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Chapter Four: The Stranger
Blood soaked through the bandages on Catelyn's fingers, beading through the gaps in the seams. Every time she squeezed them the same thing happened, but if she stopped the sharp, burning sting returned with force. The dagger used against her was on the table, more of her blood dripping from the edge of its blade. Still, most of the blood in the room came from the corpse of the assassin who had come to kill her son. The stinking wretch had put up a fierce fight, but he was no mother protecting her child as Catelyn was. Not even the infamous Faceless Men could have gotten past her. Meanwhile, Bran remained immobilised and passive, oblivious to the carnage that had erupted all around him.
Maester Luwin continued to fuss. His voice was a soft, lilting buzz gently nudging the thick silence aside. But the only sound Catelyn was aware of Bran's rhythmic, rasping breaths as he fought for his life. On ongoing battle with no end in sight and no way of telling who was winning: her son, or the Stranger. Only when the boys returned could she look away again. Robb, with his sword and ringmail now a permanent fixture of his daily dress, looking harried and stressed. Jon was nearby, soaked to the skin with soot smeared across his face and a wet cloth wrapped around his right hand. Then came Theon Greyjoy, dishevelled and wet from helping to douse the flames, but still smirking that smirk. Catelyn stirred from her son's bedside, meeting the Ironborn's gaze.
"Is the fire doused?" she asked.
Theon's expression changed as he was addressed directly, turning almost grave. "All is under control, my lady."
"Can you return to what's left of the library and supervise until the flames are fully out?" she asked, mustering a small smile of gratitude.
"Aye, my lady," he replied, still uncharacteristically serious. With a stiff, formal bow he turned and left, striding at the pace of a man on a mission. Relieved at having discreetly removed him from the fold, she motioned for Jon and Robb to enter. She caught the eye of her eldest. "Close the door behind Ser Rodrick when he arrives."
No one said anything. But Robb crossed the room and picked up the dagger, studying it closely. Jon went the other way and knelt at Bran's side, opposite Catelyn herself. Maester Luwin ducked outside, fetching some supplies and fresh bindings for Cat's injured hand. Meanwhile, Catelyn caught Jon's eye.
"Your hand," she said, nodding to the wet cloth now dripping on Bran's coverlet.
Jon coloured drawing the injured hand towards his middle, as though trying to hide it. "It's nothing," he replied. "Just a burn. How is Bran?"
Before she could say anything, Robb's voice sounded from behind her.
"This is Valyrian steel."
Both she and Jon turned to look, finding Robb holding the dagger up gingerly between thumb and forefinger. Who would own such a dagger? Only a family whose patriarch was famed for shitting gold, she thought to herself wryly. Recalling Lysa's letter, she willed Ser Rodrick to make haste.
When the Knight did arrive, Robb eased the door closed as she had instructed. Only then, once they were all settled, did she reveal Lysa's letter and its accusations against the Lannisters. That Jon Arryn had been poisoned and adding her own fears that Ned was being lured down there as part of some trap of Lord Tywin's making. Before Robb even opened his mouth to speak she knew he was going to repeat exactly what his father had said, several weeks ago.
"But she is grieving, mother, she is not in command of herself-"
"No!"
To Catelyn's mild surprise, it was Jon who cut him off. Her step-son was on his feet, still cradling the fresh burn on his hand. His sword hand, she observed with consternation. When she turned her attention to him fully, he was holding Robb's eye almost defiantly.
"Sandor Clegane," he began speaking, only for Robb to cut him off.
"Does that look like Sandor Clegane to you?" asked Robb, pointing to the corpse. The gesture prompted Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin to remove it from the room.
"The Lannisters wouldn't dare do it themselves while the royal party was still here," Jon answered back. "Clegane would have been ordered to deal with Bran; it's not as if him and his brother have never killed children before. The Lannisters knew who to ask, right enough. Why else was he hanging about in the yard the whole time he was here?"
