I have half a mind to toss you back into the prison, only this time with a smaller cell and perhaps for more than a month," the Sealord said at length.
"And your other half of mind?" Benjen asked carefully.
The Sealord chuckled. "Only that last part of your story was true. Ah," the Sealord raised his pointer finger, "forgive me. Only portions of that last part were true. I must say, you deal well with half-truths. If Ferrego Antaryon was a more naïve man, then he would have swallowed them all whole and nodded if you asked him whether the taste was good or not. But then, if Ferrego Antaryon was a more naïve man, he would not be Sealord, and you would not be telling this to him."
The Sealord sighed. "I saw the letters and the information in your satchel." As I knew you would. Benjen had feared them becoming knowledgeable of his quest and destinations, but those fears had gone to bed long ago in that cell. The letters had been sprawling and confusing for Benjen, which was despite the greenseer explaining much of it. He doubted the Sealord had figured it out.
They must probably think I'm mad, he had mused.
"Such curious things they were. Qarro suggested that you may be mad, but the knowledge on those pages was too specific, too detailed. So, I made some inquiries. It did not yield much, which is to your relief, I believe; however, it did yield enough. Do you know, my lord, that secrets are oft more valuable than material items?"
Benjen frowned at being called a lord again. "I do."
"You are not a simple man-at-arms, Harold. Nor do you serve House Darry. So, I warn you now, do not think to insult my intelligence by lying so brazenly. Speak the truth."
Benjen wished to smile ruefully, but he kept his face smooth as the greenseer had told him to. "You would not believe the truth, my lord."
The Sealord laughed. "I've lived too many years and seen too many things to be so disbelieving. Besides, it is always interesting when your guest has travelled such a long way. Or have you not, Lord Benjen Stark?"
Benjen stiffened. How? was his first thought, chased closely by what to do. Benjen racked his mind, trying to remember if he had said anything, whether to the guards or maids, which led to the reveal. But he could not recall a specific moment when he'd talked in anything but broad and vague details. Nothing in the satchel or his case of clothes had his name emblazoned or even hinted.
But that did not matter as much as his reaction, Benjen thought. The Sealord gave some remarks on how long the Wall was from Braavos, and Benjen briefly carried the idea of denying his identity and insisting on his alias. But Benjen knew that would only serve to get him locked up again. The Sealord would surely know if he was lying or not, and Benjen was tired of dealing in lies and half-truths.
"You know my name," Benjen said, interrupting his captor. "How?"
"Why should I answer truthfully when you refuse to do the same?"
"If you confess, my lord, then so shall I." The greenseer had never ordered him not to divulge the truth, and Benjen had realized he needed it to leave this situation. It was either the truth or the cells, and Benjen did not wish to discover how small the Sealord's cells could become.
The Sealord laughed. "And why would I trust the word of a deserter, Lord Benjen? I believe I could have you executed, and I would be well within my rights."
"If you can't trust my word, then why, my lord, are you interrogating me? Surely no word of any sentence I say can be trusted."
"I have my way of discerning the truth from the lie," he said with a flick of his hand.
"Then you will know my offer was genuine." The Sealord sat in silence, and Benjen continued.
"Just an exchange, my lord. A deal if you must. On my honor as a Stark, on the honor of my brother, Eddard Stark, I will answer your question truthfully should you answer mine."
From the darkness, the Sealord hummed in contemplation before answering, "Harrenhal." Benjen frowned, his brows scrunching alongside his eyes.
"Yes. I was there," The Sealord said in answer to Benjen's frown. "Although not as the Sealord, rather as a merchant. I had no patience to deal with Aery's madness, but such interesting rumors had begun to reach the ears of me and mine colleagues. Wolves coming south, lions shunning the court, and dragons struggling for power, albeit from behind the curtains. I simply could not resist," said the Sealord from his shadowy throne.
"The tourney occurred seventeen years ago. Surely you could not remember the face of a young boy for that long a time?"
"Seventeen years is half your life, Lord Benjen, yet only a fraction of my own. Besides, I had taken a special interest in you Stark children. Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, and you. The keys to your late lord father's southern ambitions. And had Mad Aerys not left the Red Keep and had Rhaegar called that council then and there, why, those ambitions could've come to fruition beautifully at the tourney rather than turn to ashes in the coming years."
"Speak plainly, my lord," he growled out, not liking how the Sealord talked of his father. "What ambitions? What council?"
"Forgive me," he allowed. "I forget you were still so young at the tourney … Would you like me to explain what happened? And I must warn you that the truth will not serve to flatter."
