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Chapter Fourteen: Out in the Cold
Dusk gathered around the Eyrie. A fast, foreboding descent into darkness that shrouded the mountaintops in a smothering pall. All the same, Sansa enjoyed evenfall and the quiet, strangely intimate hours it brought. She liked the winding down of frenetic activity, the solitude brought by the silence and the hours spent in good company beside an open fire. It was a time to take stock and plan for the days ahead.
Her planning brought her back to her cousin's side, as he settled deep into his warm, feather bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she shuttered his windows and fed another pine log to the fire – a smell she loved, that reminded her of home. Nor was she in any hurry, although she knew Sweet Robin grew impatient for his bedtime story. And, these days, no one but her could read him his bedtime story.
As she fussed over the lighting of more candles, her mind wandered back onto Jon. This close to his arrival, her mind was more on Jon than off him. A message had come that he had been delayed by snowfalls and was currently waiting at the Bloody Gate, until Mya could get the mules safely down the mountain pass and back again. There was a young wildling girl and her baby, also in Jon's company, who would be coming up in the supply baskets for the sake of her infant's safety. A wildling girl. That was a curious detail.
However, in truth, Sansa simply couldn't fathom why Jon had come to the Vale. Initially, she had been beside herself with joy at the prospect of a most unexpected reunion with a brother she missed dearly. When she was honest with herself, she admitted she was simply glad Jon was actually alive – given what had befallen all her other siblings. Knowing that now it was just her and him was a searing, twisting pain that wrapped itself around her very soul. She was used to it now, though. The absence of her parents and siblings was just a gaping hole that she lived with every day, whether she was Sansa or Alayne.
Time had passed and the question of why Jon was coming began to play upon her mind. There had to be a reason for him to come all this way. No one knew she was here, beside Baelish, so it couldn't be anything to do with her. And, even if he had known, he wouldn't leave Castle Black just for that. She remembered Lord Royce, whose youngest son was killed on a ranging, not long after taking the black. Maybe that was it? Had they found the young lord's body and were now bringing him home for a proper burial? Even that seemed an unlikely task for the Lord Commander himself. Surely, he wasn't recruiting either. The Watch had what they called "wandering crows" for that and their job was to constantly travel the realm, drumming up support and new blood. She had met one on several occasions: his name was Yoren and he smelled of sour ale.
When her curiosity got the better of her, she asked Sweet Robin what had been in the first letter Jon sent to the Eyrie. The little lord shrugged his bony shoulders and said: "something about dead people, so I threw the letter through the moon door. I don't want to read about dead people."
She could have smacked him for not showing that letter to anyone. Especially something as ominous sounding as "dead people". But, on the basis of that cryptic clue, she had resolved herself to convincing Sweet Robin that, no matter what, he must cooperate with the Night's Watch. To do that, she had to actually get him interested in the ancient order and that called for a special story-time. Anything to make him realise that the Watch was more than just a glorified penal colony.
The candles were lit, the fire was crackling in the hearth, releasing the sharp, piney scent of the logs. It was warm, the boy was tucked up in bed. Now she planned to tell him stories about the brave men of the Night's Watch to turn his blood to ice and haunt his nightmares for years to come. Just as Old Nan had done for generations of Stark children.
"You promised me a scary story tonight, remember Alayne?" he said as she settled on the bed beside him.
Sansa draped one arm around his shoulders, letting him snuggle close as he liked to do. "I remember."
"But where's the book?"
"Oh, the story I'm about to tell you comes from no book, my lord. This story was told to me, by someone who had it told to them by someone who had it told to them, all the way down the generations right back to when it actually happened."
Sweet Robin's eyes widened. "So, this is a scary true story?"
Sansa smiled sweetly and nodded. "Every word is true, my lord. And that's the best part of it."