Catelyn's gut reaction was to agree, casting about for evidence to back it up. But if anyone was speaking through anger and grief it was Jon, not Lysa. Bran was neither Aegon nor Rhaenys.
"The Cleganes do their own killing," she pointed out. "They enjoy it too much to delegate the deed to another. No, whoever did this was cleverer than that." She paused, making sure that Luwin and Rodrick were still absent from the room before continuing, directing her words at Jon. "I understand where you are coming from, Jon. But it was the Mountain who slew your siblings, not Sandor."
There was a brief flicker of irritation in his dark, grey eyes. Whether it was through the memory of less happy times in their relationship, or their newly established respect for each other, he went no further and sat down again. But Cat could see he was not convinced. His expression remained dark and mutinous as it returned to Bran, who slept on throughout the ordeal.
She had not left this spot since he fell. Even Robb had pleaded with her to get some rest and she knew the others were suffering for her absence. But as she went over and over everything that had happened, the unpalatable way forward became clearer.
"What about the Kingslayer? Or even the Imp?" Robb suggested, jolting her out of her reverie.
"The Imp wouldn't," Jon insisted. "Certainly not for Joffrey's sake."
"We don't even know if it was Joffrey who pushed him," Robb pointed out. "But I can't think of anyone else who would have done it. And what about the Kingslayer to finish the job off?"
All of this speculation was getting them nowhere, and Catelyn could feel herself growing ever more weary, even more heartsick, with it all. She ran her uninjured hand through her hair, feeling her fingers raking through several sharp knots and tangles that had accumulated there and sighed heavily.
"Enough," she said, getting to her feet. Standing a little too fast, her head swam and pitched her off balance. Suddenly, her fatigue felt heavier, like a millstone round her neck. Meanwhile, Luwin and Rodrick returned to the room after disposing of the corpse. She nodded to them, waiting for Rodrick to shut the door again before addressing them all. "Enough of this groundless speculation. It's only confusing matters even more. The truth of this is in King's Landing. If that's what we want, that's where I need to be."
Robb looked as if he had been slapped in the face. He was looking back at her, dumbfounded. But she knew she had made the right decision. It made her heart ache to do what she knew she had to do. To leave him there, still trapped in some cruel hinterland between life and death. But she wanted to protect him and bring those responsible to justice.
"If Bran really was pushed then it was for a reason," she said, sounding dejected. "They've tried twice and failed. Meaning this is something bigger than we can guess at right now and there will be a third attempt. If I want to stop that third attempt before it can happen then I need the truth. Robb, give me that dagger. I'll need to bring it with me."
Robb handed it over carefully, passing it handle first to his mother. "Then let me and Jon go. You should stay here with Bran."
If only it were that simple. "You're Lord of Winterfell now, Robb," she said, sympathetically. "You cannot leave. You know Jon cannot go to King's Landing; he is as good as a deputy to you. Rickon is just too young. That leaves me."
She had never felt so alone, and she missed Ned more than ever. It was only the prospect of seeing him again that made her separation from her family that little more palatable. Once more, she looked down at Bran, gently moving aside a lock of hair that fallen down his forehead. Her touch, as ever, did not stir him. No muscle twitched and his breathing steadied. Occasionally, she would see his eyelids flicker as though he were dreaming. Otherwise, he remained the same.
Meanwhile, everyone else in the chamber had grown rigid with tension. Only Ser Rodrick stepped forward, his old white whiskers bristling. "At least take me with you, my lady."
She raised her eyes to meet his, a pale sketch of a smile on her lips in gratitude. "I will need you, Ser. And thank you."
But first, she needed sleep. Much to Maester Luwin's relief, she agreed to go to bed and get back some of her ebbing strength. She hoped it would ease her guilt over leaving her children.
