Thank you, as always, to everyone who has read, favourited and alerted this story. Especially to those who took time to review. Thank you!
I'm resurrecting a dream Dany had in the books for this chapter, with just a few tweaks to the original. Anyway, it's taken from Storm of Swords part I, Daenerys III.
Also, in keeping with the books, Greatjon Umber is still alive while his son, Smalljon Umber, is among the dead.
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Crown
A tangle of streams and a lattice work of wide, rushing rivers cut through the thick of snows covering the Riverlands. Sparkling blue on white, it looked so pretty. From Drogon's back, Daenerys could look over his shoulder and see it all rolled out below her. A panorama of river, snow, hill and forest. She had never seen it before, but she knew what it was and she knew where she was going. From west to east, where the Blue, Red and Green Forks all merged to form the clashing currents of the Trident, where her brother awaited her return.
The Usurper's host was amassed on the riverbank. They bore no banners, but she knew who they were: Baratheon, Stark, Tully and Arryn. All armoured in ice, they were harder to see than the last time, but she saw their blue eyes shining like burning stars. And none could hide from Drogon's fires as the flames dowsed them. The banks of the Trident swelled, washing over the scene as she awoke with a start.
The feeling of exultation dissipated fast as the chamber reformed itself around her and she found herself firmly back in Mereen. Pre-dawn gloom filtered through the shutters, the furniture around her reduced to dark and featureless shapes surrounding her. Briefly, she wondered where Drogon is now. Had he made it to the Riverlands, like in her dreams? Would he be there still, waiting for her on the off-chance she ever made it out of this damnable city? Sometimes, she envied him.
It was too early to get out of bed without having people looking at her like she was a mad woman, so she lay there until the first rays of sun pierced the gaps in the shutters. Tokar on, she slipped her feet into some comfortable sandals and let Irri braid her hair. It was past her shoulders now, recovering well from the birth of the dragons, when it had all been singed away.
All the while, she thought about the dream she'd had. The first time she had it, riding the dragon had been the key feature that stayed with her. Drogon had been small back then, the prospect of flying him for real was a dim and distant prospect. Now that time was fast approaching and she could barely think where time went. This time, however, it was different and she needed Ser Barristan.
"Do Westerosi soldiers wear a special armour that looks like ice?" she asked the veteran knight, later that morning. The question felt a foolish one, but that was how it appeared in her dream.
"Ice, your grace?" he repeated, suitably perplexed.
They were on their way to the audience chamber of the pyramid, taking their time as was their wont. As they went, she tried to think of the right words to describe what she saw in the dream. It cannot have been literal ice. Ice would just melt or crack as soon as a sword touched it.
"Like, decoration, I suppose," she said, brow creasing. "Something that would make armour look like ice."
"Not in all my years have I heard of such a thing, my lady," he said, letting her down gently. "Why do you ask?"
She told him about the dream and the usurpers host all armoured in ice, with their shining blue eyes. It was strange, because the Riverlands looked so real only to be populated by these fantastical soldiers that she seemed to have plucked out of the depths of her unconscious imagination. But, Ser Barristan only smiled and assured her a dream is nothing more than just a dream. The human mind's way of teasing us, even when we're trying to get some sleep.
"Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that no new cases of dysentery have been reported in the last full day," he continued.
Daenerys breathed a sigh of relief. "Let us hope the pale mare has been stopped in her tracks."
"Quite," he replied. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped and placed one hand on the pommel of his sword instead. Only then did he continue: "There is a petitioner waiting already- "
"Hizdahr, at this hour?" she groaned. "I haven't even broken my fast yet."
"Actually, no," he replied. "Ser Jorah, your grace…"
Dany felt a fist close over her heart at the sound of his name, the pain of it drowning out the rest of Ser Barristan's sentence.
"I told him he I would have his head should he return to Mereen," she blurted, already knowing she could never enact the sentence. "Why has he returned? Does he mean to test me? Did he not believe me?"
She didn't even believe herself. Nor did she know what made her more angry: Jorah's apparent impudence, or her own vacillating heart. To take him back would only be exposing her weakness. To send him away again would only bring her more sorrow.
