Jon
His sight was hazy ascending the stairwell in the crypts, and his movements were slow and clumsy. The stairs were easy, he only had to climb the steps with one hand on the stone center of the stairwell, the other on his dimmed torch. He didn't want to look into the flames, for some reason they hurt to look at too closely. The world spun about him trying as he tried to keep his feet.
Jon stumbled and fell through a doorway, whose Ironwood entrance was partially opened. He found his footing when he did, he saw a light somewhere down crypts. It had to be the same light he saw down in the springs.
The torch began to feel heavier, as he staggered among the dead lords of winter. The generations got closer and closer still to his own as he approached the mysterious dying light. But when he came closer it disappeared.
Or did it, Jon had always had nightmares about this place for reasons he could not guess. Maybe it was what this place symbolised. It was afterall the final reminder of who the trueborn lords of Winterfell were. Maybe it was the place where Robb should gone if the Frey's had held a shred of honor.
He could not be here without feeling heartbroken, and had he not felt feverish, he would probably have left this place already.
Jon then noticed that he was at the edge of the statues. From where he stood, the ground was only an uncultivated cemetary at beyond the statues of his uncle Brandon Stark, aunt Lyanna, and his grandfather Rickard Stark.
At the tomb of Lyanna Stark, he saw a light. It was a very different light from what he thought he saw, and it came from a candle.
Jon focused his vision, and saw a blue rose placed in her stone hands along with the candle.
Halfway down the stem, Jon could see a small piece of parchment folded and draped over the thorny rose. He tugged at the parchment, already damp, saw three lightly faded words on its underside.
Jon fumbled at the rose as if his hands were frozen stiff, and dropped the rose after a thorn pricked him. The rose fell the foot of Lyanna Stark's statue tearing free of the message.
A light sound echoed, when the rose hit the ground, and Jon Snow suddenly felt the weight of every lifeless stare of the stern and less than approving looks carved into the statues that would have said leave bastard and never come back if they could speak. Even Lyanna Stark seemed to have a stern look about her.
Clumsily Jon pocketed the paper and made his way out, his form dangerously swaying past the tombs as if he had drunk too much. He could not take this place anymore.
Dany
In the dark cell that she had been put in, Dany felt her senses slip away as the hours slowly moved by. In the solitary cell, her only connection to the outside world was the sound of hammers in the distance. When the one noise from one direction could no longer be heard, she was certain that they still went on somewhere else nearby.
Day and night they rang, she had heard someone say as she was escorted to this cell, for the time when the handsome Qohorik was ready. It was a different cell, than the one she had first been kept. This one had thicker walls and a thicker door than the other one. It looked as if it had never seen the light of day. On the other hand, the prisoner's bedding was much better and far less worn. She was not sure if that was a good thing.
Footsteps approached, and she assumed that it was today's meal. Three days had gone by as far as she knew, three light meals had been delivered, through the thin door near the bottom of the cell.
Instead, she heard the lift of the main latch. The heavy door creaked open, and light flooded the cell. When her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she saw the outlines of two burly toughs.
"It's time," one of them said in gruff voice in the bastardized High Valyrian dialect of Qohor. She got up quietly and left the cell, to be escorted away. Where she was going she could not guess.
Suddenly she realized, that she had been led outside. Her senses were coming back. The first thing she felt was the chill of the cold air against her skin, and then the hard sound of the pattering rain. The sky was dark, and the sun if it ever came, it would be up soon.
Dany made out the open cart before them, which already had Viserys within. She was prodded to climb onto the the cart. In the front bench, were two hooded figures. One said something she couldn't hear, when the two guards climbed up to accompany them.
The crack of a whip was heard, and the cart rolled on down the muddy street. The ride was bumpy, and slow, and the raindrops came down so hard that she could barely see across the cart along the poorly lit streets. Soon her clothes were soaked, along with everyone else.
Something about it all made her heart sink even deeper. Had the raindrops not been so heavy she might have felt salty tears rolling down her cheeks.
The feeling of fear held sway over her during the long ride through the city. It felt like the last ride of a condemned prisoner.
When at last they stopped, it was at an old barn. A guard escorted both both Viserys and herself within.
In the center of the barn, a firepit had been dug, and its flames were growing dim. A single man was staring into the dim fire with his hands outstretched trying not to shiver. The roof was leaky, and some raindrops trickled through.
The lone man at the fire, looked up and then searched the barn with his eyes before they focused on the new arrivals.
The man who sat at the head of the cart let down his hood, and Dany saw at once it was Mengels Gathe. He addressed the man at the fire. "Where's your captain?"
"Probably pissing himself, on the other side of the Erya's fork" the man spoke a rough high Valyrian, that suggested he was not from any of the free cities. "Vargo Hoat says your grand magister means to give him to the priests if he catches him."
Gathe allowed a laugh, "you might think him a fool, but he has a certain wisdom about him. Does every member of the bloody mummer's have a bounty somewhere?"