"… Yes," Benjen said warily. In truth, Benjen wasn't sure if he wanted to know or not. What the Sealord described sounded sinister, but still, after almost fifteen years, the rebellion was a web of mistruths and illusions. An obscure ghost that had never ceased following Benjen. Perhaps the truth would finally vanquish that ghost.
"Your lord father's southern ambitions, ambitions which Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, and, to a lesser extent, Steffon Baratheon shared. They wished for a change in kingship, a change in court dynamics, and decided to use their children to fulfill it. Come, Lord Benjen," the Sealord said in response to the anger flashing on Benjen's face. "Did you never think it strange that Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon were fostered in the Vale under the tutelage of Lord Jon Arryn? Or Brandon's betrothal to Lady Catelyn Tully and your sister's betrothal to Robert? Hoster Tully even wished for the Kingslayer to be betrothed to Lysa Tully to tie up Lord Tywin's hands when the rebellion swept through the kingdoms."
The Sealord paused to order a drink, allowing him some time to digest the Sealord's tale. The Sealord resumed his explanation after receiving his drink: Robert Baratheon held a claim to the throne through his grandmother's blood; the Starks had never held much warmth to the Targaryens; Hoster Tully lusted for power, and Jon Arryn believed himself more capable. He explained how it slowly came together, the War of the Ninepenny Kings, the disdain for Tywin Lannister, Aerys' growing madness, the fostering, and betrothals.
"And by now, we arrive at Harrenhal. Aerys was mad, and Rhaegar was the only other male, adult Targaryen. Add the growing feud between the king and Lord Tywin; House Targaryen had never looked weaker." The excitement in the Sealord's voice was palpable while Benjen sat in silence. "Many rumors surrounded the tourney's funding and the actual reasoning for it, but the rumor that rang the loudest and the most was that it was Rhaegar's gold and Rhaegar's wish to call upon a Great Council to depose of his father.
"But if it was truly Rhaegar who arranged the tourney and wished to call a Great Council, then it failed the moment Aerys left the Red Keep, and it would have failed regardless. The coalition your lord father had been building was a few vows short of complete and, had Rhaegar called a Great Council, then it would not have been Rhaegar who won, but rather Robert Baratheon." Seeing the astonishment and slight horror on Benjen's countenance, the Sealord gave a raucous guffaw. "Machinations and scheming are oft entertaining when they do not affect you, are they not?"
Benjen's head spun at the intake of knowledge. Grabbing the edge of the table with one hand, he lifted his cup of wine to his lips and took a gulp, pleased at the fact that his hand had not shaken in the duration of his act. Glancing through the dim light toward the Sealord – who seemed to be staring intently at Benjen – Benjen realized that he still had his share of the deal to uphold.
"Is all you say true?" Benjen asked.
"To the extent of my knowledge, yes."
"You could be lying."
"What I told you now happened long enough ago to make it irrelevant today."
"So … the rebellion … it would have occurred eventually? No matter what?"
"I believe so, yes. Eventually."
It was the answer Benjen had desired, and yet Benjen did not know what to feel. Gods, he thought, closing his eyes. How did I get here? Just a few hours before, he had been lying in wait and boredom.
"A deal is a deal, Lord Benjen," the Sealord spoke into the silence. "Will you speak the truth now?"
Benjen's head rose, his face was clear, but his eyes were hard. "Ask."
The Sealord proceeded to ask the questions he had asked before and asked questions that had come to his mind since then. Benjen answered it all and ended up telling his tale from the beginning: the ranging that ended in doom, the horror of the dead men, and the chill of the Others. The wound he received and Coldhands' arrival on his giant elk with his ravens. The system of caves entered through a cleft in a hill where many giant weirwoods laid root and the corpse-like wizard on his tree throne. The children of the forest and their magic. He described the greenseer's powers and the tasks that had been given to him.
He ended his tale with his time at Greywater Watch and nearly collapsed back into his chair. Fortunately for Benjen, the Sealord was a good listener, asking the correct questions and never asking Benjen to repeat what had already been spoken. He even asked some questions which Benjen had never considered, such as whether or not the arisen dead men could speak or remember. Benjen had replied with what the greenseer had told him, that some small part remained even in their reanimated corpses.
Exhausted in a way Benjen had not been in so long, he reached for his cup, finding, to his surprise and relief, that it was filled with water. I should thank the servants, he eyed them, statue-like and dark. I've come dangerously close to becoming drunk.
The Sealord was quiet, though Benjen did not blame him in the slightest. Had Benjen not experienced what he had and had only been told of it, he would be silent and disbelieving. He hoped the Sealord was not of the latter opinion.
"Well, my lord. Shall I prepare myself for a smaller cell?" It was meant in jest, but Benjen was aware that it was a possibility.