But Ser Barristan seemed more forgiving. "It would be prudent to at least hear him out. See what he has for you. I think you might be interested."
Daenerys was silent for a moment, hesitating before jumping on the lifeline he threw her. "What is it?"
"A lion, of sorts."
"A lion?" she repeated, her brow creased in a frown.
"Tyrion Lannister, no less. It's the real thing, too. They say he murdered his nephew, King Joffrey."
Quaithe's voice echoed in her memory once more: "first comes the pale mare and after her the lion…" Who would come next? The Kraken, the Sapphire Maid and the little bird. With them comes the White Wolf. A piece of the puzzle slid into place. Her torment subsided fast, replaced with a cold shiver of foretelling.
An open circlet of hammered bronze, engraved all around with the runes of the first men and decorated with spikes in the fashion of longswords. Robb didn't recognise it at first. It was just a dull, tarnished glimmer among the rubble of the eastern tower. He wondered how it got there, and why the Freys didn't just toss it away as soon as the massacre was done. Looking back, he could have sworn they hammered it to Grey Wind's head. But he should have known a Lord as rapacious as Walder Frey would not so easily part with a crown. Not any crown. Especially one as troublesome as his. Maybe it was more a trophy than a crown.
He knelt down and extricated it carefully from beneath the fallen bricks and rafter beams. It was never exactly pretty. The very nature of its creation was a hurried and make-do affair, since the original Northern crown had long since rusted its way into the pages of forgotten history. One of the nine miniature long swords were slightly bent, probably where a block had hit it. The bronze was scraped and grazed, the circlet now dented. It looked like any old piece of discarded junk.
"Robb."
He was about to toss the old crown away again when Sansa's voice drew him from his thoughts. Looking up from where he still knelt, he found her standing over him bearing a cup of hot mead. Kneeling beside him, she gave him the mead.
"Is that yours?" she asked, spotting the battered crown in his hands.
"The armourer at Riverrun made it," he answered, shaking off the dust. "It doesn't much look like a crown."
"Yes, it does," Sansa insisted.
"Not a proper crown," he said, smiling. "You wouldn't have approved."
He meant it as a jest, but Sansa wasn't laughing. She took the crown from him and ran the pad of her thumb along one of the dented miniature longswords. "Maybe not. But it's a crown that tells its own story. Everyone should approve of that."
He saw what she meant. Every dent and scratch and warped angle displayed the wars they'd been through to get where they were now. It wore his victories and tribulations as much as he did. But it wasn't just the crown that had taken a battering during his long campaign. Every victory he scored was a black-eye for Sansa, a kicking from the kingsguard, a bust lip and limbs left black and blue. Only the Hound refused to do it. Only the Imp could put a final stop to it. He, Robb, had been the cause of it.
"Margaery told me what they did," he said, at length. "Joffrey, I mean. After the battles."
She looked away, her eyes unfocused as she blotted out the memories. "It wasn't so very bad and Joffrey rarely let them touch my face."
"It was bad," he insisted, inwardly flinching against her efforts to cushion him from the worst of the abuse she suffered. "I would have come for you; I would have made them pay for what they did."
Sansa smiled, for a moment showing the sweet innocent she had once been. "The beatings only happened because you were winning and they were scared out of their wits. I understood that, and I was laughing inside."
He took the mead she had brought him and led them over to the high table, overlooking the now damaged common hall. Avoiding the seat once occupied by Lord Walder Frey, he took the one next to it, where his wife might have sat. For a moment, he imagined what it must have been like to be Walder Frey that night, watching the massacre unfold as if it were a mummer's play. His eyes combed the eaves, where the terrible musicians played their discordant Reynes of Castamere as all hell broke loose below them. He found the spot where he and Talisa sat, he shifted his gaze to the servant's door where he slipped away into the courtyards moments before it all began.
When he looked down at the wooden floorboards, he still expected to see the bloodstains seeped into the grain. Whoever cleaned up afterwards, they'd clearly done a good job. The only blood stain left now was that of old Lord Walder, where Robb had finished him just hours before.