After a pause for breath, she began in earnest. Eight thousand years ago, when the ice winds howled out of the north and the snows fell a hundred feet deep. When the days grew shorter and shorter, until the sun failed to rise at all and the whole of the land was plunged into an eternal night. It wasn't long before she found herself echoing Old Nan's words exactly:
"And in that darkness, the Others came from the lands of always winter," she said, relishing the young lord's wide-eyed fascination. "They had skin as pale as frost, their armour was like ice encasing their tall, sinewy bodies and they moved as swift as the wind, sometimes mounted on giant, pale spiders. Their shining blue eyes could pierce the darkness and they raised great armies of the dead, letting them gorge on the flesh of the living…"
Sansa's words trailed off as a memory stirred at the back of her mind. It wasn't long after her father had been executed and Joffrey was having her stripped and beaten in the throne room. Yes, it was around that time, she recalled, but Tyrion had returned. A man from the Night's Watch came to the Red Keep with a dead, rotted arm to show to Joffrey. At the time, she just thought it was horrible and turned away in disgust. Now she could kick herself for being too tied up in her own problems to pay any real attention. She grappled at the back of her mind for the man's name … Alan? Alwyn? Something like that.
"The Others, Alayne," Sweet Robin intruded upon her thoughts. "They were armoured in ice and gorged on the flesh of the living, what next?"
Before she could lose his attention, she put aside that memory and continued her dramatic retelling of the Long Night. She told him of the armies of the dead, the pale spiders big as horses and the Others wreaking destruction upon the realm. Echoing Old Nan once more, she told of the babies smothered in their sleep by desperate mothers; of kings shivering in their castles and hunger and famine that spread across the land as the dead ravaged the living. She spoke of the Direwolves, hungry and howling into the endless night…
"Until there came a hero," she said, reaching the climax of the story. "The greatest hero of them all, who sought the council of the Children of the Forest and forged the special sword of heroes. The sword he used to lead great armies into battle against the Others and the wights under their dominion. His was the sword that brought the dawn, and forced the Others back into the Land of Always Winter. And that hero was the first member of the most noble order of the Night's Watch and it is his ancient sword of heroes handed down to each Lord Commander of the Watch, to ensure the sun still rises every morning and the Others never attack us ever again."
That was a lie, but Alayne Stone didn't care. The boy was suitably awestruck, and that was all that mattered. All he was, was a pair of big, wide eyes peering over the edge of his blankets.
"Is that really what the Night's Watch do?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she replied. "They don't exist for nothing, my lord. They're all that stands between us and the Others. That's why you must take our visitors very seriously, and help in whatever way you can."
Again, she felt she was stretching a point. During her childhood she had heard many stories about the Others. And that's probably all they were: stories. But if they scared Sweet Robin into helping Jon, it would be worth it. And there was more.
"But to help the Night's Watch, you may have to help Lord Commander Snow take back the North from the wicked Boltons," she said. "Remember what they did to your kinsmen, the Starks?"
Sweet Robin nodded. "I heard about that. Lady Stark was my aunt, but she wouldn't let me make the bad man fly. Still, she was my aunt."
"And her children were your cousins," she reminded him. "And who knows? Perhaps you will be the hero, leading your bannermen into battle to avenge their murders?"
His eyes glittered above the blankets. "And I can have a sword of heroes, too! You would like that, wouldn't you Alayne? Then I can defeat the Others as well. For good, this time."
"I think you would look magnificent with your sword and your armour. A hero and a lord."
That was enough, for now. She had planted the seed of an idea in his head, and she wanted him to think he'd thought of it all by himself. She wanted to leave him alone, imagining himself as the hero with his shining sword, leading his bannermen into battle. Then, when the time was right, she would give him the opportunity to make his fantasy a reality. As for what Petyr was planning, to have her dramatically revealed as the real Sansa Stark before all the Lords of the Vale when she married this Harry the Heir…. Well, she was doing it herself so what could he complain about?
She arrived back at her own chambers, where the maids had poured her a hot bath. The reflection in the mirror showed her the face of Sansa Stark with the mousy brown hair of Alayne Stone. She took off her gown, stepped cautiously into the steaming water and reached for the hair soap.
