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Chapter Eighteen: The Laughing Tree

What remained of Ned Stark was in a wooden box placed on a trestle table, like some macabre feast's centre-piece. Large beeswax candles burned at both ends of the crate, casting long shadows across the floor of the marquee; the interior of which was now draped in black. It was all Renly could do to give the late Lord Stark's final pit stop a more appropriate feel. Tentatively, the new Lord Stark stepped through the awning of the marquee and offered muted thanks to the Baratheon guard who had escorted him. But, once inside, Robb remained on the threshold until the guard's footsteps receded back into the main camp outside. He wanted to be alone with what was left of his father.

Only when he was alone, when he listened to the silence of anonymity, did he approach the trestle table. His blue eyes fixed on the dark, dead wood as he slowly drew nearer. Ice was sheathed at his hip, but he dropped one hand to the hilt and let it rest there as though an attack was imminent. Suddenly, the grip felt clumsy in his palm, as though it wasn't meant to be there. He swallowed, finding that his throat was dry and constricted with silent grief. It was the sight of the Direwolf banner draped carefully over the casket that did it. The silk folds creased at the corners, cushioning the cruelty of death's final strike.

Now was Robb's time to mourn. To remember the father he had had, the man that was Eddard Stark. Not the Lord of Winterfell nor the Warden of the North, but the flesh and blood human being who had raised him and trained him; imbued in him the seeds of the man he had grown to become. Every strand of moral fibre, every guiding principle that Robb possessed, had come directly from his father. The looks of the Tullys, but the heart and soul of the Starks. That was him, or so he prided himself on believing.

Slowly, so as not to stir the silence, Robb removed the gauntlets from his hands and placed them at the foot of his father's casket. A single tear had seeped from his eye and he smudged it away with the pad of his thumb before drawing a deep breath to compose himself. He remembered the last time he had seen his father, as he rode south to start a new phase of his life. Bran was fighting to stay alive; Jon and Theon were at each other's throats and he, Robb, was struggling under the weight of what was expected of him. He had been angry with his father for leaving them and, as he looked at the casket, some of that anger returned. Anger, hot and alive cut through the chill of his sorrow.

"Just look at me now, father," he said, addressing the box. "None of this would be, if only you had stayed-"

Robb cut himself off before his emotions got the better of him. It wouldn't do him any good and his father couldn't hear him anymore.

"Never mind," he murmured in concession to the futility of his anger. "We have you back now and that's all that matters."

The feeling passed anyway. It would not do to part in bad blood. This was his last chance to say farewell. As such, he brought one hand to the join of the wooden lid, pausing before lifting it up. The direwolf drape had already slid off the surface and slithered to the floor, unnoticed by Robb. There would be nothing inside that box that would be recognisable about Eddard Stark. But still, he needed to see. A strange compulsion that he had no will to fight. So slowly, he eased up the lid and let the light of the candles flood inside.

The flesh had long been boiled away, leaving bleached white bones intact, but for the skull. Even that was placed where it should have been in life, atop the shoulders with just a fraction of space where the headsman's sword had done its work. The cut, Robb was relieved to see, was a clean cut. One fatal blow his father would scarce have felt. He had heard of cases where it took three or four strokes to sever the head. But no, this looked swift and clean. A small mercy to compensate for the rest of the sorrowful sight that greeted him now. For try as he might, Robb could not marry these white and dry bones to the man he remembered. It did not tally; they were completely disconnected. Finding no trace of the father he so desperately sought, Robb eased the lid back down and choked on his own sobs.

For how long he remained there he couldn't recall. Time was tracked by how low the candles burned. They were newly lit when he entered, now they were half their size, with molten wax weeping into pools at the base of the holders. But it was only when the marquee's entrance whispered aside was he jolted out of his mournful state. He whirled around, expecting to see his mother. Instead, he ducked into a low and awkward bow as Queen Margaery stepped inside. Alone, Robb was just able to make out her brother, Loras, closing the flap behind her.

"Your Grace," he addressed her, doubly pleased he had not allowed his feelings get the better of him.

