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Chapter Ten: The Luckiest Man in Westeros
"A messenger at the gates, Lord Commander. He asked for you by name." The candlelight guttered on the draught as Olly opened the door and hovered nervously in the aperture. "Says his own name is Harwin, Lord Commander."
Jon had been sorting through the correspondence for hours now, longer than he cared to remember. Letter after letter, from all four corners of the realm, all essentially saying the same thing. The words were becoming etched in his memory, he knew what each letter was going to say before he even snapped the wax seals. He could repeat the message with the same solemnity with which he could repeat his vows: "House Whatever has always stood shoulder to shoulder with the brave brothers of the Night's Watch, endeavouring to uphold the most noble and ancient order in their efforts to guard the realms of men from the savages beyond. Sadly, however, House Whatever is going to sit back and do precisely fuck all to help in this, their darkest hour..."
Or, words to that effect. Jon was paraphrasing, but the effect was just the same. Everybody knows; nobody cares. Consequently, Olly's intrusion came like a ray of sunshine penetrating the wall of Westeros's indifference to their own impending doom.
It was that indifference that made Jon want to scream and shout before jumping from the top of the wall, landing so deep in the snow he froze there forever. If they all want to be turned into the army of the dead, what was it to him? Let them, and let them be thrice damned for their nonchalance. But no, Jon was Jon and he couldn't let that happen.
He signed off on one more reply before filing it in the refuse. Harwin. He wondered if it was a relation of Winterfell's old Master of Horse. Looking up and rubbing his weary eyes, he squinted at the boy still lurking in the doorway, holding on to the door handle as if he might fall. Regardless of his youthful awkwardness, Jon had high hopes for his youngest steward and had taken him under his wing, as the Old Bear had once done for him.
"Send him, if it please you Olly."
The boy slipped away, momentarily leaving Jon alone with his papers. While he waited, he glanced out of the window overlooking the drilling yard of Castle Black, using his sleeve to rub away the condensation. They were few in number, growing fewer by the day. Especially now that Stannis was preparing to take up residence in one of the abandoned forts farther along the wall. From there, the southern King was going to march south, which wasn't much good for the war against the long night.
In the meantime, Jon had been elected Lord Commander in a move reminiscent of being made captain of a sinking ship. All the same, he had to step up to the challenge ahead and did so with the ever diminishing means available to him.
His door opened again, jolting him out of his reverie as the candles guttered again. He looked up at the man in his chambers, narrow eyed in disbelief. This was no relation of the old Harwin…
"Harwin, it's you!" he said, getting to his feet. "Gods, I thought you were dead."
"Whatever gave you that idea?" Harwin replied, grinning. "Good to see you again, Jon. Actually, it's better than you can know. And I knew you'd be Lord Commander, one day. Congratulations."
They met in the middle of the room, clutching each other in a gruff bearhug before parting again. Quickly, Jon located Olly who still lingered by the door.
"Olly, fetch some warm food and hot spiced wine for our guest and I," he said. "Tell the cooks to be quick about it."
While that was being dealt with, Jon led Harwin to a small room away from the study where a fire burned in the hearth. The other man looked as if he'd been on the roads for weeks without so much as stopping overnight. Sporting a full, rugged beard, it had taken Jon a moment to even recognise the man. However, he seemed nervy and on edge.
"If you don't mind, I'll wait until that lad's return before we begin."
Jon completely understood. "Of course, you must be starving."
"As welcome as the food is, it's not that," said Harwin. "This matter is … delicate. Is it actually safe for us to talk here without being overheard?"
"Yes, it's fine. But, I trust my brothers with my life."
Harwin remained on edge. "If it's all the same to you, Lord Commander, I would rather we were truly alone."
Jon's spirits took a running leap at the sight of so unexpected an old friend, but now he sobered swiftly. After everything that had happened, he hadn't really in his heart of hearts expected this to be just two old friends catching up. This meeting had a purpose and, given all that had happened, Jon suspected it was grim.
