Thank you to everyone who has read this story; especially to those who have reviewed. Thank you. Apologies for the long delay in getting this updated.
Just a reminder: this story is a sequel and Roose Bolton was (regrettably) killed off in part one. Domeric was poisoned according to canon, as such Ramsey has had to be legitimised and holds the Dreadfort.
Chapter Seventeen: An Unexpected Request
Jon glanced over his shoulder as the doors to the keep closed behind him, taking one last look at the marshes outside. Dark Sister had been left in the entrance arch, as tradition dictated, and he felt almost naked without her. Once shut inside, he turned to the hall he found himself in. It was dark where he was, but he could see braziers burning down a long narrow corridor. At his side, Meera's hand found his and gave a reassuring squeeze. Their eyes met as they adjusted to the gloom, grey on blue, just as she nodded for him to walk forwards. At this silent prompt, he took his first tentative steps down the gallery of Greywater Watch.
There were no people, that he could see, but he suspected the Crannogmen were lurking just out of sight. He could sense them. A thousand unseen eyes studying him from the side lines. It was a feeling that had followed him all down the Neck, but it seemed to intensify the minute he set foot in an enclosed space. Meera's hand slipped from his own and she walked ahead of him, leading the way into the great hall. The brazier he thought he saw turned out to be a large hearth fire, blazing happily at the side of the chamber. Lined up against the length of the room was the head table, but all places there were empty now. There was no sign of Lord Howland Reed anywhere.
Coming to a standstill in the middle of the room, Jon studied the table. There were places set, with cups and empty plates. He could see the silverware glimmering in the firelight. It looked like a feast where the guests had forgotten to show up.
"Wait here." Meera's voice jolted him out of his reverie. "I'll find my father."
Wary of being left alone there, Jon was about to protest. But she was already gone, slipping through a side door he had not noticed when he first entered the hall. Feeling self-conscious, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to make it look as if he had some purpose there. Eventually, he drew a deep breath to calm his nerves and tilted his head upwards. He couldn't make out the ceiling, the firelight didn't reach that high. But he could see that he was standing in an atrium-like room, with the levels above him barely visible. A blue light shone from an unseen doorway on the second floor. He couldn't guess at the source of the blue light; it looked almost ethereal to him.
Only when Meera returned did Jon look back towards the side door – one he assumed was mostly used by servants. As Meera returned to the light of the fire, a darker shadow broke off from her, shuffling along the high table. Immediately, Jon stood up straight, squinting into the shadows to pick out the features of Howland Reed as he settled at the high table. He appeared as though the shadows had taken human form.
"Lord Stark," the older man greeted him. "Welcome to our halls. We've been expecting you."
His voice was surprisingly deep for a man no bigger than a child, and possessing the same physical build. The only thing about Howland that betrayed his age was the full beard that covered almost half of his face. He was greying, too. But sharp, dark eyes glimmered beneath a tawny fringe. Jon caught himself before he could let the silence spiral. His nervousness towards his first ever embassy tightened all the same.
"Thank you for receiving me, Lord Reed," he replied, stilling the tremor in his voice. "My father spoke of you often and I know your friendship meant a great deal to him."
While he spoke, Meera had lit some tallow fat candles and positioned them at her father's side. As she secured them, Lord Reed covered her hand with his own, drew her closer and whispered something Jon couldn't hear in her ear. When he released his daughter again, she nodded to Jon and withdrew from the chamber quietly. Only when they were alone did Lord Reed motion for Jon to join him at the high table, motioning to the chair at his right hand side. This gesture of approval brought a smile of relief to Jon's face and he didn't waste time prevaricating. But, as he took up his place, he noted that Reed's feet didn't reach the floor. The man who defeated the greatest knight in Westeros, Ser Arthur Dayne, really was no taller than Sansa. He must have been the unlikeliest warrior Jon had ever met.
"News of your father's murder grieved me sore," said Howland, averting his gaze to an empty goblet. "Secrets shared bind men together, and no man harboured secrets more dangerous than Eddard and I."
Jon knew he was the subject of those 'dangerous secrets', but had no reply. He swallowed, finding his throat dry. It seemed to him that Reed was the last person alive in Westeros who actually knew his mother. He had a thousand and one questions to ask, but barely knew where to begin. But that was not the purpose of his visit and carping on about Lyanna would be letting down Robb, who was relying on Reed to secure him safe passage through the Neck. He was forced to adhere to his brief.
"I know I owe you a debt of gratitude no man can ever repay," he said, acknowledging the truth. "And now-"
"You owe me nothing, child," Reed cut in. "You were a babe in arms and I saw your mother die with my own two eyes." He paused there, looking back to Jon and fixing him with a hard look. "Lyanna was a good woman. Whatever else she did, what happened after she did it, she was a good woman who meant no harm to anyone."
