CHAPTER 1: A Letter to Remember
About a year and a half later:
King Robb's council at Riverrun had thankfully stopped yelling at him and each other and had finally fallen down to discuss the logistics of the task he had handed them. To say he was grateful was an understatement.
"The agreement of Lord Commander Mormont is imperative," Ser Bryndon the Blackfish, his most agreeable advisor, said. He frowned. Well, frowned more than he already was. It made the sides of his face sink towards his shoulder, giving him an almost jowly, soft look where Robb had only ever seen him hard and stern. "The order alone will anger him; we needn't inflame the wound."
His uncle, Ser Edmure, nodded in agreement. His mother, Lady Catelyn, remained impassive. Since the meeting had begun, she'd yet to say a word. Silence was her weapon in this case, and it would serve her better than the yelling she had used the other night, when Robb had talked to her alone of what he planned to do.
"But what if he should refuse?"
A short silence followed.
Robb snorted. "Why should they? The terms I'm offering are sweeter than honey. And what wound do you speak of, Ser? I mean to give them one hundred men. I would hardly consider that a wounding."
"You mean to take a brother from them, Your Grace. Suffice to say... the precedent is thin enough. I would hesitate to say if it's even been done before... there may perhaps indeed be no precedent, come to think..."
Maester Aldrin, a tall, scarecrow-resembling man chimed in. His voice was a particularly tremulous croak. "Your Grace, it has been done but once before... in the case of Symon the Slow, the childhood friend of Wallas Stark, the... third to last King in the North... uh... excluding yourself, Your Grace... or, uh, perhaps he was second... The details elude me, Your Grace, my most humble apologies... Uh... perhaps…" his voice was a low mutter now, almost under his breath. He continued as if talking to himself, "if Wallas Stark preceded Wynden Stark... but no... uh... I believe he... no, no-"
"How long ago was this Symon the Slow withdrawn from the Watch?" Robb said. He had quickly grown tired of hearing Riverrun's maester speak, but interrupting him had best be done delicately, as startling him sharply did not improve his wits.
"Eh? Oh, oh... perhaps some six hundred years ago, Your Grace. Perhaps closer to five hundred and ninety... eighty even... uh... the details elude me, Your Grace." He gave a careless wave of his hand.
The Blackfish stood up from his seat and turned away from the table. He had been angry when Robb had first put to him what he planned to do, but it had simmered down since then to a cold fire. It gleamed in his eyes, and in the tightness around them, and in his arms crossed over his chest. As if hearing Robb's thoughts, he dropped them to his sides. Whatever thought had crossed his mind that made him turn away from the table, made him turn swiftly back. He looked to the maester.
"And what happened with this Symon the Slow?"
There was a short awkward silence. Then, in his croaking voice, "Uh... after the letter reached the Wall... Symon was... uh... murdered, I believe, when word spread that he was leaving the Wall... Murdered, that is, by his own brothers at arms... you see, the Wall was under siege by wildlings at the time, indeed it is told to be the worst assault seen in a hundred years at the time.. and certainly, we have not seen one like it since. The arrows are said to have coated the sky and fallen such as rain... Dire times, dire times," he muttered, slouching in his seat. Under the many eyes of the room on him, the Maester seemed to sink in on himself, and in the silence that followed tried to soften what he had said. "... Nothing like the times now, Your Grace. And the murder of Symon was in the immediate wake of the death of the seven hundredth and sixty eighth Lord Commander, I believe that was Commander Drishend, or say... was this after King Aemon III or... hmmm..." His voice had fallen into a mutter and his chin had drifted to his chest. Robb cleared his throat and the man jumped in his seat, then looked around wildly. Robb waited for him to say, "the details elude me," a phrase that the man uttered at least every five minutes or less. Maester Aldrin took a moment to collect himself, then continued again, "And, anyway, Your Grace, Jon Snow has hardly been on the Wall... What? A year? Perhaps less? He is hardly the member of the Watch Symon was and trading him for a hundred men is well worth it."
A short silence.