Leaving Harwin by the fire, he ducked outside to bring Ghost in from the yard. If this was more bad news he wanted his old companion with him. Poor Ghost, he was the final relic Jon had of a long-lost childhood. While he scratched the wolf's ears, he wondered how much worse Harwin's news could really be. His father was dead, just like Robb, Bran and Rickon. Arya was dead. Sansa was probably dead. Winterfell had fallen, taken by Theon and now the Boltons. Ygritte was dead, too. In fact, everyone he ever cared for had died. Gods, even Catelyn Stark was dead. He cared for her as much she cared for him. Not much at all. But she deserved better than that.
"Hullo, Lord Commander." Sam waved at him as he crossed the yard, smiling cheerfully.
No. Not quite everyone he ever cared for was dead. "Good day, Sam."
Sam had already passed into Maester Aemon's chambers, where the old man grew weaker and greyer skinned than ever. Only now, they had the Red Woman circling the elderly Maester like a ruby-beaked vulture circling its prey, always dropping hints about Aemon's magical, royal Targaryen blood. She would burn that gentle old man over this Lord Commander's dead body. Not that it would come to that, since Jon already formed a plan that would take the Maester far from Melisandre's clutches. The Cinnamon Wind was already sailing into port.
Ghost nipped at his fingers, getting his attention once more. Ghost, he had called his wolf. It was appropriate, for all that had become of his friends and family. They were all just ghosts now. At the sight of Olly and another steward crossing the yard with their food and wine, Jon returned indoors with Ghost at his heel. There was no more delaying the latest brace of misfortune.
In from the cold, Jon's fingers tingled as he warmed them by the fire. All the while, the stewards laid out their food and wine. Jon thanked them and dismissed them with a nod, before pulling up a chair at the table for Harwin.
"My condolences on the death of your father, Jon," said Harwin. "Lord Stark was a good and honourable man."
"Thank you," Jon replied, taking a helping of bacon from the platters his steward brought. "Did you hear about Robb?"
Harwin had been drinking deeply from his goblet, but stopped and regarded Jon over the rim of the cup. "That's what I came here to talk to you about." He placed the goblet back on the table, a slow and deliberate movement. "He's alive, Jon. He survived the massacre and is safe at Riverrun. Arya is with him."
"What?" Jon choked. He had heard what Harwin said, he was just having difficulty understanding it. "I don't understand … I… oh gods, start from the beginning, will you?"
And so, he did.
"While your father was still Hand of the King, I was among those sent to Riverlands to dispense the king's justice to Ser Gregor Clegane. By the time we made it there, Lord Stark had been arrested and executed. The rest of the household had been slain. With nowhere left to go, many of us remained in the Riverlands and formed the Brotherhood Without Banners. We're no longer sworn to any House, but we're helping the innocents caught up in the War of the Five Kings. We found your sister, Arya-"
"Arya!" Jon cut in. "She's alive?"
Harwin smiled. "I almost forgot how close you two were. Yes, Lord Commander, she's alive. But she escaped from us. Only to be captured again by Sandor Clegane, who brought her to the Twins, where Lord Tully was marrying the Roslyn Frey. The only reason Robb wasn't in that hall was because he was outside, dealing with Sandor and Arya. That's where he was, when the massacre began."
Jon's whole body had tensed as he listened to Harwin's account, but he didn't even dare to let himself believe what he was hearing. Robb was dead. He'd dreamed of Grey Wind's death. He had sensed the loss. And he had grieved so much for all his family, he couldn't bear to raise his hopes to have them dashed again.
"Who told you this, Harwin?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Robb himself," he replied. "When the massacre began, Sandor got Arya out to safety and brought her straight to Riverrun. Robb stayed to fight, of course. He was injured and escaped by swimming across the Green Fork and he was washed up onshore, where an old wandering Septon found him. A friend of the Brotherhood's, actually. Septon Meribald. He tended Robb's wounds, soothed his fever and all the while Robb used a false name. Cley Cerwyn."
Another dead ally, Jon recalled, Bran's little friend. "Theon killed him, from what I heard."