"Robb." Sansa touched his face, gently turning him back to face her. "We mustn't stay here; it does you no good to dwell on it."
"I can't just leave it," he protested.
"Lord Tytos Blackwood has flown the direwolf sigil above Raventree Hall all through the war and even after the red wedding, the direwolf flies there still," she said. "You are no longer his King, you've relinquished your claim to the lands north of the Trident. Reward his steadfast loyalty with the Twins. Leave the bridge in tact and let them use the money gained from the tolls to rebuild the Riverlands."
It was such a neat solution, he knew he had to consider it. Now that old Walder was dead, the line of succession was a muddled affair. Lord Stevron had died at Oxcross. After him, Ryman Frey was supposed to inherit, but he died during the previous day's fighting. Robb himself hanged Black Walder Frey just a few hours ago, alongside Edwyn Frey and Petyr Pimple Frey. Aegon Frey was a dull-witted fool dressed in motley and Robb learned his own mother, Catelyn, had cut his throat before she was killed by Black Walder. After them, who was supposed to inherit the Twins was anyone's guess. Besides, it didn't much matter, Robb had taken the castle and it was technically his now.
"I'll send for Lord Tytos," he said. "But I daresay he'll be on his way already. The scouts have informed me that Jason Mallister is free- "
"Oh ho!" a booming voice cut through the hall, right down the middle of Robb's sentence. "That was a jolly stirring that almost woke me from my slumber last night. I thought the gods had sent a storm to alight the old weasel but no…a wolf pup ranging in the night, I do believe. "
Startled, both Robb and Sansa whipped around in their seats toward the sound of the booming giant. Relief wash over him, a smile lit up his face as he found Greatjon Umber, massive and imposing as ever despite imprisonment, filling up the doorway behind the dais.
"Well, Lord Umber, only you could sleep through a battle of that magnitude," Robb retorted, getting to his feet. He closed the gap between them, letting the giant of a man pull him into a bearhug as tight as a blacksmith's vice. He was breathless by the time Greatjon let him go.
Joining them at the table on the dais, Lord Umber threw himself down in old Lord Walder's seat and paused to behold the old man's blood still staining the table. He held up his hand, indicating for silence, gaze still firmly fixed on the blood. Robb was wondering what he was doing, a frown marring his brow.
"Here, my lady," he said to Sansa. "Dab a bit of this behind your ears. No perfume so sweet as the blood o'the Freys."
Sansa still had the crown. The crown that Greatjon had first bestowed on him.
While Greatjon's strength, inner and outer, had carried him through his spell of imprisonment almost undiminished, the same could not have been said of Edmure. He was brought to Robb with his heavily pregnant wife at his side. He was gaunt and grey-faced, his blue eyes dimmed after months kept in poor light. His clothing hung from him, his face caked in dirt.
Margaery had appeared by now and she rushed to find a useable chair for Roslyn, who stood before Robb quaking and terrified. She sat down in it, one arm curled under the vast expanse of her belly, supporting the baby inside.
"You knew about the massacre," Robb stated, plainly.
"It was beyond her control," Edmure answered before he could get a word in.
"I was speaking to Lady Tully," Robb curtly informed him before repeating the question.
The girl nodded her head, white with fear. She was white with fear when he last saw her and he began to wonder whether all Freys kept the same facial expressions on all occasions. But all Robb could do was sigh deeply.
"I'm not in the habit of hanging women," he said. "Never mind ones pregnant with mine own kinsman. I hear my uncle is content with the marriage, so you remain Lady of Riverrun. If you feel you're up to the journey, you're free to go there with him. If not, you're free to remain here until the infant is born and only travel when sufficiently recovered."
"I'd sooner deliver my baby by the roadside than at the Twins," she answered, growing more confident now. "And I thank you, your grace."
"We have a litter you may use to make your journey more comfortable," said Margaery. "Is there anything else? Don't be afraid to ask anything of us."
Roslyn swallowed, her pale blue eyes darting between all the faces looking down at her from the dais. Robb, Jon, Margaery, Sansa and Greatjon Umber. She seemed to baulk again, before rallying herself. "Your Grace, I know you march on the North where my cousin, Lady Walda, acts as Lady of Winterfell- "
"Not now, Roslyn," Edmure whispered in her ear.