Now that Lord Stark had left and the responsibilities of the North lay on Robb's shoulders, he spent as much time with the accounts books as with a sword in his hand. Jon looked on as his brother adjusted to his new role in life, unable to offer any real words of wisdom or advice. The household needed to be reorganised after Lord Stark moved south with most of their senior members of staff. The only person left on hand who could offer genuine help gained from experience was Maester Luwin.
Often, Jon was left on his own. Ser Rodrick was preparing to leave with Lady Stark, meaning he couldn't even get in any real training and he was left swinging a sword at nothing more than straw men. More and more, he found himself gravitating towards his mother's tomb, to give him space to breathe out from under everyone else's noses. Somewhere to think clearly and feel like he was close to someone he loved. When even Lyanna could offer him no comfort, he made his way to the Godswood where the Old Gods failed to answer his prayers. Only Ghost became his constant companion. The direwolf never left his side. Even when he was down in the crypts or finding solace beneath the heart tree, Ghost lay silent and steadfast at his feet. Whenever his emotions threatened to overwhelm him, Ghost seemed to sense it and nuzzle him, allowing him to ruffle the dense, white fur on his head.
When Lady Stark and Ser Rodrick did eventually leave Robb was even busier and Jon was even more alone. Bran remained the same. No better and no worse. Although he reasoned that that in itself was a good sign. He continue to breathe and, where there was life, hope surely followed. But, the longer this tortured limbo went on, the more Jon felt himself withdrawing into the Godswood to meditate silently by the placidly blank surface of the pool. It was as though he could see his hopes sinking into the depths, slipping just beyond his grasp.
No more than two weeks after Lady Stark's departure, Jon found himself restless. He had not slept properly for several nights and his body ached with tiredness. Ghost followed him as he walked from Bran's sick room to the Great Hall. Unable to settle there, Jon moved on to the crypts, where his mother's bones offered only the coldest of comforts. He apologised to her, telling her he had to go again. Heavy and despondent, his own feet moved him to the Godswood, passing Theon Greyjoy without so much as a nod. Once there, he slumped down beneath the heart tree, resting his back against the rough trunk. Just above his head, the eyes in the face of the tree wept their tears of sap, mingling with Jon's own tears of water and salt as he succumbed to the grief that had been creeping up on him since Bran's fall.
It was dark and getting ever colder, but Jon felt almost impervious to it. He only acknowledged its existence by wrapping his cloak a little tighter round his shoulders. Ghost settled beside him, sharing body heat. Jon wrapped his arms around the wolf, no longer trying to stop his tears falling. Although the night was calm and still, the leaves of the heart tree whispered in a breeze seemingly of their own making. Ruby red leaves rustling, distracting him from his sorrows for just a moment as he turned his face upwards. Through the gaps in the canopy he could see the stars winking down at him, the full moon slowly reaching its zenith. In his arms, Ghost shifted his position and resettled.
"There, there boy," he whispered, releasing one arm to wipe at his face.
Wearily, Jon rested his head back against the trunk. He allowed himself a minute to simply close his eyes and let his mind wash itself clean.
"Jon."
A woman's voice jolted him instantly, as soon as his eyelids met. Despairingly, he jerked upright, looking for the source of the noise. But there was no one around and certainly no women.
"Imagining things," he said, glancing back down at Ghost.
The direwolf nipped gently at his hands as he lay back again. Exhaustion closed over him again, shutting his eyes for him. Once again, the woman's voice spoke his name as soon as he settled. This time, he ignored her. He was dimly aware of Ghost curling up closer to him; soft, warm fur against his chest and hands. The cold sap of the tree's face was cold against his cheek as he felt himself slipping unconscious.
"Jon!"
That sounded like Bran. It sounded like it was coming from the tree. Like Bran was in there. In a panic, Jon tried to move but his body stubbornly resisted him.
"It's alright Jon. Just go to sleep," said the woman. "We'll keep you safe."
