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Chapter Nine: Dark Words

Even before he read his father's letter, Robb knew it was more than a routine "wish you were here." While he glanced it over, Maester Luwin hovered fretfully in the doorway of the solar, thumbing at the bronze link in his chain. Briefly, their eyes met and the Maester offered an encouraging nod. Robb turned the letter to the broad afternoon sun and read on; trepidation soon giving way to a salacious hunger. Like a washerwoman gearing up for a gossip round the soap tubs, his eyes widened as he spoke to Luwin again.

"Have you read this?" he asked, free hand pointing to the letter. "Father says King Robert has no true issue. That Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen are all bastards born of Cersei and Jaime Lannister. Her own brother! The King will go berserk when he finds out, and no boar will stop him."

Clearly, Maester Luwin did not share Robb's hunger for scandal. His expression remained grave; hard slate-grey eyes meeting his own.

"The problem is, my lord," he intoned, gravely. "The King is dead."

Robb curbed his amusement, turning serious in a trice. "Where is father now? What of my sisters?"

Luwin shook his head. "I know not, my lord. All we can do is wait and pray we get word of them soon."

But Robb never was any good at waiting. He turned away from Luwin, taking a moment to gather his darkening thoughts. Nervously, he chewed at a fingernail, crumpling the letter in his fist as he went. If they waited, it would be too late to do anything if any harm befell his family. If he acted now, they could be ready to march on the south within weeks. His brow furrowed as his gaze drifted out of the window, overlooking for the yard of the castle where life carried on as normal.

His gut instinct was to call his banners in, but his head was rationalising it as an action that could be construed as an act of war. He could not afford to give the Lannisters any cause to gripe against his family. Torn and tremulous, he looked back at Luwin with his teeth almost clamped over his lower lip.

"What should I do?" he asked, plaintively. Inwardly, he yearned for the solid advice of his father, but this was as close as he wanted to get to openly admitting it.

Luwin's thin lips twitched, almost into a smile. "I think you already know."

Robb nodded. "Call the banners," he murmured.

The Maester looked gratified, but then stepped forward amidst the clanking of his chain. "If I may offer some advice, my lord."

"Go on," replied Robb.

"The Harvest Feast is due to take place soon. Have all of your men called in for that, rather than openly summoning them for political reasons. This way it would give the Lannisters no cause for alarm."

"Very well," he agreed. "That is what I will do." He hesitated then, feeling his spirits slump as his thoughts flew to Castle Black. "I know Jon's business at the Wall means a lot to him. But he's needed here now. Send word to Castle Black and have him leave immediately."

Maester Luwin arranged his face into an expression of sympathy. "As you wish, my lord. Is there anything else?"

There probably was, but Robb was exhausted already. He shook his head and dismissed the Maester, watching as he backed out through the door. The sound of the heavy chains clanking together receded down the passageway.

The chains of the portcullis protested loudly; a sound so grating it set Jon's teeth on edge. An irritation soon forgotten as he got his first ever glimpse of what lay beyond the wall, through the fabled tunnel of ice. Initially, he was greeted with a strong gust of snow flecked wind, one that they were normally sheltered from by the vastness of the wall itself. His first steps into Wildling territory felt like stepping out into a vast, snow-covered fighting arena. Breathless with anticipation, he turned in a wide circle and took it all in through wide, shining eyes. Finding it all …. the same.

"Oh," he said, dejectedly. "I was expecting …" he added, before trailing off.

Sam was leading their two small ponies under the raised portcullis; Lord Commander Mormont's sword sheathed at his hip.

"What were you expecting, exactly?" the other boy asked. "There's no difference. Just less people, that's all."

He had that right, Jon thought to himself as he took another long look around. There were no roads. Only winding beaten tracks, now partially covered in snow. Loose weeds froze in the frigid air and straggled the tracks and an ice pond shimmered in the distant sunlight. Rocks jutted up dangerously from the soft carpet of white. Close behind him the gate closed and the portcullis lowered, sealing them out. Despite the seeming familiarity of it all, Jon still felt a thrill of excitement prickling down his spine.

Slowly, Sam caught him up and climbed into the saddle. Jon did likewise and spurred the animal northwards. At length, he thought about Sam's last question in some detail. What had he been expecting from the lands beyond the wall?

"We have this nurse back home in Winterfell," he explained as they ambled along. "We call her Old Nan and I think she's the oldest person in the world. Anyway, she always tells us these stories about Wildlings and the Long Night."

There was a wry smile on Sam's face. "And how often does Old Nan venture beyond the wall?"

Jon laughed. "Every night in her dreams, I should imagine. In person, I suspect never."

"Well, there you go then," Sam replied. "Lord Tyrion Lannister was here not so long ago and he had the measure of the Wildlings. He said, when the wall was first built our ancestors just so happened to be living on the right side of it."