She offered her hand for him to kiss, causing a jewelled bracelet to wink in the candlelight.

"Pardon my intrusion, Your Grace," she replied. "I came only to offer my condolences in person. I know I spoke to you at table, but among so many people and at such an event, it couldn't help but feel contrived and rather impersonal."

Although flustered at the sudden interruption, Robb appreciated the sentiment. "Thank you, Your Grace-"

"Margaery, please," she interjected. "We are to be allies and, I hope, friends."

"Thank you, Margaery," he corrected himself, attempting a smile.

To break the stillness and remove the Queen from the draughty entrance, Robb led her on a slow walk around the interior of the marquee. Like everything else in Renly's camp, the marquee was large and spacious. Robb hadn't noticed its proportions while he was standing guard over his father, but it became more apparent as they moved around the edges. The black drapes inside meant that Margaery's pale blue dress was the only splash of colour in the place.

While pondering what she should call him, the lady herself broke the silence again. Her gaze, golden in the candlelight, was directed towards the casket. "Your father's reputation, as a man of singular honour, preceded him."

"I know," he replied, flatly. "And look where it has gotten him."

Margaery moved swiftly, the hems of her skirts sweeping against the rushes as she turned to face him. "Or maybe it was the betrayal of others that landed your father in an early grave?"

"Then he was too trusting; too naïve," Robb countered. "I do not intend to make the same mistakes."

"Nor should you," she agreed. "But nor should you allow others' betrayal and your father's murder to harden you into something you clearly are not. Play to your strengths by all means, but I do not think you're a conniving courtier."

Robb drew a deep breath, letting it go in a heavy sigh. If anyone else had presumed such profound knowledge of his character – less than a day after meeting him – he would have had a lot more to say. Alas, Margaery was a Queen and he was on her territory now. But this small surge of impatience was underpinned by the knowledge that she was also correct. He would never dishonour his father's teachings by trying to turn into some sneaky lord full of low cunning. One Lord Bolton was enough.

His expression softened as he looked back at the casket. Whatever anger he felt slowly seeped away. Margaery was right: it was the Lannisters who had landed the late Lord Stark in that box, in this tent in the middle of a blossoming war. The same Lannisters who still held his sisters captive. From the corner of his eye he could see Margaery moving again, ducking low into the shadows behind his father's casket. When she emerged again, she had in her hands the direwolf banner that had slid from the casket.

"Here," she said, pressing it back into his hands. "You should replace this."

For a brief moment, their hands brushed against each other – an all too brief contact that jolted him more than it should have.

"I don't even know how it came to be on the floor to begin with," he lied, reluctant to admit he had looked inside the casket.

Margaery said nothing, but bobbed a curtsey by way of taking her leave. Clearly, she had said all she came to say, with possibly more besides. But her smile was real and pleasing to the eye, showing her neat white teeth.

"Thank you." He stood aside, allowing her space to pass him by. The scent of her rosewater caught on the draught as she let herself out of the tent and back into the camp outside. Presumably, she was returning to her husband who was currently locked in negotiation with his mother. Good luck, he thought to himself.

Once she was gone, he stepped around the casket to replace the fallen banner. The candlelight flickered as he disturbed the air around the flame, causing the light to sway into the shadows. As it did, a jewelled bracelet winked from where it had fallen to the floor. Robb suppressed a curse as he stooped to collect Queen Margaery's lost property, making a note to return it to her as soon as he had finished with his father.

Samwell still had difficulty believing he had escaped whatever it was that lay beyond the wall. Even now, several days later, he could not think straight on what had occurred. He sat in Maester Aemon's chambers, huddled by the fire with his knees drawn to his chest, trying to make sense of it all. The mutiny, the monsters and the mission he had been given by the late Lord Commander, Joer Mormont. Longclaw lay at his feet, even now, where Sam glanced at it listlessly. He was no fighter; he would never be fit to bear such a sword. But then, no one had ever said he would be. It was Jorah's sword now – wherever in the world he was.