The solar was warm and intimately lit. A nimbus of candlelight and an open fire, pine logs crackling merrily. All the same, Robb was on edge. An hour before, he had stood on the gatehouse, worried about the little old lady slowly hobbling down the drawbridge, leaning heavily on her granddaughter's arm. Lady Olenna looked as if one strong gust of wind might blow her right off her feet and into the murky depths of the Tumblestone.
All the same, he she glanced up at the bowmen in the murder holes and Robb could tell she looked them square in the eye. She seemed rather amused by all the carry-on that greeted her arrival at Riverrun.
"Don't be fooled by Olenna Tyrell, nephew," Brynden had warned him. "She might be as old as the hills, but she's as sharp as a Valyrian dagger."
"Do you know her?" he had asked.
"Only by reputation. She has one of those reputations that marches before her, wherever she goes. And now she comes here."
An hour passed from her arrival at Riverrun, during which she laughed off the Blackfishes concerns about river mists and teased the guards with a withering put-down. When Brynden tried to introduce him as his son, she interjected and said: "Ah, your son. It's as well Lord Stark never found out." Margaery met his gaze from her grandmother's side, an apologetic look in her eyes. But he didn't mind. Everyone was going to find out sooner or later, anyway.
Now he and Olenna were alone together in the solar, sitting a mere few feet apart and she was appraising him as a hunter appraises its next kill. Sharp and precise, it was a look that brooked no horseshit. Having granted this private meeting as soon as she arrived, Robb still didn't know what was going on out there. There hadn't been time to talk, yet. And Margaery was down in the common hall with her brothers and the Blackfish. This moment was his turn to be privately assessed.
"I heard so many stories about you, my lord," the old lady began, leaning forward with her hands still on her walking stick. She looked like she might bash him with it if she misliked any answers he gave. "The greatest military commander of his age, the young wolf, the vexation of the mighty Tywin and the endless thorn in the side of Joffrey, the greatest shit who ever lived. Now I find you, hiding behind your uncle's walls, waiting for … what exactly?"
Robb felt his mouth run dry. "My army was massacred, my lady-"
"So I heard," she cut in. "I know what happened. The whole realm knows what happened. That's not what I am asking. I'm asking what you're doing now."
"Yes, I understand," he replied, grappling to keep himself together. It seemed his alliance depended entirely on the impression he left on this matriarch. "First, I only wanted to state the difficulty of my predicament. Before your army arrived to lay siege, I wrote to my brother at Castle Black – he's lord commander of the Night's Watch, you see. He's arriving via the Vale, from Gulltown. Lord Robert is my cousin and I'm hoping he will consider coming to my aid. Many Northern Houses are still loyal to House Stark and I am seeking to rally them, in a way that keeps my existence a secret from House Bolton."
She seemed pleased, to his relief. "So, you haven't been sitting around here just hoping and waiting for the Tyrells to fall into your lap."
"Or course not," he replied, feeling almost affronted. He pulled back then, hesitant to say more, but he felt he had to. "No, I would never put that on to Lady Margaery. And there's also Riverlords, the Mallisters and Blackwoods, who still fly the Stark banner. I am hoping to rally them, when we begin planning our return campaign."
Lady Olenna smiled and nodded her head. "I am not without sympathy for your plight, Lord Stark. But, you must understand, I have sat back and watched my granddaughter being used by two men now. One of whom was an irredeemable sword-swallower far more interested in her brother than her. The second was the most vicious little cunt you could have the misfortune to meet. She almost married a third, that was just a foolish little boy who could bring her only problems. But it wasn't so bad. You see, Margaery knew what she was doing with those men. She didn't love them any more than they loved her. She understood that the marriages were just an agreement between two houses. She knew, and understood, she was being used and she used them in turn. Do you understand, Lord Stark?"
Robb nodded, although he thought there was some salient point he was missing. "But this is different."
Olenna nodded. "Yes, this is different. My granddaughter loves you. She hasn't told me, she doesn't need to. I've heard her talk about you and I've seen her look at you. For her, any alliance between our houses is more than just a contract."