The Blackfish waved his hands impatiently, as if he could wave away the heavy, discontent feeling in the room. "The happening of hundreds of years ago do not bother me half so much as the happenings now. As King in the North, your relationship with the Watch is the strongest of any monarch in the Seven Kingdoms, that it remains so is important, Your Grace. Wounding them like this for a mere boy of 15 hardly seems worth it, to me-"
"So you've said. Many times, Ser," Robb said. "And just as many times I've told you that my mind has been made up. I will say it once more, and everyone had best listen better this time: Jon is my brother. Sansa cannot be my heir; she is held hostage in King's Landing. There is no one else. Jon will serve us all the better here, than on the Wall."
"But still, taking a brother from the Wall has hardly been done-"
Robb's mouth turned down at his words. "Don't speak to me of taking a brother... I've lost all mine own but Jon. And Jon I need." As he said this, he hazarded a glance towards his mother. Perhaps he intended this to be a challenge, since she had been the most vocal opponent to his plan outside of this meeting, but in any case, he had so soft a stare as he took in his mother's bent form any challenge he intended failed.
Lady Catelyn's eyes were deeply red; while he held court at the head of a large oak table that consumed the room, she had found a lone chair and dragged it to the side, almost out of sight, to hold court with no one but shadows and ghosts in the dark. All her children besides himself and his sister Sansa were dead. And all but him were lost to her. For a moment he allowed his heart to ache, but just as quickly he glanced away and hardened his mouth. He was king now, and a king must have an heir. Sansa was lost to all of them, and captive of Queen Cersei. Someday the Lannisters would perish by his hands and those of his men as he won this war they had thrust upon them when they took his father's head. Someday he would free Sansa and return her rightfully to their family and to his heartsick, grieving mother. But that day was not this day. And his day, he needed a right hand; he needed his brother. Jon was no Theon. His mother was wrong about him.
The Blackfish was staring at him. There was discontent in the twist of his wrinkled face, and something not far from anger in his eyes, and Robb had no illusions as to what had upset him: the brother he so dearly needed.
His mother had explained the offense to him last night, when he'd told her what he planned to do. He had not so subtly asked for her approval but had not got it. "Jon can only offend," she had said, her mouth twisted in the almost-scowl he hadn't seen since he had last seen Jon and his mother in the same room; it was the funny expression she only got when reminded of her husband's other son. The sight of it made his stomach turn nastily... and any hopes he'd had of her approval had flown out the window then. Robb had asked for her to explain. After all, he'd never found much offensive about Jon. Any insult of his birth had to have been long forgotten, especially to his mother who had watched them grow up together. But it was more than that, his mother had explained, it was the insult inherent to him; an insult especially to her family. It was, after all, Catelyn Tully Ned Stark had cast aside for some faceless woman South for only a night, in the time after he'd taken her for wife. That, and he was a Snow, a bastard. That was a particularly harsh insult, his mother had spat. Robb had physically reeled to hear his mother's bitter voice. An insult, that was all to say, was nothing time or deed could wash out, perhaps, but one that a single line of parchment from Robb could.
"You would legitimize him? Make him a Stark?" His mother's voice had been shrill when he'd told her this. To wash out this insult, he had said, coldly. He'd left then. Perhaps he had been too cold with her, he had thought as he stalked from her tent, leaving her behind with Grey Wind at his heels. Looking at her now, he knew he'd been too cold.
Hearing his mother speak of Jon reminded him unpleasantly of being a much younger boy at Winterfell... before everything had gone awry, and he and his siblings had been cast about the Seven Kingdoms. And before his father had died. That was a time he did not want to remember, a feeling he did not love.
The Blackfish had taken a step back at his harsh words. Now Robb stood. The rest of the room hurried to rise with him, and he didn't allow any of the distaste he felt at that to cross his face. Instead, he was cold and stern as he said, "Jon is my brother, and my heir and soon to be a Stark. And soon to be here. I need you to all change your attitudes quickly. I need Jon, and I need you… I've heard enough of this. Send the letter and be done. Was there anything else we needed to discuss?"
A short silence. Then the Blackfish nodded reluctantly. "Yes, Your Grace. A red priestess is here to see you. She arrived a few nights ago."
That stirred his curiosity. "A red priestess?"
"Yes, Your Grace. She practices in the name of, I believe, the Lord of Light. I told her you keep the old gods and your mother the new, but she insisted that she speak to you."