The task lay before Sam like some mighty challenge he hadn't yet sussed out the rules to. An obstacle. Searching for a hatpin in a haystack the size of a continent. While Maester Aemon busied himself with the practicalities of replacing the murdered Lord Commander, Sam had sat silent and stupefied. It was only that very morning that the Maester had finally found time to speak with him at length, while Sam was building up the fire.

"You're not going to find Ser Jorah just by brooding in front of my fire, Samwell," Aemon had pointed out. "He's not here, he's not north of the wall and, indeed, he's nowhere in the Seven Kingdoms at all."

Sam sighed. "But it's not just that though, is it. How am I to leave Castle Black without looking like a deserter? The whole idea is that I bring Ser Jorah back with me; not me being forced to join him in exile so we can spend the rest of our days looking over our shoulders together!"

Maester Aemon smiled, displaying his lack of teeth as he reached into his dagged sleeve. From inside the folds of the fabric, from one of the hidden pockets, he withdrew a slim scroll of vellum and proffered it in Sam's general direction. "Here you are, now stop fretting Master Tarly."

When Sam took the vellum, he unrolled it beside the window to catch the morning light. Affixed was the official seal of the Night's Watch, written there was a command for Sam to travel to Old Town, to the Maester's Citadel, on Aemon's behalf for information pertaining to dragons. Sam looked from the vellum to the Maester, wide-eyed with disbelief.

"Maester, I won't have time-"

Aemon held up a hand to silence him. "It's a cover, Samwell. I can explain it all when things have settled down. In the meantime, Thorne and the others will be satisfied that you're merely carrying out an errand for me. After all, it's not like I can make it to Old Town myself and I am still a Maester."

Relieved, Sam felt foolish for not seeing it for what it was straight away. It bought him time and it bought him safe passage away from Castle Black without being hunted. He would have to travel south anyway. He hoped it wouldn't look too suspicious.

"Thank you, Maester," he stammered. "Thank you very much."

"Don't thank me," Aemon replied, turning away. "You still have a dangerous journey ahead of you, whatever the case may be. You leave at dawn."

So he did. It was before the dawn that Sam climbed aboard a mule cart – the best Castle Black could offer – for the first leg of his southbound journey. It seemed an age since he had first arrived by the same route, but in reality had been a matter of months. Now, he looked over his shoulder for real, but only to watch as the wretched place receded from view. It didn't take long for Castle Black to be consumed by the pre-dawn gloom.

First stop: Bear Island.

Already Jon was arranging for the Northmen to pass through Howland Reed's lands. As predicted, the pace was painfully slow going but much safer than having to strike deals with third parties to use their bridges. Even now, he could hear Lady Stark railing against Walder Frey. However, with Robb in the Stormlands negotiating with Renly, it suited them to have the army pass to the Riverlands at a slow pace. Jon couldn't leave Moat Cailin undefended, nor could he move the entire army without his brother's help. So, for the time being, he was content to remain at Greywater Watch for so long as Howland Reed was content to have him there.

That evening, it seemed, Lord Reed too was in no hurry to see the back of him. After dinner, once the women had repaired for the evening, Jon remained seated at the high table at Reed's bidding. At first, he thought it would be matters of state, but Lord Reed spoke again it was more a matter of the heart.

"You mustn't worry about Bran, he is recovering well," he said. "Jojen keeps me informed of his progress regularly. The annual harvest feast has happened and I understand Bran heard the petitions, as a Lord should."

Jon felt a twinge of guilt for having almost forgotten about Bran, left as good as alone in Winterfell. But through that unpleasant twinge, curiosity about exactly how Jojen and Lord Reed were 'keeping in touch'. It was well known that no raven ever made it this far into the Neck. But propriety stilled his tongue as he went to ask. The very air of Greywater Watch felt thick with mystery, and this was just another layer being added.

"Maester Luwin will take care of him," Jon eventually replied. "I have every faith in his abilities."

"He's important to us," Howland added, still talking about Bran. "Jojen's told me many things about him. Many interesting things."