Reed spoke firmly, as though silently daring Jon to disagree with him. On the contrary, Reed's words only served to make Jon's resolve to stick to Robb's brief all the more impossible. Not even in Winterfell could Jon speak so freely. But it was a temptation he had to resist.
"I understand that, Lord Reed. It pains me that now I come here to ask more of you," he said, steering the topic back on course. "As you can imagine, my brother cannot allow our father's death to go unanswered. The North is risen against the Lannisters and the South and we're not prepared to lay down arms until we have our independence. If we want to march on King's Landing, we can direct our troops down the King's Road. But, we must join our forces with more troops in the Riverlands, where Lady Stark's family are sworn to us. But we cannot get to the Riverlands without first fording the Trident."
Howland was listening intently, before interjecting with his own suggestion. "You could cross at the Twins. It would take a matter of hours, depending on how many men you have."
Jon's breath caught in his throat. "That's the other thing. The Freys are on bad terms with the Tullys and Lady Stark is adamant that we find some other way. Some way that means we bypass the Twins altogether. If what we ask of you is impossible, then of course we reach some amicable terms with Walder Frey. But first I must ask you: is there a way you can allow our troops to traverse the Neck and reach Riverrun?"
The other man sighed deeply as he reached behind him and pulled on a bell rope. Somewhere down a stone passageway the connected bell chimed. "First we'll eat and, once we're both thinking straight, we'll discuss this matter further."
Sam recalled the first time he had ever laid eyes on Castle Black. A dismal, decaying shell of a fortress manned by rapers and misfits with no real place in the world whose stark choice was either death or the Watch. In that moment, Sam thought he had made a terrible mistake and should have allowed his father to put him out of his misery. Now, however, Castle Black loomed on the horizon like an oasis in the desert. It was just enough to spur him on towards the gate, waving Longclaw over his head as if it were a white flag.
"Open the gate!" he bellowed into the wind. "It's me!"
He trudged through the tunnel breathless and dejected. Ignoring the greetings of those they had left behind, he made straight for Maester Aemon's chambers inside the keep. Finding the old man sat by his fire brought on a wave of relief so intense, Sam though he might faint. That, and the warm air rushing up to meet him made his head spin dangerously. He paused with his back to the door, as though blocking them in against an outside intruder.
"Maester Aemon," he gasped, still struggling to breathe. "They're dead. They're all dead."
At first, he didn't think the old man had heard him. He sat there gazing into the fire, swathed in shapeless black robes. The old chain around his neck glimmered dully in the firelight.
"Why don't you come in properly and start from the beginning, Master Tarly?"
Sam looked down at Longclaw, now cradled in his arms, and did as the Maester bid. It took longer than expected, with Sam tripping over his own words as he detailed the horrors they saw at the Fist of the First Men, followed by the mutiny at Craster's Keep. But, for some reason, it was Mormont's last request that caused him the most problems. How could he explain it without making himself sound like a deserter? While he tried his best, he lifted Longclaw and placed it carefully in Aemon's outstretched hands.
"He gave me a message to pass on to Jorah: to tell him he is forgiven and must take the Black," Sam repeated. "But where can I even begin to look for him, Maester? Where to start? How do I go without Thorne making out I've given in to my own cowardice?"
So many obstacles, but Maester Aemon did not seem daunted. Only saddened by the death of another close colleague. But whatever thoughts he had about Jeor Mormont, he kept them to himself, grief obscured beneath the lines on his face. Slowly, he pressed the sword back into Samwell's hands.
"You cannot leave immediately, you'll be dead before you reach Molestown," he pointed out, voice soft. "But you know you must do it, and soon."
Sam left his seat and sat on the floor in front of the fire. For now he let Longclaw lie on the threadbare rug while he thought about what to do. But those thoughts were once more cut off by the elderly Maester.
"The Mormonts will have joined the young Lord of Winterfell on the road to war," he pointed out. "Lady Lyanna Mormont isn't even eight years of age, so she will be of little help to you."
Sam's brow knotted. "So, first I must catch up with the Stark host and see if I can find a Mormont willing to leave the war and follow me across all the known world, if need be?" He did not sound optimistic. "I really cannot imagine that, Maester. And what if all of Jorah's family really have no idea where he is? What if none of them can help me?"
"You need to seek out Lady Alysane Mormont," Aemon finally advised. "If any of them are left on Bear Island, beside the child, it will be her. She will be able to help you, I'm certain of it. But, even if she can, and you find her great uncle, you need to think on how you get him back here."
Sam stifled a laugh. "First things first, Maester!"
The truth of it was that Sam couldn't even imagine finding the man, never mind actually succeeding in convincing him to take the black. Still, he committed the name 'Alysane Mormont' to memory.