"He did indeed, so I wondered who was using his name when Meribald told me it," Harwin explained. "The imposter had fled by the time we got to Meribald's camp, but we soon tracked him down. I thought it would be a frightened soldier from the North, looking for a way back home. Imagine my surprise when I found your brother."
Jon tried to imagine what he would have done had he been in Harwin's shoes and burst out laughing. "I can but wonder."
"Aye, my lord. He'd been recaptured by the Freys when we found him, sick as a dog and fit to die. Once the Freys had been dealt with, we took Robb in and brought him to Riverrun. His uncle, the Blackfish, had been holding the castle since they left for the wedding. Little Arya was already there waiting for him."
Harwin wouldn't make this up. He talked bold, but never horseshit and not like this. Jon dared to let himself believe, through the numb haze of disbelief that seemed to have shrouded him. "I heard they cut off Robb's head and replaced it with Grey Wind's."
"They had to pass someone off as him," Harwin stated. "Anyway, don't take my word for it. Take this."
He reached into a bag that had been left by the side of his chair. From inside, he brought out two scrolls of parchment, one substantially larger than the other. The larger one had several seals attached to it.
"This is the decree of your legitimisation, Lord Stark," he said, handing it over.
Jon's heart stopped. Just for a second, before it raced at thrice the speed. His mouth was dry, his hands shaking as he broke the Stark seal. It was Robb's seal, too. The snarling head of the direwolf and not the whole direwolf. He read it through once and then twice, hardly daring to breathe. It was all there. His new name and style, with another Stark seal fixed to the bottom. Alongside it was the blue wax seal of House Tully, the decree of legitimisation ratified by Ser Brynden Tully.
"I-I am Jon Stark," he whispered, to himself more than to Harwin. "Lord Jon Stark, no less."
When he was a little boy, Jon had dreamed of this. He had dreamed of saving Lord Stark's life in a fire, or some other terrible calamity. The result of his brave act of valour was not just being legitimised, but being given Ice – the ancestral sword. It used to make him feel guilty. As an adult, the memory of it made him feel foolish. Now, it had happed, albeit with a different Lord Stark and for slightly different reasons.
"There's more, Jon," said Harwin.
In his shock, he had almost forgotten the second scroll. He didn't even think he could take much more. However, he pulled himself together and broke the Stark seal again. It was Robb's will and Jon himself was the sole beneficiary.
"And a letter from Robb, explaining what he could," said Harwin, handing over another smaller envelope. "He didn't have much time, it was written as the Tyrells arrived to lay siege to Riverrun. I was there when it was written, though."
Jon took it, and the sight of Robb's handwriting was almost enough to bring tears to his eyes. 'That time we played 'Come Into my Castle', I lied. You are the Lord of Winterfell, Jon. She is yours, take good care of her. I will raise an army and take the North back and I think I will die – again – in the attempt. But it's all for you.'
Jon almost laughed, surprised that Robb even remembered that stupid game they played as boys. He also appreciated that it was a detail only he and Robb knew, so the letter could only have come from him. Finally, he was convinced. He dropped his guard and let himself hope. He let himself be convinced.
"While Robb lives, he is Lord of Winterfell and no other," said Jon, folding the letter. "But seven hells, I am honoured. I am truly honoured…"
His sentence trailed off, words failing him as he descended into a bewildered silence. It was all so much to take in, he didn't even know where to begin. There was only one thing that remained steadfast and resolute in his head: the army of the dead marching on the wall.
"But there's nothing I can do," said Jon, quietly finishing his sentence. "I am Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and I am needed here. If you had seen what I have seen out there, you would know why."
Harwin looked disappointed, but not in the least bit surprised. "Catelyn Stark used to resent you for being the son who most resembled Lord Eddard. I don't think she realised you're also the son who was most like him, too."
Jon laughed a dry and brittle laugh. "More honour than sense."