There was something in Reed's tone that chilled Jon. He swallowed, uneasily, as the silence billowed between them. He reached for his glass to distract himself and took another mouthful of the local wine. It was tart, so much so he grimaced and wondered about what exactly was in it. Lemons and nettles, he shouldn't wonder.

"Bran is important to me, too," he said, almost with a note of hostility. "He is my brother, after all."

If Howland picked up on that note he showed no sign of it. He merely continued to lean back in his chair and fix Jon with a probing look in his dark eyes. It was as if he were being stripped bare by that gaze, it left him feeling vulnerable and exposed. Instinctively, he glanced down at Ghost to gage his reaction. However, the direwolf slept on obliviously, curled up at Jon's feet.

"You're close to your wolf, aren't you?" asked Howland, his voice smoothly blending with the darkness around them. "Tell me, do you dream of him? Do you dream you are him?"

Jon suppressed a shudder and looked away from Reed. His shocked silence was an answer in and of itself – something Howland didn't miss.

"Don't be afraid, Jon," he said. "It's a connection you will need for whatever you have planned. Wherever you go, you will always have Ghost at your side."

Jon breathed in deep, then turned to face Lord Reed again. "But what is it?" he asked, quietly.

From the moment he first held Ghost, Jon knew he was more than a pet. But this link between them, this near umbilical bond, was as unsettling to him as it was emotionally touching to others. In Howland Reed, he sensed a man who may not have answers but at least may be able to offer an explanation or two.

"What's happening to me?" Jon asked again when Howland failed to immediately launch into said explanation. "These are just dreams, aren't they?"

Howland held up his hand for silence, seemingly measuring out a response. Jon quickly fell silent, reclining back into his chair as if trying to sink through it and into the shadows beyond.

"They're a lot more than that," Howland answered, confirming Jon's fears. "Nor should you be afraid and resistance is futile, too. It's something you all have in common. All of you. Some people can change in to the skins of any animal. Others, like you, are bonded only to one and Ghost is your 'one'. Follow him and he will lead you back to your pack, in the end."

It seemed to him that everything Howland said lit the path ahead only a few steps at a time. Still it left Jon guessing, but it was at least reassuring. He wasn't insane, he wasn't actually turning into a wolf.

"There's someone else I dream about," he confessed. "A woman long dead."

"I see," Howland sounded as if he almost expected to hear this. "Is it anyone I know?"

"It's not my mother," he quickly pointed out. "It's someone else, much longer dead than Lyanna Stark. She called me "Jahaerys", a name I've since learned is what my birth father wished to name me. She has a blue eye and a green eye, and wears a sapphire and emerald necklace to match them. She's very beautiful and dresses like a Queen."

"She is Shiera Seastar," Howland cut in, sounding as if he knew her personally. Jon had already heard her name mentioned once, by Maester Aemon. But he kept that to himself as Howland continued: "She was a sister-lover of Brynden Rivers – a man long since lost beyond the Wall. Although I'm sure you know all this already, he was the last known man to have carried Dark Sister. Or, at least he was, until you came along. That's one thing about you that's been puzzling me since you arrived: just how did you come by that sword? Even I did not know of its continued existence."

The truth was a mix of the mundane and the mystical. "My Great Uncle, Aemon Targaryen, knew where it was. He concealed it after Brynden vanished in the far north. But, it's not as simple as him telling me where it was. I went to visit him at Castle Black and the first night I was there, I dreamed of Shiera for the first time. She was standing in front of a wierwood tree, beside a frozen pool on flat land that was heavy with snow. It was north of the wall. When I told Maester Aemon about that dream, he told me it was the same place Dark Sister had been hidden."

Howland was listening intently, with that same disconcerting intensity in his eyes. Jon tried to convince himself he was imagining things, but it was as though the other man was mentally joining many dots to form a picture he could not see.

"There was a three-eyed raven on her shoulder, one I'd seen in another dream," he recalled. "In the first dream it attacked me, but in this it flew to her shoulder and stared at me. Stared at me with all three of its eyes. She said to me that there was one of my number who was more important to her, that it wasn't really me they wanted."