Jon frowned. "So why're you here?"

"I had no choice," he replied, despondently. "Anyway, better here than back at Horn Hill. But the Wildings are the least of our worries. You saw what attacked the Lord Commander. That's the real problem."

Jon thought of Osha, of how she had settled in at Winterfell despite being their prisoner. But he said nothing as he recalled the wights. The only good that had come of it was Sam killing them and now being respected and almost feared by the same people who, only days before, had been bullying him into a state of mortal terror. Respect to the point where Lord Commander had loaned Sam the Mormont ancestral sword for their little sojourn beyond the wall.

"When I get back to Winterfell I'll speak with my brother," said Jon. "We'll raise as many men as possible for the Watch."

"Lord Commander Mormont will appreciate it," replied Sam. "Yoren's down in the capital recruiting as well. He'll be back soon and I hope he's got some decent fighters."

As their journey progressed, the landscape changed little. But it did not take long before they reached the Godswood beyond the wall, anyway. It was so much larger than the one in Winterfell and more spacious. Jon could see easily between the trunks of the trees, all gathered around the weirwood at its heart. It stood on a sharp little hill, just as it had in his dreams. Regular pines and sentinels all stood in shield formation, the wind whispering through their tallest branches.

Respecting the Old Gods, they dismounted before they set foot in that sacred space. Both of them fell silent as they stepped into the circle, into the sight of the seep weeping face of the weirwood. Even from a distance Jon could see it. Positioned on top of the incline, it was looking down at them with glittering eyes of red. Jon breathed deeply and steadily, his heartbeat slowing as something deep within him reconnected to a heritage so deep he could scarcely name it. After weeks spent tangled in his Targaryen roots, his northern Stark heart stirred once more. This was his place, he was sure of it. He knew he could never abandon it.

"You don't mind if we stay by the weirwood, do you?" he asked, glancing over at Sam.

Even he, a southerner through and through, seemed awestruck by the sight of the Godswood.

"Of course not," he murmured back, soft voiced as though reluctant to break the silence. "Take as long as you need."

But Jon could not remain seated for long. It wasn't just the cold, it was the place itself. The silence was bordering on the hostile and already the light was fading. The sun was sinking over the wall, the branches of the trees partially blocking the already thinning light. He tried to concentrate on his meditations, but the pull of his mission tugged at his mind continually. Sam was already studying the trunk of the weirwood intently, moving round it in slow circles.

"Did Aemon tell you where it is?" he asked.

He assumed Dark Sister was hidden inside the tree itself. Even if it was, he shuddered to think of the condition it would be in now. The roots of the weirwood were immersed in the frozen pool, soaking up the dark, hostile waters. It would be damp in there.

"Valyrian steel doesn't rust, does it?" Jon asked.

Sam shrugged. "Probably not," he answered. "It's magical, after all."

Still, he hoped Aemon didn't just thrust the blade in the tree and walk away from it.

When Jon turned back to the weirwood a crow had landed on its frozen surface; close to the overhanging weeds. It spread its wings wide, beating them at the air and scratching its black claws against the ice. It cawed at him shrilly, calls that echoed through the silence of the woods. Sam gasped in shock, having not noticed the bird's arrival. Jon stared, transfixed, as its third eye glittered in the paling light.

"Surely you jest," he said, edging back towards the water.

"What?" Sam asked, thinking he was the one being addressed.

Jon glanced sharply over his shoulder. "I meant the bird."

Sam frowned, but did not question it. It was as though he put it down to ancient and opaque northern custom, to speak with birds. Meanwhile, Jon studied the crow one last time before it took to the air and vanished. Already, he was reaching for the clasp of his cloak and fumbling it free. He kicked aside the snow, clearing a patch to lay down his cloak and knelt on it.

At first, he pummelled the surface of the pool, but he ice did not yield. Rather than bruise his knuckles, however, Sam drew Long Claw. The Valyrian steel glimmered brightly, almost making a light of its own as it cut through the ice.

"There," said Sam, with drawing the blade as soon there was a space big enough for Jon to reach through. "We should check how deep it is."

But Jon had already rolled up his sleeve.

"The roots," he said, looking up at Sam. "It's in the roots of the tree itself."

Turning back to the glacial waters, he drew a deep breath and braced himself for the first plunge. Even though it was only an arm, it was still cold enough to knock the breath out of his lungs. He sloshed it about, groping for anything that could conceivably be a sword. Or even sword shaped. But his arm grew numb and his fingers closed over dirty water and straggly weeds. Unable to bear the cold any longer, he pulled his limb back before he caught frostbite.

"Nothing," he panted, breathlessly. "This is stupid!"

