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Chapter Nineteen: Emergency Planning.
"We're going to need a bigger boat." The fisherman's words, although not meant to hurt, still caused Sam to flush a deeper shade of red. The small vessel of sturdy oak bobbed on the gathering tides of iron grey sea; it looked scarce fit to carry two – never mind Sam and the two fisherman. Sam wrapped his Nights Watch furs tighter round his middle and followed the two men who'd promised him passage to Bear Island. A newer, larger vessel awaited with sails billowing in the strengthening winds. He wondered to himself: how many others were sunk to the sea bed?
"It'll be fair crossing this evening, Master. Have no worries on that score." It was the second man who spoke this time. The son of the other, they were sea-faring stock of a long line of fishermen; or so they had proudly described to him. But the sight of Bear Island in the distance, the foam-flecked waves rolling to the shore and the vessel alone did little to alleviate his flagging courage.
Sam could only reply with a high-pitched squeak from somewhere at the back of his throat. Nevertheless, he climbed aboard and walked the length of the boat, trying to keep his balance until he reached the small wooden cabin.
He had been at sea once before. A long time ago; in another lifetime altogether, or so it felt to him. But he had cowered and vomited all through that voyage, while his Lord Father looked on in disgust. His travel companions had mocked him all the way there and all the way back. Upon their return, Lord Tarly had beaten him black and blue for his sufferings. Here and now, in circumstances a world away from those, the memory still made him pale and clammy with an animal fear.
"I'd get so o'that down you, if I were you," said the son.
He held a bottle of amber liquid out towards him, which Sam took and thanked him for. Sam couldn't put a name to the liquor but it burned, made his eyes water and then started to warm him pleasantly from inside. Decided on another good gulp of the liquid, he returned the bottle with another heartfelt word of thanks.
As it turned out, the fisherman was right. Sam needed the liquor. The vessel crashed and rolled its way to Bear Island through seas as rough as dog guts. His old sea-sickness returned, causing raucous laughter among his travel companions. As he heaved over the side of the vessel it seemed even the seagulls wheeling overhead mocked him with their cries. He clung to the rails as if they were already sinking.
"This is a milk pond compared to what we normally have!" said one of the fishermen, as he cast out their hemp nets. "You should thank your lucky stars."
Sam managed to raise a pained smile. "If you say so."
It was dawn by the time they reached Bear Island. Although stinking of salt and seaweed, Sam at least had a gift of a full net of fish to present to Alysane Mormont upon his arrival at her Keep. Lady Maege and Lady Dacey were fighting in the south with Robb Stark and Jon Snow. That much, Sam knew already. He mounted a pot-bellied, strong backed horse to take him to the Keep. But as they made the final leg of the journey, he found himself wondering how much they knew of Jeor Mormont's death. Probably nothing; leaving him to be the one to deliver the bad news.
Occupied by what awaited him there, he missed his surroundings. But the Island was bigger than he thought it would be. Whenever he imagined it, it was just a rocky outpost in the middle of the sea. But there were large tracts of forest – home to the famous bears that he had already prayed he would not meet. There were clearings along the coastlines where the small folk set up wattle and daub huts, or small squat buildings of stone. Sam passed them all in a haze of worry and anxiety.
The Mormont's Keep was set atop a steep hill, defensively overlooking to the coast in all directions. All around was sea, punctuated by rocks not dissimilar to the ones of Sam's youthful imagination. If any enemy ships attempted to reach these shores, the Mormont's would see them coming from miles away. Just as Alysane Mormont seemed to have seen him coming from miles away.
"So you're Samwell Tarly, eh?" she called out, by way of formal greeting.
She was a large woman wrapped in a bear skin cloak, her voice unusually rough for a high born lady. She was as far away from the courtly damsels of the south as the moon from the sun. All around her were the men of the keep – all beards and oiled furs. Only Alysane approached as she crossed the drawbridge to help guide his horse within the curtain walls.
"I am, My Lady," he replied as they drew level. "I come from Castle Black."
Up close, he could see her eyes were as grey as slate and keen. She fixed him in a calculating look as her brown hair blew across her face in the chilly winds.
Sam dismounted as soon as they were through the portcullis. All round him the men glanced him up and down, chatting amongst themselves. Unlike the mainland, these people did not seem to adhere to strict formality and they chatted at ease with their Lady whether asked to or not. The atmosphere was relaxed; almost welcoming. As she showed him through the Keep and into the main hall, Alysane turned to him and smiled.
"This is Lyanna. Bear Island will be hers, one day," she pointed out.
The little girl, although aged only eight or nine by Sam's estimation, was just as rugged looking as her surroundings. She grinned at Sam, but curtseying was probably unheard of in this neck of the woods.
"My business is urgent – as well as delicate – My Lady," he said to her, eyeing the entourage of men who had followed them inside. For the first time, Sam realised they were all old men, past their fighting years. All the youngsters were off to fight for Robb. Out of the blue, Sam wondered how many would make it back. "I hope you don't mind."
Alysane picked up on his meaning. As soon as they were lodged in the Great Hall, she gave the command for everyone to leave them. Even little Lyanna was swept out of the Hall, hand in hand with a nursemaid. Once they were alone, Sam realised how large and cavernous the Great Hall was, with its hammer beam ceiling arching overhead. He and Alysane stood at opposite sides of a large hearth, in which a fire blazed. Her weathered skin was almost soft in the glow of the flames.