Instead, the Sealord laughed again. It sounded wistful this time. "I wish you had lied, Lord Benjen, so that I could have you locked in my prison for being a madman or perhaps just executed you in consequence of you breaking your vows."
"You could still have me executed, and no one could object," Benjen pointed out.
"If what you say is true, then I would be doing a great disservice executing you."
Benjen breathed out. "I will be set free?"
"Just so. But I must first comment on the length of our dinner and conversation being perfect for Qarro's sake." Benjen's head spun round to the pavilion's entrance to witness the First Sword standing in the doorframe. Qarro Volentin entered the room further and bowed low to the Sealord's ear. It was then that Benjen realized that the barge had reached its destination. Absorbed by his conversation, Benjen had forgotten all about the flatboat. Of course, it did not help that the bargemen were all silent in their work and conversation, making it easy for him to forget that he was not alone.
"Before you take your leave, Lord Benjen," the Sealord began. "A few things must be addressed. It would be in your best interest, I think if you kept your alias. It would not do well if rumors of Benjen Stark in Braavos started to spread. If they happen to spread, I may have no choice but to investigate and perhaps even execute you.
"I noticed," he continued, "while combing through your belongings, that you require a courier to carry your letter to Driftmark. Now, I am aware of the letter's contents, and I am also aware of how useful those contents may be to the right people. While you ate my dinner, I had Qarro procure a very trustworthy person to deliver the letter. His name is Aurion Waters, the younger bastard brother to Lord Monford Velaryon. He is in Braavos overseeing the construction of a ship, and he shall be in leaving soon for Driftmark."
Benjen nodded in understanding. "Where may I find him, my lord?"
"At a tavern named Rook and Raven. Horrible name notwithstanding, you shall find the tavern not far from the Purple Harbor, where we are docked as of now.
"All that aside, your belongings are out on the deck. Qarro will show you to them." The First Sword moved toward the curtained entrance to the dock. Benjen turned to follow him when the Sealord said, "Oh, and, Lord Benjen," he turned back, "I wish you good fortune on your travels. I pray for all our sakes that you will succeed in your mission."
"Thank you, my lord," Benjen said, feeling a strange validation at the Sealord words.
Out on deck, his belongings were there just as the Sealord had said they would be. Benjen reequipped himself after a quick rummage through his satchel and case. He'd only begun to look around for his weapons when Qarro Volentin grabbed his attention. "Here, my lord," he said, presenting a long bundle of cloth where Benjen assumed his sword and dagger was.
"I hope you do not mind, my lord, but I took the liberty of assuming that you have no wish of being the challenge of a bravo tonight," he said cordially.
"You assumed correctly." Benjen took the bundle as Qarro recited the directions toward the Rook and Raven.
"How will I know who he is?" Benjen asked.
"He is young, my lord. Almost sixteen, but you will notice him more, I think, by his hair. He has a streak of white hair in a head crowned with brown."
"A dragon streak?" The First Sword nodded and wished him good fortune just as his master had done before Benjen took his leave. As he walked away from the pleasure barge and toward the city, he paused and turned back. The barge was being poled away from the harbor, where masts rose like forest trees from a certain angle. Benjen supposed the masts were once trees as he finished his look and continued onward to the tavern.
He found it after a quarter of an hour of guiding himself through the maze of posing courtesans and strutting bravos. The tavern was three-storied with a pointed roof and many patrons. A canal ran parallel to the entrance where a small dock lay in wait to service any barges, of which there were quite a few. It belonged to the tavern as the steps leading up led straight towards its doors.
Careful not to bump into any of the rainbow-colored bravos, Benjen entered the tavern where the lively nightlife of the city's citizens could be discovered at first glance. Smiths drank with tanners, and merchants diced with captains as a gaggle of singers at the corner took turns to sing their songs. Whores stumbled around in sheer clothing, serving wine and servicing the men. Benjen circled the room, looking for a streak of silver.
Finding nothing, he approached the counter and flagged a wine pourer. "Where can I find Aurion Waters?" he asked slowly to make sure she understood. When he had started in common, she had shaken her head, but at the mention of his name, she seemed to understand.
"Aurion Waters?" she pronounced in her fluid accent.
"Aye," Benjen answered. She pointed towards a table snugly secluded in the corner where four odd men sat in attendance. A chubby priest of some religion Benjen did not recognize, a greying smith, a banker with an iron key around his throat, and a young man dressed in a sleeveless sailor jacket. Thanking her, he approached the table, staring at their hair for a flash of silver, but there was no need. Out of the four men, only one was as young as Qarro Volentin had described, and he was the one dressed as a sailor.