Behind his closed eyes, he thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of her. A twirl of silk skirts and a long braid of dark hair vanishing through the trees; lithe as a fish darting upriver. A direwolf that looked oddly like Sansa's Lady followed her. It was all in his head. A strange and surreal dream starting to unfurl before he was even properly asleep. She said she would keep him safe, and he knew it to be true.
"Who are you?" he wanted to ask. But once more, his body refused to obey.
Although he had not managed to say anything, Bran still answered. "You already know who she is. Just open your eye and you'll see."
He tried to obey, but nothing happened. It was useless. Sleep was snatching him deeper down, spiralling into some other place deep in his own head.
"Not your normal eyes," said Bran. "Your third eye. Open your third eye."
But I only have the two, he thought to himself. No answer came. But the Godswood resolved itself around him again. The trees came back, the surface of the pool reflecting the distant night sky. Only Ghost wasn't there anymore. In the direwolf's place was the woman, standing close to him and half-submerged in the pool. Lady looked on from the edge of the woods. The woman looked at him through eyes of dark grey. So dark they were almost black; just like his. If she was freezing, she showed no sign of it. She was smiling at him; her expression full of affection and a sad, tangible sense of longing.
"Your brothers are coming to get you," she told him. "You must go with them."
"I don't want to," he replied. "I want to stay with you."
He wanted to stay with her. Suddenly, with all his heart, he longed to be with her, in the pool of the Winterfell Godswood. But the smile drained from her face, sadness filling her eyes; eyes that never once left his. Her hair was loose now, hanging in slender tendrils about her pale shoulders.
"You cannot," she said. "But I will always stay with you, Jon."
Robb's voice was distant as he called his name. He could feel invisible hands poking and prodding him. A distant Theon joined the shouting, urging him to wake.
"Brandon is different now," she said. "But he still needs you. And you need to open your eyes."
Suddenly, he did. He snapped two in the blink of an eye that wasn't his own. Robb and Theon were already dragging him upright in a fevered panic.
"Bran's awake, you must come quickly," said Robb.
Jon pushed the strange dream swiftly out of his head as he rushed to keep up with Robb and Theon. It was just a stupid dream and, finally, they may just get a little closer to the truth of what happened.
Robb sat at the desk that was normally his father's. Ice, the longsword, was propped against its side. Almost six weeks on from his father's departure and he still hadn't had a chance to practise with it. Often, he was possessed by a longing to use it so intense that it made the palms of his hands itch. Just to grip the Valyrian steel there, and feel it so lightly and beautiful in his hands. Meanwhile, he worked methodically through Winterfell's considerable bureaucracy and the sword went untested at his side.
It had been three days since Bran regained consciousness. But it was Jon, Theon, Maester Luwin and Old Nan who remained at his bedside the most. Trying to gently coax information out of him. But still the boy remembered nothing of the moments leading up to his being pushed from the Broken Tower. It was frustrating to point where he had had to restrain himself when trying to ask Bran questions. He walked away feeling guilty and helpless; wishing that his mother had stayed. If she was there, she would be able to do it, he knew that. She had that way about her. She was their mother.
Giving up on the papers, he got up and walked over to the window just to distract himself. Ignoring the urge to go outside and jump in the training yard, he contented himself with watching Rickon waving a wooden sparring sword around, closely guarded by Shaggydog. He smiled as he watched his youngest brother, at least until his eldest brother knocked on his door bearing a letter from their father. The look on Jon's face was incandescent.
"You have to read this!" he stormed, pushing the now crumpled note into his hand. "You won't believe what the Queen made our father do."
Robb could feel his heart sinking; a cold dread brought on by the arrival of what could only be more bad news. Tilting the note towards the long window to catch the daylight, his brow furrowed as he read it once and again, trying to process what had happened.
"Cersei Lannister demanded that Sansa's direwolf be killed?" he repeated, scandalised. "What! Why? If it was Nymeria who bit her shit of a son then what did killing Lady achieve?"
Jon shrugged. "What would killing Nymeria have achieved? Especially when she should have been given a golden kennel in the Reach for a reward."