Sam took off his cloak and wrapped it around Jon, making him feel even more foolish.

"Here," said Sam. "Just take a moment to warm back up again."

With that, he started studying the stout trunk of the weirwood. Jon watched him for a moment, tracking his progress as he moved. Every so often he paused and shook his head, sadly.

"There's nothing else here," he called over to Jon. "Nowhere to hide anything."

Jon shrugged off the cloak and lay flat on his belly, ready to give the waters another go. He could now reach down to the roots of the weirwood. The burning cold returned instantly, but he gritted his teeth and refused to give in to it. He grabbed at roots he could only feel and not see, pulling and yanking at them. He felt the skin of his hands break as the roots tore at him like so many claws. He leaned in so close to the water's edge he was almost slipping in, the water already soaking him up to the shoulders. Still he grasped at the roots until he snagged some fabric. A soft fabric make weak by years of submersion in the water. Aemon said he had wrapped it in silk.

"Sam, Long Claw!" he called out again. "Use it to cut the roots."

Sam fell to his knees at the water's edge, the blade following Jon's arm and he began sawing at the multitude of roots. As soon as space was made, Jon manoeuvred his hand in closer to the fabric, closing in over a scabbard.

"I've got it!" he called out, excitedly.

Flushed in the face, Sam took to sawing at the roots with renewed vigour. "I can feel them breaking," he said. "Any second now, just keep trying to pull it free."

Jon gripped the scabbard hard, pulling with all his might until the unseen bonds gave way suddenly. He went reeling backwards, dropping the sword in the snow at his side. Eager to see Dark Sister, he rolled over and snatched it up again. Then, his heart dropped. It was covered in slime, the roots of the weirwood still adhered to the scabbard and twisted round its hilt, wedging the sword in place. It was as if Dark Sister had become another part of the tree. Bits of pond weed had become stuck between the roots and the steel.

Sam grimaced at it. "You weren't planning on using it any time soon, were you?"

"Luckily not," replied Jon, downcast. He held it gingerly, tugging at the sodden scarlet silk that the scabbard was wrapped up in. "At least it doesn't look rusty."

Sam put his cloak back on and offered Jon a hand. "Come on. We'll take it to the forge at Castle Black. They'll know what to do."

But Jon couldn't do that; the fewer people knew he had Dark Sister the safer it would be. He took Sam's hand and let himself be pulled back to his feet. Then he glanced at his new sword again; roots, weeds, slime and all. Once cleaned and sharpened, it would be beautiful. As he thought that, he glanced over Sam's head towards the weirwood whose roots had just been mangled. From its uppermost branches the Three-Eyed crow cawed and took to flight once more. This time, it vanished into the darkening mists that had begun to shroud them.

Catelyn paced her father's chambers anxiously. Her heels ringing on the wooden floorboards was the only sound beside Lord Hoster's rattling breaths. In her hands, she gripped the letter Ned had sent him and she had read it so many times she knew it off by heart. Eventually, she came to a halt at his bedside and sat back down again to give her legs a rest. Under the pretence of reading it out to him, she spoke the words aloud. Again.

Once that was done, she was still fretful and anxious. When Edmure returned, he did so to inform her the pack horses were ready.

"Not a moment too soon," she said, reaching for her cloak. "What will you do, brother?"

As always, Edmure looked blank. "Do you know anything about Stannis?"

"That he's Robert's brother," she replied, unhelpfully.

Once more, she turned her helpless gaze to her father's inert body. He slept on, wheezing and snoring. Again, she heard his voice. Wait for me, Little Cat…

"Father's not coming back," she said, choking back her own grief. "You have to act as Lord of Riverrun now, Edmure. I can't do it for you. I have to go back to Winterfell." She waved the letter in his face. "This changes everything."

"I do understand, Cat," he said, gripping her by the shoulders. "Just pause a moment, Sister. You're too anxious when you should be staying calm. I have already called in our bannermen."

For once, she had to admit he was right. Catelyn forced herself to take a backward step and a deep breath. However, Edmure embraced her. He was so broad now she was almost swallowed whole by his hug. Despite her earlier impatience, she now only felt affection for him.

"Anyway, someone else has arrived to escort you home," he said, softly.

Catelyn raised her head from his shoulder. "Who?"

Edmure grinned as an usher opened the chamber door. Through it stepped a most welcome sight. One she had not seen in many a long year.

"Uncle!" Catelyn gasped.

They called him Blackfish, but he was only ever Uncle Brynden to her. Catelyn rushed to greet him with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. It brought her more pleasure than she could articulate to see him in rude health and fine fettle.

"Cat!" he said, returning her embrace. "Our Cat!"

When he pulled away again, he held a letter in his hand. "This came from King's Landing just now."