Once, when he was new to the watch and his father had been executed, when Robb was first declared King in the North, Jon had tried to desert. He needed to be at Robb's side, joining the war to exact justice for the death of Eddard Stark. He had felt torn then, conflicted between duty and honour. But that was nothing compared to the way he was feeling now. He was so torn he felt he might actually be bleeding inside.
"I want to help," he continued. "Gods forgive me, I wish I was there now. If I could, I would. But I can't, Harwin. I just can't."
Harwin was silent for a moment, contemplating something. "Robb isn't asking you to abandon the Night's Watch. So really, you're deserting nothing and no one. You'll just have to combine the two."
Jon laughed again. "I don't think the Lord-" he cut himself off. "No, I am the Lord Commander."
It had only been a month, he still wasn't used to it. He blushed all the same.
"Your King has recalled you," said Harwin. "You are Lord Commander, none here can gainsay you."
"All the same, Harwin, I can never abandon my brothers of the Watch," Jon insisted. "I can't have my first act as Lord Commander be my own dismissal. I have my pride, as well as my honour!"
To his shame, however, he was thinking of ways around it. Because he could not deny that he wanted to help. He wanted to be by his real brother's side, helping to liberate the North from the tyranny of the Boltons and destroying House Frey into the bargain. Then, he would unite the Northern armies and march on the wall, defeating the Others. Maybe that was it, he thought. He wouldn't be deserting if he was actually raising an army to take on the army of the dead.
Jon stamped out that fledgling thought and returned to the here and now.
"Jon," said Harwin. "You said, if I had seen what's out there, I would understand your decision. Tell me, what is out there? It's just an empty wasteland."
"No," he said, barely above a whisper. "Ask anyone here: the Others, the white walkers themselves, are back. They're marching south, bringing an army wights with them. The dead reanimated, doing their bidding. Every man in this castle has seen them, Harwin. Ask them, if you don't want just my word for it."
He had expected Harwin to laugh him out of the room. However, Harwin wasn't laughing. He wasn't even smiling anymore. "I'm staying put for a few weeks at least, with your leave Lord Commander. I think we should talk about this more. By the sounds of things, you need Robb and the south more than ever before."
"My predecessor wrote to every House in Westeros pleading for help-"
"That was your predecessor," Harwin cut in. "This is you and Robb we're talking about now. You'll do more than write and we'll do more than talk."
Jon sat back in his chair and regarded the other man for a long moment. Of all the houses who replied to their call for help, House Stark was the only one that hadn't answered at all. Usually, they would have been the first and it was that which had brought his mood so low. The Starks hadn't replied, because the Starks no longer existed. The deafening silence of Winterfell had been like a kick in the gut. But he had been wrong. So very wrong.
"Loras, do I look all right?" Margaery cinched the silk sash at her waist and fussed over her hair. The night before, Jayne had helped put in curling papers but the result was that she had awoken with a head of loose and lazy ringlets cascading down her back. She had hoped for something more defined, but this would have to do for now.
Meanwhile, Loras looked her over appraisingly. "You could dress in roughspun and still look radiant-"
"Seriously, Loras," she cut in.
"Yes, yes. You look fine, sister," he assured her, rolling his eyes. "What is all this, anyway? Have you fallen under the gruff charms of Ser Brynden?"
Her brother laughed at her, but she was in no mood to be teased. "Of course not. We're marrying him off to Grandmama, remember?"
"Ah, of course!" he laughed again. "So tell me, what is it all about?"
Even as children, she and Loras had shared everything. From sweets to secrets, what was hers was his and the other way around. She remembered, a couple of years ago, Loras had spent months in silent agony, carrying around the weight of the world's problems. She had been so worried about him that she thought he might do something foolish to himself. Then, one night, he had come to her and confessed that he had fallen in love. She had been delighted for him. 'Who is she?' she asked. Loras had shied from her as he corrected her pronouns. 'He'.
He had braced himself for her disgust and furious condemnation. What he got was a tight and tender embrace and gratitude that, of everyone, he had trusted her. While people worked out his secret over the years, Margaery had never told a soul. When people did work it out, she did what she could to help him bear the stares, sniggers and whispers.