He could have been construed as jesting, but the bitterness in his tone betrayed Jon's seriousness. "At least father performed the deed. He would have made it quick. Lady would not have felt anything."
"That will be small consolation to Sansa," said Robb. In the far corner of the room, Grey Wind lifted his head from his front paws, meeting Robb's gaze. They hadn't had their wolves for long, but already Robb was wondering how he lived before they arrived. "At least Nymeria got away. I doubt even the Lannisters are twisted enough to hunt a wolf for long."
Jon turned grave again, almost solemn. "I wouldn't wager on that, brother. Given everything they have already done to us."
Not for the first time, Robb felt chilled when he thought of his father surrounded by Lannister lions. Now, it could well be that his own mother was sailing into the same trap. If she was caught, they would be alone in the North. At the mercy of whoever the Lannisters chose to send north. It was only Lord Stark's friendship with the King that went some way to soothing his worries. It was a flimsy barricade between them and their enemies. Cersei and Tywin could do nothing without Robert's explicit approval, for whatever that was really worth.
"What will you do in worst case scenario?" he asked. In doing so, Robb gave voice to another deep seated fear. It wasn't the fear of people discovering the truth about Jon; it was fear of him having to flee into exile.
"Father wants me to go to Lord Howland Reed," he answered.
Robb breathed a silent sigh of relief. At least Greywater Watch wasn't in Essos, or the Dothraki Sea nor any other far flung region of the universe. The Crannogmen would keep him safe.
"But," said Jon.
"There's a 'but'?" Robb felt himself tensing again.
"But I won't be going anywhere," he said. "Remember that day when I came back to Winterfell after being Barbrey Dustin's prisoner?"
Robb nodded. "Of course I remember it."
"In the Godswood, in front of the heart tree, I told you my sword was yours, from that day until my last," he explained. "And I meant it. That was my oath and I will die myself rather than break it."
At hearing those words spoken again, even without the Old Gods as witnesses, Robb felt the same gratitude again. But back then, when they were still boys, they couldn't have imagined the shifting sands their lives would suddenly be foundering on. Slowly, he got back to his feet, his hands trembling as he reached for Ice. Pulling back the scabbard, he revealed the shimmering Valyrian steel to the broad afternoon light. Once it was clear of the scabbard, he carefully balanced it in both hands. Their lives had changed so much and so fast. Robb could no longer keep up the guess work at what twist or turn was round the next corner. Anything could happen.
When he turned back to Jon, he placed Ice point downwards beside his feet.
"My sword is yours," he said, solemnly. "If ever the need should arise."
Jon didn't react. His gaze fell first on Ice and rose slowly upwards, eventually meeting Robb's. "That is borderline treason."
"It is not," Robb retorted. "It's just plain treason. No 'borderline' about it. But if it comes to a battle between the Lannisters and Baratheons and us, I will be on your side. You have just as much right to the Iron Throne as Robert Baratheon and the beautiful thing is he doesn't even know it-"
"And that's how it must stay!" Jon cut over him, growing angry. "One false move and we could all end up dead. So say nothing."
"I'm not!" Robb assured him. "I'm just speculating. I'm just saying, if anything ever happened; I would be for you and you for me. Understand? We support each other, always."
Quickly, Jon calmed. He had become sensitive to his own heritage since the truth came out. Often, it seemed to Robb, he was afraid to talk about it or even acknowledge it. But they had the wedding cloak and Rhaegar's harp buried in the crypts. It was all there and Robb wanted as many options open as possible.
"I don't ever want to be King," said Jon, sotto voce. "Not ever."
"I cannot say I blame you," Robb replied. "So for now, let us see how things work out. All we can do is wait."
Sealing their renewed deal with a bear hug, they pulled apart and headed for the door. It was nearing time to eat, anyway and the paper work could wait. For the rest of that day, Robb decided, the whole of the realm could wait.
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