She looked at it amidst a resurgence of foreboding. Dark wings; dark words... the old adage passed through her head once more.

Their return to Castle Black didn't seem as long as their outbound journey, to Jon's relief. He had Dark Sister slung over his shoulder in a leather saddle pack, its root entwined hilt protruding from the open top. There was nowhere else it would fit. They spurred their mounts beneath the open portcullis and kept up the gallop as they rode through the tunnel in the wall. Only when they reached Castle Black's stables did they stop and dismount.

Once more, Jon thanked Sam for coming with him. He knew the other boy was still afraid of what lay beyond the wall and he had come along anyway. For Jon's part, he was almost disappointed that they hadn't seen anything. But, they parted company and Jon returned to Maester Aemon, finding him sat by the fire with a blanket of fur over his knees and a cup of hot liquid in his hands. It seemed one of the other new recruits had been caring for him in Sam's day long absence, so Jon waited for him to leave before saying anything.

Despite Dark Sister's forlorn state, Jon held it in his hands proudly. "I found it, Maester Aemon."

The Maester's blank, milky eyes turned towards him but Jon could see that he was also smiling.

"Let me touch it," he said, carefully placing his cup on a table.

Jon rushed to help him and put Dark Sister in his lap. "She's here. But she's covered in roots and moss from the pool in the Godswood."

While Maester Aemon reacquainted himself with the sword, Jon thought again on how it had almost become part of the weirwood. He recalled the dream in which Shiera Seastar came to him, showing him the spot and promising to return. A prospect that made his stomach churn.

"Clean it in the morning," said Aemon, fingers running along half-rotten roots that stuck to the scabbard. "I never thought the sword would be hidden for so long."

Jon settled himself on the threadbare rug before the fire, welcoming the heat of the flames. "Why didn't Lord Commander Rivers take it with him when he went on that final ranging?"

"He did," replied Aemon, hand curling around Dark Sister's hilt. Before Jon could ask, he added: "I had to go and get it, from where someone had sent it. It was so long ago now, I almost forget the details. Of course, he will be dead by now. But I know he did not die during that ranging."

Jon's curiosity was peaked. "How can you know?" he asked, leaning closer to his Great Grand Uncle. "I barely survived the day out there, how could anyone live out there all the time?"

Aemon laughed gently. "Sweet summer child," he said, echoing Old Nan. "I don't know anything for certain, of course. But I know not long after he left, Lady Shiera was seen nearby. Only once, mind you. They'll both be long in their graves by now, so it matters not."

"It does to me," replied Jon. "It's part of who I am and I've never known that before now."

Aemon's expression visibly softened and one hand reached out towards Jon, a thin hand closing over thin air. "Where are you?"

"Here, uncle," he said, kneeling up so Aemon could reach him. They joined hands, which Aemon always seemed to like, and gripped each other. "Who was that man who escorted you all here again? I think someone I know was familiar with him."

Aemon was smiling again. "Ser Duncan the Tall. Tell me about this person you know?"

"I don't know her name," Jon admitted, guiltily. "We all just call her Old Nan, even Lord and Lady Stark call her that. She tells us stories. That's all. Just stories."

Aemon let go of his hand and transferred it to the side of his face. "There's usually a grain of truth in the most fanciful of stories, Jon. You should ask her again."

He couldn't say he relished the prospect of asking Old Nan for information. It would take forever and she would digress into a multitude of her little stories. Cutting through her wild imagination would make the weirwood roots look like child's play.

"Maybe," he said.

"Take your father's letters and go to bed, child," Aemon advised him. "We will talk again in the morning."

But when the morning came, so too did a raven from King's Landing. It was Yoren, currently recruiting from the cells of the Red Keep. Samwell was waiting for Jon in the yard, a look of utmost pain on his face as he greeted Jon.

"It's your father," he said, tremulously. "He's been arrested on grounds of high treason."

Jon felt like he had been punched in the gut. He actually felt his body reel back from the blow. With his mind in a swirl he dashed back inside, packing his bags hurriedly. As he worked frantically, he rushed heartfelt apologies to his Great Grand Uncle, promising to return as soon as he could. Meanwhile, before he left, a bundle of letters had been placed in his bags.

"Take them," said Maester Aemon. "I can't see them anymore and you will need them."

Jon came to a halt half way through locking a trunk shut. "I can't," he stammered. "They're yours-"

"Nonsense," Aemon waved his protests away. "They were your father's and they belong with you, his son."

One of them was written by his mother and he still hadn't had a chance to see it. He bit down on his conscience and accepted them with heartfelt thanks.

There was no time to say goodbye. Only to pack his bags and hastily reassemble the host that had brought him here in the first place. Before he left, however, he packed Dark Sister away carefully; old silk and roots still firmly attached.

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