"Uncle, let her speak."
Roslyn recovered from the interruption, returning her gaze to Robb in a direct appeal. "Lady Walda is married to Lord Bolton, but she had no say in the marriage and no say in Lord Bolton's actions. Now she carries his child and I beg of you to show mercy to them."
"She's pregnant?" said Robb, shuddering inwardly at the thought of a half-Frey half-Bolton future Lord of the Dreadfort.
"She is not so far gone as I and I fear she may be carrying still when the battle for Winterfell begins."
Robb was quiet for a moment, considering what could be done. His father was the first person to spring into his thoughts and he knew what old Lord Eddard would have done. All the same, he wished to confer with the others.
"Lady Walda cannot be made to suffer for her husband or her family's actions. But we can't let that child grow up resenting us. If it's a boy, Margaery, I say we foster him and raise him as our own. In the meantime, Lady Walda can live at the Dreadfort, protecting her son's inheritance."
"By the time we're done with the Boltons, there'll be no one else to inherit even if it is a girl," said Jon.
"That's true," said Margaery. "The child, boy or girl, should be raised at Winterfell alongside our own – the gods willing – and we will end this enmity between House Stark and House Bolton for good."
"And formalise the truce between our houses with a marriage," said Sansa. "Marry the child to one of your own. A younger one, that won't be needed at Winterfell."
Their poor child hadn't even been conceived yet and Robb couldn't help but think life had already delivered it a raw deal. All the same, it seemed the sensible thing to do and gave his agreement. Roslyn, who'd been listening in to their small conference, looked pink cheeked with relief.
"Thank you, your grace."
Robb waved her gratitude away, relieved that the most urgent business of the Twins was already concluded. Outside, early morning sunshine was breaking over the Riverlands and he had not slept a wink. None of them had. All around him were pale faces, dark ringed eyes and the air heavy with stifled yawns. He rose to his feet, light-headed with sleepiness. "I say we get some rest and ride on to the Neck at Dawn."
His declaration was met with a murmur of approval. But as they all filtered out of the hall, following the maester who'd prepared some rooms for them, Brienne of Tarth lingered behind. She stepped out of the shadows, removing her sword belt. Having seen the action, Jon returned to Robb's side, one hand on Dark Sister as if Brienne might cut Robb down at any second.
"I tried to find time to talk with you," she said. "About this."
Robb took the sword belt from her. Assuming she wasn't trying to show him the actual belt, he drew the sword he'd heard her call Oathkeeper. It was a stunning blade. Valyrian steel, all grey ripples and swirls, intermingled with a strange scarlet colour. The gold pommel was embossed with the lion of House Lannister. Only, House Lannister was known to have lost their Valyrian sword in the smoking sea. Tywin had been raging about it for as long as anyone could remember.
"Ice," he said, his heart sinking into his boots.
Beside him, Jon looked like he might vomit.
"Ser Jaime gave it to me to defend your sister," she said solemnly. "That was his exact command: to find Lady Sansa and bring her to safety, using her father's own sword to defend her."
"That's something, I suppose," said Jon. "Robb, get the armourer here to change the pommel. Anything to get that fucking lion off it."
Robb heard him but made no reply. "Where's the rest of it? Ice was much bigger than this."
"Ice was reforged into two blades," she said. "One for Jaime and another for Joffrey. The other is still in King's Landing. Ser Jaime doesn't want it back."
He knew it was Ice, the sword he'd seen his father wear every day of his life. A huge monster of a blade worn strapped to his back. It was a ceremonial sword, more than anything. Not one a soldier could take into battle. But it was the very essence of House Stark, the oldest treasure of their house. And now it looked as foreign to him as something from another world.
"Ser Jaime commanded you to use this blade to defend a Stark?" he repeated, dumbly.
"He swore an oath to your Lady Mother," she explained. "That he would return to King's Landing and free both of her daughters and I would be the one to escort them home. Only, by the time we reached King's Landing, the red wedding had happened and Lady Catelyn was dead. We believed you were, too. Sansa had fled after Joffrey's murder and Arya was never there in the first place, although Petyr Baelish swore she was. All the same, Ser Jaime swore to keep his oath to your mother."