While he recounted these fading dreams, all of Jon's childish fears returned. They had left him unsettled and restless at the time, and had lost none of their potency.

For Lord Reed's part, he looked almost gratified by Jon's revelations. "It's curious," he began in response. "Your dreams hold clues to your past. Normally, in northern tradition, they hold clues to the future. But then, I suppose, you always were one to be preoccupied with the past. Where you come from; who you really are and so on and so forth. I'm sad to say there's not much I can tell you about your father's side of the family."

"But, my mother's side?" asked Jon, brow raised and he looked up from scratching Ghost's ear. "You are the last person alive who was among the last to see her alive. Father held things back from me, I know he did. But you can tell me."

Lord Reed shook his head. "Sadly, no. Your mother was already dead by the time I got there. Were swaddled in a basket on the floor beside your mother's bed. Lord Stark was sat beside her, holding her in his arms, numb and silent through grief. The only sound he made was to repeat a promise he had made to her; he did not say what that promise was, although with you in a basket it didn't take a great leap of imagination to guess. Still he held her in his arms, cradling her and he would not let go until I coaxed his fingers from hers. She cold already, in that bed of blood. You could smell it in the air; heavy in the heat of the Dornish sun. If we hadn't been battle hardened, it would have sickened us."

Lord Reed's voice had grown distant as he reached back into his memories; his eyes unfocused as he played those final events once more. Without realising what he was doing, Jon held his breath.

"No, the last time I saw your mother alive was at the Tourney of Harrenhal," he continued. "I was never meant to be there, you see. I had been at the Isle of Faces, studying and taking instruction for over a full year. When I was making my way home through the Riverlands, I encountered the Tourney then and ended up staying. Did your father ever tell you about it?"

Jon's brow knitted as he went over exactly what Lord Stark had told him. Only that he was there, that his mother had been there and met the crown prince. For most of his life, he had been fed well intended lies about the event. Now that he was concentrating on it, however, it occurred to him that his father had never really told him anything of substance about that most fateful of events.

"I know he danced with Ashara Dayne, but I heard that from servants," replied Jon, at length.

"That's just tittle-tattle," Reed dismissed with a flick of his wrist. "When I turned up, some rowdy Squires – drunk, naturally – set upon me. I am under no illusions about my height, Jon, I know I am slight and smaller than the rest of the population of our blighted world. But they were so amused by the sight of one so small that they couldn't resist ganging up on me. Until your mother came and voraciously upbraided them before chasing them away."

He already knew that she had been wilful, but Lord Stark hadn't mentioned her bravery. Jon found himself smiling at the memory. "They deserved it," he said.

"And that's not all. A knight rode in the Tourney to defend my honour. The Knight of the Laughing Tree. Surely your father told you this?" But seeing Jon's blank look, Howland continued: "He scored victory after victory in the lists. So much so that the Prince, Rhaegar, demanded that the man be unmasked and he even sent his servants out to find him and present him."

Jon was curious, his head cocked to one side. "Did they find him?"

"Not him. Her. It was your mother that Prince Rhaegar's men found." Howland grinned at the memory, a flash of real emotion rarely seen on any Lord. "They pulled off 'his' helm, and there was Lady Lyanna, bold as a summer sun and as defiant as ever."

She was so much like Arya that he scarce believed it. But before he could ask anything else, Howland got up and ducked out of the room. When he returned, he brought with him a tatty old shield. Black and with a red wierwood tree with a laughing face on the front. Jon took it from Howland and studied it closely. It was old, full of nicks and dents where sparring swords had bashed the polished surface. But knowing it had once been used by his mother made it beautiful to him. He ran his hands across the rough surface, letting the years of dust gather against his skin. After a long moment appreciated the old junk shield, he beamed up at Howland.

"It's wonderful," he said, laughing.

"And now it is yours," said Howland. "Of course, you will get no real use from it. But there is almost nothing left of Lyanna, except you. So take it, for History's sake."