Robb watched the sunset from the newly fortified ramparts of Moat Cailin. In the weeks since Jon and his mother had left, the curtain walls had been completed and new watch towers had been built. The men left behind to man the fortress would soon enough be comfortably lodged inside it, once they had the barracks started. It was all moving along nicely, with bricks salvaged from the site and harvested from the wreckage at Barrowton. Even as he watched from the ramparts, another horse drawn cart laden with bricks arrived. Now, their ranks were swelled by the arrival of the Bolton host, all the way from the Dreadfort.
He could see the Bolton men milling about the yard, their flayed man banners fluttering over their tents. They didn't seem to be mixing with the others, but they hadn't arrived long before. Vowing to 'give them time', Robb stepped back from the merlons he was looking through and made his way back inside. Since the latest communiques from his mother, there was much to discuss with his councillors and, now, Ramsay Bolton was among them. Whether he liked the man or not, Robb knew he had to include him.
The task was made easier as he found Lord Bolton waiting for him at the foot of the turret steps. He was alone, unusually, biting the nail of his index finger and watching Robb's descent of the stone steps.
"Your Grace," Ramsay greeted him.
Although jarringly formal, Robb wasn't ready to let him into the inner-circle just yet.
"Please, Lord Bolton, you can call me "Lord Stark" in private," he pointed out. "I don't think I'll ever grow accustomed to being addressed as a king."
He meant it in jest, but he even sounded desperate to himself. Inwardly, he cringed but made no acknowledgement of it. Instead, he motioned for Ramsay to follow him to the Council chamber.
"I don't think I had the opportunity to pass on my condolences for the death of your brother, Lord Bolton," said Robb, leading the way down the gallery. "Finding yourself, so unexpectedly, in so high a station must have been very daunting for you."
Robb paused, turning to study Ramsay's reaction. Like everyone else in the whole of the seven kingdoms, he had heard the rumours of poison. Domeric Bolton was the picture of health, until Ramsay turned up. But nothing had ever been proven; there was no real evidence except for circumstance. Now, the Lord of the Dreadfort was giving nothing away. His face was an expressionless mask.
"As you say, Lord Stark, such a shock. However, it is my hope that the unhappy history between our houses can be consigned to history. Especially now that we're fighting for our independence side by side. We should be allies; not enemies."
Robb wanted to believe that, going as far as to make all the right noises in response. But it would require time for him to take those sentiments to heart. By the time they reached the council chamber, the others were already in place. Maege Mormont, Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark and the others all rose to their feet as Robb entered. Without keeping them waiting, he motioned for them to sit back down and be at their ease. As soon as he had taken his own seat at the head of the table, he got straight to business.
"As you already know, Renly Baratheon is willing to make peace with us, but only if we give up the Neck," he said. "We all know that can never happen."
His opening statement was met with a murmur of approval.
"Your Lady Mother would never agree to such a thing," Karstark pointed out. "Surely it's just a matter of sending a raven to the Stormlands and clarifying our position."
"Once Renly understands the situation-"
It was Lady Mormont who had spoken, but the Greatjon had cut her off.
"Renly's a southerner married into a southerner, he understands nothing of the North – with all due respect to you, my lady."
"Which is the point I'm about to make," Robb interjected, before a disagreement could bubble up. "Without wishing to undermine my mother's work with King Renly, I think it may just be for the best if I travelled to the Stormlands myself and negotiated face to face. At least now that I know Renly won't cut me down where I stand!"
He looked at each person in turn, trying to gage what their reaction would be. To his relief, his plan was not immediately shot down. Only Greatjon Umber seemed reserved.
"You can't go alone," he pointed out, "and we need as many men as possible here, to man the defences."
Robb had already considered this.
"I know. I would take only my Kingsguard and I'm sure Lord Bolton would not object to riding south with me."
Once again, he found himself studying Ramsay's reaction. The truth was, he did not want to leave Ramsay Bolton there at the Dreadfort. He wanted to keep his potential enemies close. But he also wanted to see how his rival ally responded to this most unexpected of requests. Again, that blank mask had fallen into place.
"I'd be honoured, Your Grace. I can even spare men to form our host."
"That settles it, then," Robb concluded. "I ride south for the Stormlands as soon as possible."
"In disguise, of course," Maege Mormont added. "There's a hefty price on your head, I'd wager."
"I'll have men at arms with me," Robb assured her. "Have no worries on that score. But the more immediate threat to the Lannisters comes from Stannis. I'm certain they're more preoccupied with him than they are me."
Finer details he would work out later. But, for the moment, his mind was made up. He would negotiate directly. He felt like a child hiding behind his mother's skirts by making her go south and strike his deals for him. Sitting back in his seat, Robb closed his eyes for a moment and silently prayed that he was doing the right thing.
Thanks again for reading. Sorry this chapter is much shorter than my average but the writer's block has been chronic on this one. Still, I hope you enjoyed it and I hope people are still reading this! Reviews would be lovely, if you have a moment. Thank you again.