"You spoke to her then?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
If Ser Brynden has talked to her Robb hardly saw why he should. "What did she say? Why has she come?"
"She was sent from Asshai to convert you to her faith."
The maester spoke up. "Your Grace, if I may, this is a common practice of the red priests and priestesses from Asshai. They wish to make headway in the Seven Kingdoms. A few years ago, they sent a red priest to King Robert, in the hopes he could be converted."
"Was he?"
"No, Your Grace."
Robb hadn't thought so. Robert hadn't seemed overly pious to any religion when Robb had seen him at Winterfell. Still… it struck him as odd that they would send someone all the way from Asshai for the sole purpose of converting him.
"Was that all she wanted, Ser?" Robb asked his mother's uncle.
The Blackfish frowned again. "No, Your Grace. In fact, she didn't seem to have much of an interest in hanging around, as Thoros of Myr did with King Robert… She wanted to be sent to the Wall, Your Grace."
Robb's eyebrows drew together. "Why?"
Ser Brynden shrugged. "She didn't tell me, Your Grace."
"Huh," Robb said and sat back in his chair. He thought for a moment, then said. "I'll speak with her. Is she here?"
"Yes-"
"Fetch her at once. I'll speak to her now."
The woman they brought to him about ten minutes later had long red hair, braided close to her head in an almost crown-like array and trailing down her back. She wore a red cloak over a red dress and had a large ruby necklace at her throat. Her eyes were sharp and found his immediately. She smiled, and then curtsied.
"Your Grace," she said. There was something odd about her voice, or perhaps it was something odd about her, but Robb couldn't put his finger on it.
He nodded to her, then looked around the room at his council. "I would speak to her alone. Ser Brynden you may stay, but everyone else is dismissed."
The red priestess sad in a chair at the table as Edmure and Catelyn filed out of the room. Brynden retook his seat and exchanged a glance with Robb.
"My lady," Robb said when they were alone, "I am told you wish to travel to the Wall. May I ask you why?"
She dipped her head. "Your Grace, I was sent by my sister priestesses to turn you to our faith. But I have seen in the fire that it is not here I am needed… although I believe we will meet again, and I will find my way back to this castle." She shrugged, delicately. "No, Your Grace, for now the Lord of Light commands me to go to the Wall and meet the Night's Watchmen."
Robb thought for a moment. Then said, with a wry smile, "You know women are not permitted to take vows and join the Night's Watch, my lady?"
She laughed and smiled at him in a way that made him shift uncomfortably for a moment. "Yes, Your Grace, I have been told. But I would find their vows much too… restrictive, anyway. I was hoping to stay with them as a guest."
Robb nodded. "That can likely be arranged… Far be it from me to stand between you and your Lord's commands, my lady. I will give you a horse, provisions and a letter asking that you be treated well and allowed to stay on the Wall for as long as you wish… provided it will not be an indefinite stay?"
She smiled again. "No, Your Grace… If I had to hazard a guess… I think I will perhaps see you again within two moons. Perhaps just the one."
"Then I will write you that letter."
"You have my thanks."
She stood to leave then, curtsying then, but when she reached the door she turned sharply, throwing her hair over a shoulder and into her face. It was braided intricately, and such an odd, unnatural shade of red he suspected it had to have been dyed. With another flirtatious smile, she said, "And I know you didn't ask, my king, but my name is Jynessa. Jynessa the Red."
With another flick of her hair and cloak, and a sparkle of her necklace, she was gone.
Robb exchanged a few words with the Blackfish, then left. As he walked through the yard outside, heading for his own rooms, he was met by Olyvar. He smiled grimly at his young squire of Frey and said, "We sent the letter. He'll be here within a moon."
Olyvar grinned back at him.
Later that night, Robb went to sleep with Grey Wind at his feet, while a white raven persevered through the harsh winds and snow. Robb wondered idly if Grey Wind knew his brother would be here soon, and he wondered idly what Jon was doing on the Wall.
On the Wall, however, Jon Snow was nowhere to be found. But North of the Wall, he was engaged in bloody combat. As Robb slept, Jon slew Qhorin Halfhand in gory single combat with Grey Wind's brother at his side. Upon the Halfhand's very orders, Jon turned his cloak and joined the Wildlings that night and for many nights to come.