"Most of us seem to." Dany saw the man's cheek twitch and spasm, which made her uncomfortable when he noticed her and leered at her. "Mine's in Lannisport."
Mengels smirked in the firelight, "Payment if you please."
Three men slept were in blankets, and two of them were stirring. The man who led them approached the one who was still fast asleep and gave him a boot on the ribs. "Get up you gutter rat, and give him the chest."
The poor sellsword had only opened his eyes, when another boot struck him the thigh. And the man was on his feet quick enough to avert a third kick. He disappeared into a stall, and a few moments later, came out with a chest upon his shoulder.
When he entered the firelight, she saw a lanky young man with dirty matted hair. He lowered the chest gently as if he feared his leader, and laid it tenderly at the feet of her captor.
Whatever was in that chest, it had just bought them.
The last thing she heard, was the smack of a cudgel against the back of her brothers miserable head, followed instantly by a shot of pain to her own head, and the strong arms a tough grasping her limp arms.
Sam
Samwell Tarly left his quarters feeling strangely calm. As he walked down the parapet, he had good view of the yard before the keep. In the center, a familiar destrier was riderless, and below him, a man was being being carried away on the back of a knight.
In the great hall of Horn Hill they entered, and Sam followed. Upon entering, his eyes went to the foot of the dais on the far end of the room, and saw a man being laid on a sheet of white linen that brought out the crimson color of blood. Samwell instantly recognized him for his father. On the the walls hung many tapestries of great hunts long ago and military victories, that showed ironic scorn for the man below in his simple tanned, but now torn leather jerkin. Within he saw Ser Hyle, Maester Steffon, and Leo Tyrell.
"Is he, dead?" Sam asked, somehow unable mask fear in his voice.
Ser Hyle Hunt looked at him sullenly, but said nothing.
Sam upon hearing no answer, slowly moved up to his father as if he almost feared to wake him. An awful fear washed over him, or was it guilt? He lifted a limp arm by the wrist, and felt in vain for a pulse. Lord Randyll Tarly, would hunt no more.
He looked over the body and guessed what had happened. His father had fallen from his horse, and had landed on his head. If that hadn't killed him, then his horse had done the rest, judging by the twisted state of his right leg.
"How fast was his horse going when he fell?" Sam heard himself speak to no one in particular.
It seemed a long time, before Lazy Leo spoke up, "His horse was in a canter, but it went to a full gallop after he fell. His foot got caught in the stirrup and he dragged him down a hill before Ser Hyle caught him."
Sam nodded. It was a cruel way to go. But one still less than you deserved father, he thought, and felt his hands curl into a fists at the thought of the man his father was.
"Put him in the lichyard," his voice an edge of command that the people of Horn Hill had never heard before.
"But your father must have a proper funeral first," the maester voiced his hollow dissent.
The thought had not struck Sam, though it should have. In truth, Sam was felt little at the concept of death, for he had seen too much of it on the way North from Oldtown. Funerals, when held, where informal and abrupt affairs. The dead would be placed on a pyre, and more often than not, with a few other departed souls no matter how highborn they were. Words of respect would be spoken, and prayers would be offered from the pious, be they followers of R'hollor, the Seven, or the old gods.
He then remembered the time and place. "Very well," he nodded, " Maester Steffon, send for the Silent Sisters."
The lean, weasel-faced, maester, who Sam suspected had no lost love for his father, bowed his head. "Yes, my lord." Sam did not fail to notice a grimace that came from the mouth of Ser Hyle, and the barely disguised loathing of Leo Tyrell.
"Leave us," Lord Tarly allowed his voice to carry within the hall.
They hesistated, and felt that it was a test.
Sam stepped over his lord father's corpse, and climbed the dais to address them like a lord would have. "Your lord demands that you begone from this hall while he mourns, his father." His voice strained and he could almost feel it falter.
That time they obeyed. After they had left, Sam nearly sunk to his knees when he exhaled. They had gone, much simpler than Sam felt they would go.
And now he was alone in the hall with his dead father who had unwillingly left him Horn Hill.
He recalled the last time they had spoken, many years ago. That morning, he had been given the choice of the wall and certain death. He had been too proud to let Sam follow his dream of being a maester and instead sent him to a penal colony that was almost considered a death sentence.
Finally looking upon the lifeless face, he felt a surge of hatred boil from within. The fear he felt he had suddenly forgotten.
The urge to pull out his member, and relieve his bladder over this man nearly got the best of him. What stopped him, he could not say.
Was it guilt, he thought. He pulled out and contemplated the half emptied vial of nightshade that he had stolen from the maester's stores. This man held no qualms about kinslaying he had since learned. So why did he feel any guilt for Lord Randyll Tarly?
Note: In the last few months, I've either been terribly busy or suffering a severe case of writer's block. Not even Varys can guess when the next update will be, but it will be good. Thank you all for your support.