All the same, she hesitated to tell him what was happening in her own heart. She had no idea what her feelings even were. They fluctuated at will and all she knew was that no one, not one living man, had ever made her feel like that before. But, whatever this feeling was, it felt sacred to her. She felt as if the feeling would die if she dared give it voice.
However, if there was one person alive who could be trusted, it was Loras.
"Tristifer," she said, voice barely above a whisper. They were alone in her pavilion, all the same she feared to say the name too loudly. And while she confessed her feelings, Robb's true identity was not hers to confess.
Loras smiled knowingly. "I really should have guessed. Well, if you want my advice, sister … you know what I'm going to say."
"I can't," she said. "You know I can't."
"What's stopping you?" he asked, brusquely. His brown eyes narrowed, turning uncharacteristically hard. "You're not just a Queen, Margaery. You're a human and you deserve to experience love as much as anyone. Even if it's just once before you do your duty and fix your neck in the Tommen's yoke. And believe me, sister, a man like Tristifer Rivers will be able to show you things sweet little Tommen will never imagine in his giddiest daydreams. Don't you want even a taste of what that's like?"
"That's the problem, isn't it?" she replied. "Just one taste of that sweet little pudding and I'll not be able to stop myself gorging on the rest. That's always the problems with sweet things. They tempt you in and they have a tendency to be very bad for you."
She had already kissed Robb. The sweetest kiss she ever did get and she had kissed boys plenty of times before. Like the man himself, the kiss had been urgent, yet tender and forbidden. So gloriously forbidden.
Loras sighed heavily, running his hand through his curls. His hair was always perfect, she noted sourly as she remembered her own paltry curling efforts. Something was on his mind.
"I've seen Tristifer fight," he remarked. "Gods, he's good. If the castle does surrender, I want him fighting for us for when the moment comes and we're facing the Lannisters instead of on their damn side. Anyway, what I'm trying to say before getting waylaid, is that had he been born the trueborn son of a high lord, everyone would be telling you to snag him. Me included. That doesn't mean you shouldn't just enjoy yourself with him. If you're worried about permanent consequences, I'm sure there's a woodswitch nearby-"
"Loras!" Margaery smacked his arm, forgetting he was armoured. Still, he got the point. "You go too far."
Before Loras could reply, Garlan was let into the pavilion by Jayne. The brothers greeted each other with a nod, while Margaery kissed his cheek.
"You've done something different, haven't you?" he asked, smiling vaguely as he tried to work out what.
"Never mind," Margaery said. "Well, we should go. Else, we'll be late."
Before she left, however, Loras took her by the arm and whispered in her ear: "We'll talk properly after evenfall. And fear not, all will be well."
It was a fine day outside, with no rain to wash out her hair and soak her clothes. Always a plus in the Riverlands. But as they met Ser Brynden at the gates of the castle, they found him alone. He escorted them through the grounds of Riverrun, where there was also no sign of Robb. The cupbearer who served their wine was a real cupbearer: a boy of about ten who Margaery had not seen before.
"Forgive Tristifer's absence my lord, my lady," said the Blackfish, by way of opening up their parley. "I am afraid he is indisposed."
Margaery schooled her reaction carefully. "I am sorry to hear that, I wish him a speedy recovery."
Ser Brynden didn't quite meet his gaze as he nodded. "Yes. Quite."
The curtains around his bed were parted discreetly, and Robb knew it was Arya. Still he did not move. He lowered his eyelids and affected sleep, hoping she would take the hint and go away. However, this was Arya and she was never one to be deterred. If anything, his lacklustre attempts merely encouraged her.
"I know you're awake, stupid," she said. "Why are you lying in the dark, all on your own? Margaery and Garlan Tyrell have just arrived."
"I know," he said, voice muffled by his pillow. "Arya, I'm in mood-"
She tried to grab the pillow to whack him over the head with it again, but his torpor was not such that he couldn't grab her wrist in time. He tightened his grip, immobilising her. "I said I am in no mood for this today."
Through the darkness, he could see Arya's lip trembling. "You're hurting me."