"I don't look at Margaery and see only her army or her resources, my lady," he answered, quickly. "In the beginning, when I was just Brynden's bastard to her, I tried to stop myself from feeling anything for her. My wife had not long died, my parents not long dead, my army not long massacred. I had nothing to give her, not even a scrap of land in the Neck. So, please understand, I tried to stop this from happening. But the heart is as the heart does, I find. And yes, I have – and will continue – to look beyond the Reach to rebuild my forces. I don't want Lady Margaery just for that. And … I love her too."
Finally, she relaxed and sat back. She even let go of her walking stick to sip at the wine he had poured her. He had a feeling she hadn't organised this private meeting just to give him a warning about messing with her granddaughter, although he was strangely touched by her concern for Margaery's welfare. He had the impression her family used her only to their own advantage.
"Did Margaery tell you about her cousins?" asked Olenna.
Robb frowned and shook his head. "No, we haven't spoken yet."
She started from the beginning, with Cersei arming the Faith Militant and secretly organising an investigation into the Tyrell household at court. The plants sent into her chambers, the tortured singer and the scurrilous rumours being used against them. Now Megga and Elinor Tyrell were left festering in a Faith Militant dungeon and the alliance was formally broken.
Cersei, he concluded, was an even bigger fool than he could ever have guessed.
"House Tyrell and House Stark are both out in the cold," she said, by way of conclusion. "I think, perhaps, it is time we began to keep each other warm."
And Cersei's loss was to be his gain. For days and weeks, he had agonised over how to win the Tyrell alliance. His was not a promising hand: a deposed lord with almost no army to call his own. Now Cersei had won the alliance for him. He marvelled at her incompetence. There was just one thing nagging at his mind.
"My Lady, if you raise arms against the crown, will Cersei not execute Lady Elinor and Lady Megga?"
Olenna laughed a deep, throaty chuckle. "You don't fully appreciate the depth of Cersei's stupidity, my lord. Elinor and Meg are not her prisoners. They're the prisoners of the Faith Militant, who answer to the High Sparrow. The High Sparrow answers only to the seven, and Cersei be damned."
Robb could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "So, should you convince the High Sparrow that the girls are mere innocent victims of political machinations, they'll just be released into your care? Cersei has no power to call for their heads."
"Precisely," replied Olenna. "And when the High Sparrow finds out about who the real father of her children is … well, it will be interesting, to say the least. And that's before we get drawn on Lancel Lannister's testimony, which should also prove to be quite interesting."
"Is he a prisoner of the Faith, too?" he asked, curious.
"Even better, he's one of them," she laughed. "And I have it on good authority that his conscience troubles him over the death of King Robert. Cersei has ruined herself, but we are now more concerned with the North."
"Cersei still has allies in the North," said Robb. "House Bolton, who destroyed my house, solely for Winterfell and peace with the Lannisters. And there's the Freys in the Riverlands, of course. If I can defeat them with House Tyrell's help, I can rally the Riverlands to march North with us. We will also, of course, help protect the Reach while the bulk of your forces are with me in the North."
"And together we can crush what's left of Cersei's hold on power," she agreed. "But you must be out there with them, Lord Stark. This is your revenge much more than it is ours. You have lost much more than us. Now you must step up to the challenge."
"I know," he said, with a little more confidence than he felt. "I know what I must do."
She seemed to see through his attempt at bluster. Her gaze sharpened and she fixed him more keenly.
"You're ashamed of what happened, I can see it in you," she observed. "You need your self-respect back, and the only way I think you'll get it is out there on the battlefield. You certainly won't find it while cooped up in here. Be the Young Wolf again, Lord Stark, and show that Lannister bitch you're not done yet."
Olenna was right. This deathless death he'd been suffering since the siege began was starting to cripple him. Now it was enough. He realised it there and in that moment, he had to get up off the royal side of his arse and start doing things. And now he had the army to help him do it.
"What of Lord Tyrell?" he asked. "Surely he would need to approve any alliance."