Not for the first time, Jon struggled to find the right words.

The night had come down by the time Robb left his father's remains. But the light from the braziers, beacons and cooking fires that surrounded him provided ample light to see by. For the most part, the people he passed had no idea who he was and the lack of deference was refreshing. No one looked, no one pointed and, more to the point, no came rushing up to him with a multitude of problems he could not solve. Only the occasional Lord noticed him and inclined their heads, prompting him to do the same in return.

Eventually, he reached Renly's spacious marquee. Now known to the Rainbow Guards, they admitted him without preamble, informing him quietly that his mother was already in there. He produced Margaery's lost bracelet from up his sleeve.

"Is the Queen in there? I would like to return this to her, she misplaced it as she paid her respects to my father."

It was Loras, as always, who was guarding Renly that night. "No, but I will bring her to you. Please, go inside and wait Your Grace."

Seeing no sense in loitering outside, Robb followed Loras' advice and ducked inside the marquee. Already in there was his mother, King Renly and a large woman fighter who was the most recent addition to the Kingsguard. Robb tried not to stare, but he had never seen the likes of her before and he had wondered whether she hadn't been a figment of his imagination all along. She was even bigger and bulkier than the Mormont women. And a southerner to boot. Instead of becoming preoccupied with her, he deferred to Renly and kissed his mother on the cheek.

"Pardon my intrusion, Your Grace." Robb turned to Renly, who didn't seem in the least put out by his sudden appearance. "But I thought I would join the proceedings, seeing as it's my Kingdom you've been bartering away."

It was meant in jest, but given the farce over the Neck it underpinned some real worries he had been having. With his mask of charm firmly in place, King Renly took the veiled barb in good grace. He stepped forwards and shook Robb's hand.

"A simple misunderstanding," said Renly, closing the small gap between them so they were side by side. His eye fell on the bracelet in Robb's hands. "I think my Marge has one like that."

Before Robb could reply, the front of the marquee opened and the lady herself appeared. All four people inside the tent breathed a sigh of relief as she smiled at them. He hadn't noticed at first, but to Robb the atmosphere had seemed tense. As if he had walked in on something. Feeling rather foolish himself now, Robb peeled away from Renly and offered Margaery the bracelet.

"This fell from your wrist as you left the tent," he explained. "Forgive my disturbing you."

"Not at all, Your Grace, and thank you I had been searching everywhere for it."

"You're welcome," he replied. "Let me escort you back-"

Before he could finish his sentence, the fabric of the marquee shimmered violently as though suddenly being hit by a gust of wind. The larger woman swiftly drew her sword, but Renly merely smiled as if trying to reassure everyone else in the room.

"At your ease, Lady Brienne," he said, affable.

Robb watched him closely, taken aback as the King's expression suddenly froze and Lady Stark uttered something indecipherable.

"Seven Hells!" Margaery's tone was uncharacteristically harsh as events unfolded.

If he had not been there, seen it with his own two eyes, Robb himself would not have believed it either. All of them seemed rooted to the spot as the shadow took shape, smoke growing solid and taking almost human form before their very eyes. Instinctively, Robb pushed Queen Margaery so that she was positioned behind him and protected from the thing that was taking shape before them. But, foolishly, he had left Ice at the door before entering the King's private space. With a sickening jolt of horror, he realised he was too far from his mother to protect her. But this thing, this entity that looked as though it had been spewed the chief of the seven hells, seemed to know who it wanted already.

While the thing headed for Renly, Robb tried to push Margaery out of the tent altogether. But she toppled backwards and before he could do anything, she was sprawled behind him. By the time he and Lady Brienne managed to gather their wits and get to the King, it was almost all over. Renly was downed, dead eyes wide open, still in cold shock from his last sight.

Thank you again for reading this and a special thank you to Mx4 for advice on Howland Reed's gift to Jon. Apologies again for the long delays between updates, but life is hectic just now.

Reviews would be lovely if you have a moment to spare, thank you.