An animated discussion on some topic illuminated their table in a way that reminded Benjen of maesters debating rather than drunkards and other low-lifers arguing. Deciding to interrupt Aurion from his plate of dates, Benjen called his name and found himself struck into a slight stupor by the boy's handsome appearance when he turned his face toward the ranger.
He pushed his chair back and stood, leaning over the priest's head to offer Benjen his hand. "Are you Lord Harold Untrit?"
Shaking his head, Benjen clasped his hand. "I am Harold Untrit. Not a lord."
"Apologies." He smiled. "Well met, Harold." Turning to his companions, who had been throwing their eyes back and forth during the greeting, Aurion conversed to them a farewell in the Braavosi tongue before rounding the priest and offering Benjen to lead the way towards the exit. During the whole exchange, Benjen could not help but notice that his streak of silver hair was mostly covered. Whether it was hidden by intent or not, he could not tell.
"The First Sword informed me that I was to lead you to suitable lodgings," Aurion said as they stepped out of the inn.
"I was told only that you are to be a courier." Benjen frowned.
"Ah well." They crossed a wooden bridge. "It must have slipped their minds. The Sealord and his First Sword are busy running the city. Can make a man wonder why you are so important that the Sealord would bother giving you audience and sending his most trusted man to find me."
The tone with which the young sailor had used to express his thoughts held no apparent malice in them, yet Benjen could not help but deepen his frown.
"If a reason was not given to you, then it is not in your place to know, is it?" Benjen said.
Aurion smiled, displaying his white teeth. "Believe me, Harold. What I said was not meant to cast suspicion on your person. I only meant to put the finger on the obvious."
After that, any conversation on the Sealord and Benjen's business ceased. As they passed alley after alley, bridge after bridge, and building after building, Aurion kept his words focused on the city and its people. Benjen noticed as they reached their destination that unlike Benjen and most other people he had seen, Aurion had his sword open and bare on his belt, and yet, none of the bravos they passed deemed fit to challenge the young man to a duel.
"Here we are," he said, stopping at a stone tower-like building and knocking on the door. Lanterns hung on either side of the door, bathing them both in golden light. "This is the Silent Steps. A fine establishment. Not as rich or comfortable as some others, but it is … quiet. The matron does not stand for any sneaking or spying or talking for that matter, so it should be perfect for you."
The entrance opened without a sound, and a tall, grey woman with black eyes stepped out. Immediately, Benjen felt as though he had come before a silent sister or a strict septa. Aurion spoke some more Braavosi, and the matron only nodded at his words before turning to him.
"Her name is Matron Dothy. She understands Common though she is not one for speaking in any tongue. Now, if you will, the letter." He stuck out his hand.
Benjen hesitated, looking from the grey matron to the boy. "Tell me," he started. "Will you read the letter I give you?"
In the darkness the night provided, Aurion's dark eyes seemed to gleam. He swept his long hair back, allowing the yellow torchlight to briefly shine off the silver streak. "Well … your letter is for Driftmark, so it is intended for either of my older brothers. If you think me not trustworthy enough of the letter's contents, then I remind you that it was my brothers who trusted me enough to oversee the construction of the Moonlight."
"The ship?"
"It is to be the crown jewel of Driftmark's fleet. And my brother Aurane's personal ship. If I can be trusted with captaining the Moonlight home on its maiden voyage. I believe I can be trusted enough with the letter."
Convinced, Benjen rummaged through his satchel for just a moment before finding it and handing it over. "I may have more letters and documents for you to carry soon. When do you depart?"
"Three days hence, although I can delay for several days if it is important," Aurion answered.
"That should be enough time, but thank you."
"Then, I will see you again?" Aurion offered his hand.
"You may." Benjen shook it.
Aurion nodded and began his trek back the way they came. Matron Dothy, seeing the conversation at an end, gestured for Benjen to follow her as she disappeared into the inn. Remembering a thought, he stopped and shouted after the young captain, who turned to look back.
"Perhaps it would be best if you covered up your sword," Benjen pointed at the weapon hanging from Aurion's belt. "If a bravo ended up challenging you to a duel, and, gods forbid, you die, then that letter will most certainly be lost."
Aurion looked down at his belt, almost in surprise, as though he had forgotten the sword was there. "Well, you see, Harold, a deal too many bravos have challenged me to a duel for any more of them to challenge me." Aurion shrugged. "If any do challenge me, then they are either insanely drunk or insanely stupid. Or both. You have nothing to fear."
"… Very well," Benjen allowed. Aurion nodded once more and went on his way as Benjen muttered a prayer to the old gods that nothing should befall the young man before entering the silent tower.