"You leave Mace to me," she said, sternly. "He's my son and he'll do as he's told, if he knows what's good for him."
That brooked no argument, so he let it be. "Thank you, Lady Tyrell."
She paused as she got back to her feet and regarded him once more. "Take care of my granddaughter, Lord Stark, and I will thank you in good time. Now, no more moping. We have a war to win."
Back in the common hall, he sought Margaery out among the small crowd. Ser Garlan and Ser Loras were both there, already pouring over maps with the Blackfish. They greeted him warmly, shaking his hand and giving him a slap on the back.
"I should have known there was more to you the moment I saw you fight," said Garlan. "Bloody kicking myself now, my lord."
Loras' white cloak of the Kingsguard had been draped over the shoulders of an ornamental suit of armour in the corner, abandoned and forgotten. "He's not a 'my lord' he's a 'your grace'," he tersely corrected his brother. "Forgive me, your grace."
Robb waved it away. "I'm nothing right now, Ser Loras. But tomorrow, who knows?"
There was no time to discuss it and he had no inclination to quibble over titles. All he wanted was Margaery, who peeled away from the women she was talking to and walked right up to him and greeted him with a kiss. This time, he did not fight the feelings he had for her. She was to be his wife and he her husband. The kiss lingered, the sweetest thing of all. He found her hips and drew her closer.
Only yesterday, he might have been worried about such a gesture. He might even have thought: what about Tommen? As if Tommen lay down every night and thought: what about Robb Stark? Why should he spare a second's thought for the fool king? Every time he imagined Tommen, Robb saw him as he was in Winterfell's sparring yard the day he was defeated by Bran. Rolled up in so much padding he was as wide as he was tall. That's how Robb pictured him sitting on the iron throne, all swaddled up like a fat dumpling, slowly being skewered on Aegon the Conqueror's rusted barbs. Let him be skewered, the iron throne was nothing more than a novelty chair being fought over by mummers and fools.
Of course, such thoughts couldn't have been further from his mind as he kissed his future bride. The deed was as good as done and Cersei may as well be the one officiating their marriage. They parted and smiled to the sound of a rapturous applause.
While scaling the wall remained as the most terrifying climb Jon had ever made, by the time he reached the Eyrie, he knew this was a close second. At times, the ledge they followed was barely wide enough for their mules, the drop below them was thousands of feet straight down. Sometimes, he couldn't even see the bottom of these abyss like ravines. Then the stone steps leading to a castle built into the rock itself, were covered in ice just to make it even more terrifying. All they had to assist them were sure-footed mules and a guide named Mya, who made it look easy.
By mid-morning, they had made it to the final stage. The thin mountain air was making Jon lightheaded, on top of the vertigo and the exhausting climb. But they were met by Lord Royce, a man he remembered from when he visited Winterfell years before, while escorting his son to the wall. He shook Jon's hand and welcomed him to the Eyrie before escorting him and Sam on the final leg of the journey. For the sake of safety, Gilly had already gone up in the supply baskets, the baby clutched to her breast.
All through the climb, he had wondered about Alayne. Now he was here, he feared she would see him, realise it was mistaken identity and then throw him back down the mountains. He had not a clue who she could be. However, Mya knew her and claimed her as a friend and offered "Petyr's daughter" by way of a clue as to her identity. Now it was Lord Royce's turn.
"Oh yes, Petyr's bastard daughter from Braavos," he said, expanding on Mya's answer just a little. "Nice girl. But I can't shake this feeling I've seen her somewhere before. It's really quite unnerving."
Jon could safely say he didn't know anyone from Braavos and Alayne remained an enticing enigma.
"My condolences on the death of your father and brother, Lord Commander," said Lord Royce as they made the final climb. More icy steps leading to the castle. "I remember Lord Eddard well from his time at the Eyrie. Your brother was a good, brave lad too. Between you and I, many here, myself included, would have been at King Robb's side, but for orders."