He hadn't realised how hard his grip had been and relinquished his hold immediately. "I'm sorry, sister."
She answered by giving him a smack over the head with his pillow.
"I deserved that," he ceded.
"Yes, you did," she agreed. "Anyway, you're lucky. Despite what you just did, I'm going to stay and talk to you."
"The luckiest man in Westeros," he sighed, falling back into a lying position.
He had been there all day, refusing food and snapping at visitors to leave him be. During the long hours of sleepless silence, he lay in complete darkness and called himself the fool he was. He had wed Talisa at the height of his grief for Bran and Rickon. Now, at the height of his grief for his mother, friends and Talisa herself, he had sought solace yet again in another's arms. Was ever a mistake so great it bore repeating?
He had tried to remind himself that, this time, he broke no oaths and angered no allies. But he had dishonoured himself and he had dishonoured his late wife. Now the memory of that kiss made him cringe and kick himself. Not that he needed to kick himself while Arya was around.
"You can hit me again, if you want," he said, lifting his head from his pillow to locate her.
She punched him in the ribs as she scrambled up onto the bed and settled beside him. "There. Is that better?"
Robb considered it for a moment. "No, not really."
He rolled over so he had his back to his sister and buried his face for shame. Margaery didn't deserve to be used as a comforter for his grief. It was unfair and he had dishonoured her, too. He had dishonoured himself, again. In one small action, he had dishonoured three people at once. That had to be a personal record.
When he was a child, his father made honour look easy. Everything had been so black and white. It was either good or bad, right or wrong. But no matter how hard he tried, Robb couldn't seem to get it right. He had married Talisa rather than let her suffer the shame of being deflowered by him, which resulted in dishonouring the alliance he had made with House Frey. Now he needed to win an alliance to win back his lands and that meant dishonouring the wife who had died because of him.
To win back his family's honour, it seemed, he needed to utterly dishonour himself. In honesty with himself, he thought it a sacrifice worth making.
"I wish mother and father were here."
It was Arya who had spoken, taking Robb by surprise. He turned over again, so that he was facing her in the darkness, and wrapped his arms around her. "So do I."
"And Bran and Rickon and Sansa," she added. "And Jon too, of course. I wish we were all together again, at Winterfell. With Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane. I'd give anything to see Sansa at her needlework, singing as she stitches. She always sang so prettily. And you and Jon, sparring in the summer snow while father watches from the terrace – just as he always did. Jon used to beat you often, and you were so good about it. Then Old Nan would tell us a story about the old days and the Long Night, the scary stories that Bran loved so much. And the stories about brave knight that Sansa loved so much. I would give anything – do anything – to get back there."
As she spoke, her voice was hollow and flat. They were the words of a traumatised child who already knew thing would never be the same again. All the same, even as she spoke, it was a scene in his head that he had lived for so long that he could see it still. That hollow voice spoke aloud all his memories as if she was reading his thoughts.
"We can't go back," he said, softly.
"I know. We can only go forwards," she agreed. "But going forwards is a lot better than lying in the dark and hoping no one talks to you. If you do it again, I'll hit you."
Robb smiled. "I knew I could rely on you, Arya."
He sat up again and let his bare feet hit the floorboards. The movement felt good, like he was going somewhere. Arya remained lying on the bed, but was still watching him. He met her gaze as he looked to his left. "I don't know how, yet. I don't know when. But I'll bring you home again, one day. I swear, I'll do whatever it takes."
Her hand found his and tried to close around it. "I know," she said. "I believe you."
Thanks again for reading, reviews would be great if you have a minute.
Well, now Jon's arrived late he took up so much space that there was hardly any room left for anyone else (unless this chapter was going to last forever). But, he'll be back again in next week's chapter and having a heart-to-heart with Maester Aemon while Harwin gets a taste of life North of the Wall.
Also, a few people have asked about time lines: it's several months on from the Red Wedding and Stannis has arrived at the wall but still a good few months shy of Jon's assassination (which I plan to circumvent in this story).