"Oathkeeper. So, he called it Oathkeeper," said Robb, turning the blade over in his hands. The balance was perfect, the steel just as beautiful. But it still felt wrong. "I had my mother arrested for treason after she freed Ser Jaime. We called her fool and traitor for believing him. But he meant it all along."
Jon's hand came to a rest on his shoulder, a reassuring gesture of comfort. "Robb, just change the pommel for now and it'll be like having Ice back. She's yours, not Jaime Lannister's, no matter what he did."
"I know, brother," he replied. "But perhaps, Brienne, you should still honour Ser Jaime's command and continue protecting Sansa with her father's blade in Mereen."
He handed the sword back to her, pommel first. But Brienne refused to take it. "I think perhaps, your grace, the onus is now on you to take back your ancestral home with your ancestral sword."
"If you don't, so help me, I'll smack you around the head myself," Jon sighed. "And if you're going north of the Wall, you'll need Valyrian steel."
Robb still hesitated. "The truth is, I still don't feel worthy – ouch!"
Jon made good on his promise and smacked him around the back of the head.
"That was undignified."
"Yet wholly justified. Thank you, Brienne, Robb's very grateful to you for returning his sword."
Just for a moment, the normally stony-faced Maid of the Sapphire Isle looked like she might be about to laugh. Salt in the wounds for Robb if he ever did need it.
The bodies of the Freys swayed in the river breeze. Sansa had to duck under them to get out of the portcullis, all the same Back Walder's dangling foot brushed the top of her head. The feeling of it made her shudder. According to the others, ones they had taken prisoner, Black Walder was the one who planned the whole wedding. No one, it seemed, was prepared to waste any tears on him. Least of all her.
"Hey, Sansa!" Arya's voice rang out across the yard as soon as she appeared. "Come and see the new horses."
It was late in the afternoon, but they'd soon be riding out again and this time they weren't stopping until they reached the Neck. Meanwhile, they were helping themselves to the Frey's resources. The grain sheds had been emptied, the armoury was being plundered by some knights of the Vale and the Reach, and Arya – always a natural horsewoman – was selecting some fine specimens from the stables.
"This white charger is perfect for you," she said, gesturing to the horse. "She has a sweet temperament, too."
Unlike her sister, Sansa had never been great with the animals. But Arya had found her a beauty. Already saddled, she swung up and took the reins. The horse barely flinched at her weight.
"She's perfect, shall we ride out? The others will follow soon."
Arya nodded and mounted the chestnut palfrey she had selected for herself. "Let's invite Jon?"
Sansa looked around, finally locating their brother alongside Robb and Margaery. "He looks busy with that man they're talking to."
"That man. Don't you recognise him?"
Taking the hint that she should, she narrowed her eyes to see him better. White hair, skinny and shivering violently. He was dressed in fetid rags, but was being stripped by the maester and Robb was hauling a barrel of water toward him. By the look of the poor victim, it'd be a mercy to drown him in it.
"Wait," said Sansa, turning back to Arya. "Is that … Is that Theon Greyjoy?"
"Yes, we told you he was … different."
Margaery walked away just as Theon was stripped. Naked as his nameday, Sansa felt her stomach turn when she saw the ruin of his genitals. Gelded and flayed, he squealed as the maester dunked him in the water to wash off the matted filth that coated his skin. Even Jon looked moved to pity, for all his earlier rage at Theon's continued existence.
"You're not Reek, you're Theon Greyjoy," Robb was scolding him. "Stop this madness."
"Sansa, come on. Let's go."
She hesitated. "Robb, leave him to the maesters and come with us. We're going for a ride. And you, Jon."
Brienne emerged from the armoury with a new sword in her belt. To Sansa's relief, Oathkeeper now hung from Robb's hip, new pommel and all. It was a plain pommel, but infinitely prettier than that lion. The Hound was there, already mounted on Stranger. To her infinite joy, Harry the Heir inserted himself between her and Brienne, beaming brightly at them both.