"Thank you, my lord," he said, hesitating before just blurting out that Robb wasn't actually dead. He glanced down the narrow path, making sure Sam was still alive. He was, but only just. He was pale with terror, struck dumb and sweating profusely. Business could wait until they were back on firm, steady ground.
They entered the Eyrie through the basements and up into a common hall, currently empty. But it was solid ground and steady, which was all Jon cared about by that stage. They were handed over to a maid, who brought them to rooms she told them Lady Alayne had ordered to be prepared for them. And, after exchanging another bemused look with Sam, they found themselves being ushered into fine chambers – much more than he expected. Gilly had her own room, complete with cradle for the baby. Sam and Jon's rooms were adjoined with a connecting door. They had plush feather beds and fires were roaring in the hearths. All were welcome, after the trip they'd had since Gulltown.
Most welcome to Jon was the tray of good food and hot honey mead, which he dug into straight away. Sam, however, was still a little pale and clammy from the climb.
"Any minute now and this Alayne is going to realise I am not the person she thinks I am and fling us both back down the mountain pass," he remarked, rolling up a slice of sweetmeat. "So make the most of it, Sam. Go on, eat."
"No thanks," came the shaky reply.
And the mystery continued. Maids came to pour them both hot baths in their respective rooms, after which they dried and donned fresh clothes provided by the Lord of the Eyrie. Only after that were they brought to the common hall, now populated by the Lords of the Vale. Over them all, a small boy ruled from a weirwood throne. The height and size only served to emphasise how small he was, a matter not helped by the maester, who actually wiped the boy's nose himself. Jon was almost embarrassed for the boy.
Next to catch Jon's eye was a man of roughly thirty years, half way up the dais and surveying the room with a shifty-eyed stare. "I did not know we were expecting visitors from the Night's Watch. Why wasn't I told?"
"I'm dealing with them," said the boy on the weirwood throne. He sounded petulant. "I said to Alayne that this is important and Alayne agreed with me. She did. She said so!"
Lord Royce leaned in close to Jon's ear. "Excuse him, Lord Commander. The boy is difficult, but it seems he is interested. I would press the advantage while you can."
"Baelish seems not to agree, my lord," Jon replied. "Is he the Lord Protector?"
"Baelish be damned."
Jon suppressed a laugh as he let Royce lead him to the front of the gathering. But Baelish came up to meet them, staring up at him defiantly. "Lord Commander, there's been a mistake. You have no audience."
"There is no mistake, I invited him here."
It was a girl who spoke. Jon whipped around toward the source of the noise, where the crowd parted once more to admit a girl of about fourteen. Her hood was drawn up, concealing her face until she was level with Jon and Lord Baelish.
"Alayne," he said, warningly. "Alayne, remember all that I have done for you. It would not be right for you to be ungrateful now."
The girl looked to Jon and lowered her hood, revealing familiar auburn hair. "I am not Alayne Stone. I am-"
"Sansa!" he blurted out so loud it echoed from the rafters. "Sansa Stark!"
Silence fell over the hall as Jon looked his sister up and down. Had it not been for all the people watching and all the madness breaking out around them, he would have held her tight and not let go. But it was only now he realised how wrong everything was. Why was she here? Why was this man forcing her to pretend she was his daughter? Why the false name? Jon felt sick.
"Jon," she said, pleadingly. "Jon, tell them who I am. Don't let him keep me here; tell them I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell and I cannot be held here against my will."
Jon no longer cared who was watching, he wrapped his arms around her and let the lords fight among themselves. He let the accusations fly and the shouting match begin. He and Sansa were the still eye of the storm, where they clung to each other for dear life. Swords were being drawn, Baelish swiftly being surrounded. Sansa dried her weeping eyes and turned to look.
"Let him be," Jon said, pulling her back into his arms. "Let them all be, sister. There is much you need to know."
Thanks again for reading, reviews would be great if you have a minute.
I was really torn over the reunion scene and ended up rewriting it about a hundred times. I wanted something a bit more dramatic and different to the usual teary reunions I do. So this had to suffice. But next chapter will include a full and more private catch up between Jon and Sansa.