"You weren't going to leave me behind, were you?"
"I wouldn't dream of it," she replied, flatly.
He blew her a kiss as the riding party formed up, earning himself a death glare from Brienne. They all formed a line, bringing their hunting bows and hawks with them in hope of a little game, and rode out together into the advancing afternoon.
As they went, their chatter was easy and light. Their first major victory had been scored and they felt free. The snows had eased off, the groundcover almost melted away. Although they knew it would not last. It was only when they were a half-mile from the Twins that the mood changed.
"Strangers," said Jon, gesturing into the distance.
"I see them too," said Arya.
Sansa could see that it was a large group, and clearly armed to boot. However, they flew no banners. Robb moved his destrier to her side, shielding her. Harry drew his sword, just as Jon drew Dark Sister. Brienne and the Hound moved to either side of Arya. All the while, the oncoming strangers drew closer and closer. They had a dog with them. She could hear him barking as he bounded through the snow and tall grass. One of them called out a greeting.
"Seven blessings! We come in peace."
Robb frowned, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Well, I'll be damned."
"Do you know him?" asked Jon, still holding Dark Sister at the ready.
"Why yes," said Robb. "I think I do. Sheath your weapons, everyone."
They were a ragged looking band. A Septon with the dog. A man with an eye-patch and faded cloak. A priest dressed all in red she recognised from a long time ago. A strong, burly looking lad with jet black hair and sparkling blue eyes. He reminded her strongly of King Robert. It was Arya who spoke next.
"Gendry!"
The black-haired lad beamed at her. "M'lady!"
She dismounted and ran up to him and they briefly hugged each other. He drew something from his belt, a long and thin blade sheathed in a black scabbard. Arya took it and looked at it in wonder.
"We found it in Harrenhal, and I had to bring it back to you."
"Needle!" said Arya, eyes misty with emotion. She drew the blade, finding it as perfect as she always remembered.
Robb dismounted next, approaching the Septon with considerably more caution. For a moment, the two of them looked at each other.
"It's good to see you again, Septon Meribald."
"Well, well, Robb Stark," said the Septon, smiling knowingly. "I thought it might be you."
Robb was blushing, dropping his gaze coyly. "I suppose there's a special place in hell for those who lie to humble, wandering Septons."
The dog barked and rushed up to greet Robb like an old friend.
"The seven forgave me and I'm certain they can forgive you," replied the Septon. He was a kindly man and jovial, despite his grim work. Sansa realised he was the one who saved Robb's life after he escaped the Twins. "But fallen no more and very much marching back to victory. I wish you all the best in the wars to come, Robb Stark."
They clasped each other's hands, before embracing as the dog barked in loud approval. When they parted again, Robb raised a rueful smile. "We're leaving the Riverlands now, Septon. Our wars, here at least, are done. We will never trouble you again. Lord Tytos Blackwood will take the Twins and I'll make sure you always have a friend in him."
"May the gods bless you, your grace," said Meribald, touching Robb's brow as if anointing him with invisible oil. "And see you safe on your journey home."
Robb looked rather choked as the septon gave his blessings again. But it was the man in the faded cloak who spoke next. Belatedly, Sansa realised it was Beric Dondarrion. The same Lord from the Storm Lands that Jeyne had found so handsome.
"Your grace," he said. "Thoros and I have read the fires and seen the storm gathering beyond the wall. We, the Brotherhood Without Banners, are coming with you."
"Gendry?" said Arya, hope filling her eyes.
"Me too, little lady."
"And you, Septon?" asked Robb.
Meribald shook his head. "I come as far as the Neck, but my place is here in the Riverlands."
"Well, if ever you do come North," said Robb. "There is meat, mead, a warm bed and a warmer welcome awaiting you in the halls of Winterfell. Always."
"Much appreciated, your grace. But, before you go, I believe we have one last parting gift."
The huddled of men parted, revealing another who'd been previously concealed from view. A collective intake of breath greeted the sight of Jaime Lannister in their midst.
Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a moment.
A quieter chapter than the last one, it was needed to tie some loose ends and bid farewell to some old characters. Next time, we're at Moat Cailin.