"A messenger from Castle Black can only mean one thing, Master Tarly," said Alysane, turning her face to the fire as if she was addressing the flames.
Meanwhile, Sam removed his cloak to reveal Longclaw strapped to his back. He lifted the sword and scabbard; presenting it to her as if an offering to the gods. Alysane slowly turned her face towards it, her full lip curling in fond recognition of the weapon.
"When and where?" she asked, taking the sword carefully from his grasp.
"We were ranging north of the wall and lodged overnight at Craster's Keep," Sam began, reliving those dreadful moments of mutiny. "A rebellion broke out among certain Brothers of the Watch. Your great uncle was among the dead. He died bravely and without much suffering. My Lady, I am truly sorry for your loss. He was a great man and a great Lord Commander."
Alysane kept her eyes on the sword now in her hands and Sam wondered whether she had even heard him. She made no immediate response, as if gathering her thoughts.
"We always knew this would happen," she finally replied. "We knew he would be ranging among the Wildlings and they'd get him in the end. Or that he'd be captured and killed by one tribe or another; or eaten by shadow cats or direwolves. Never in half a century did we imagine he would be killed by his own people, Master Tarly."
When Alysane looked back up at him, her countenance had transformed. Her jaw was set grim, the light in her eyes dulled by the unique anger that sprang from betrayal. Sam almost wilted under that stare; a feeling of collective guilt over what had happened.
"I wish I could have done something-"
"You were there?" she cut in, standing straight backed.
Sam nodded. "I was out in the yard preparing food when the mutiny broke out. As I tried to save Lord Commander Mormont, he thrust this sword into my hands and told me, made me swear, to return it."
"And now you have. I thank you, Master Tarly. My House is in your debt; I'll see to it that you're comfortably lodged for the night and that your journey back to Castle Black is a smooth one. If there is anything else, you need only ask," she said, placing the sword on a nearby trestle table. As if hiding her grief, she no longer looked him in the eye.
Sam swallowed, finding his throat dry. "That's not quite all there is to it, my lady."
"Then speak it," she commanded, jerking her head up to look directly at him.
"Lord Commander Mormont tasked me with tracking down his son, Ser Jorah," he explained, becoming nervous at her darkening expression. "I am to tell him he is forgiven, that he must have the sword and return with me to take the black."
Alysane angrily spat into the fire, causing the smouldering wood to hiss and spit back.
"That man!" she snapped. "That man brought shame on Lord Jeor; he brought shame on House Mormont and he dishonoured his vows as a Knight and as a Stark bannerman. I wouldn't give that man shit, never mind our family's ancestral sword." She paused for breath and drew herself to full height. "Do you really think I'm going to let you go swanning off with Longclaw anyway?"
Sam's face crumpled in agonised dismay. "No, my lady. Because he asked you to come with me."
The other woman had begun pacing in agitation, but stopped abruptly at his last sentence. It was as if he had slapped her. "Are you being serious?"
Reluctantly, Sam nodded. "Aye, my lady."
Alysane drew a deep, steadying breath and ran her hands through her tangled hair. Even following those self-soothing actions, she was still clearly agitated. "If I find Jorah before you, Master Tarly, I will run the bastard through with the damn sword."
"Does that mean you'll come with me?" he asked, allowing a little flicker of hope to waken inside him.
She sighed heavily. "So the Old Gods help me. Is this really, truly, what the Old Bear wanted? This is what he imparted to you on his dying breath?"
"My lady, I assure you, I have no desire to go trekking across the known world in search of just one man," Sam explained, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "But I speak it true: this is what the Lord Commander wanted. This is his dying wish."
A long, tense silence followed. During which Alysane looked him dead in the eye. Not for the first time, Sam felt acutely self-conscious. He knew he wasn't the best traveling companion and certainly no fighter. But he stood his ground and tried not to smile like a simpleton.
"Very well," she replied. "Very well. You and I will seek out Ser Jorah and bring him back. Fresh meat for the Night's Watch. It's all he's fit for."
Sam felt almost giddy with relief. "Thank you, my lady-"
"And stop calling me 'my lady'; I've never been called anything of the like before in my life," she cut him off again, marching straight past him and heading for the door. Over her shoulder, she called out: "Our steward will show you to your chamber, Tarly. Go easy on him."
Sam watched her leave, glowing with accomplishment, and raised a hand in farewell: "Goodnight, my-" he stopped himself. But only just.
"It had the face of Stannis Baratheon."
It was the big girl, who spoke. Robb was jolted out of his reverie and turned sharply in her direction. But she didn't look back at him. Her gaze was directed into the embers of a fire.
Stannis Baratheon, he thought to himself. All he saw was a shadow, with a face. Whose face, he could not say. Stannis Baratheon was as good as any other contender. He turned towards his mother who was seated beside him. She was pale with shock, but otherwise fine. In her hands she cradled a cup of warmed wine. "What say you, mother?"
At first he thought she didn't hear him. She continued gazing vacantly into her wine, lost in her thoughts.
"I saw …." She began, but her words melted off again. Now both Robb and Brienne were looking at her, expectant. "I don't know what I saw. It was human shaped. That I do know."
"It was Stannis Baratheon." Margaery's tone was calm, but determined. They all turned to her, where she sat at Robb's other side. "I've seen him before and Brienne is right. Stannis did this. He is responsible."
She looked at them each in turn, as though daring any of them to contradict her. Only Loras stepped out of the shadows. He placed a gentle hand on her arm, as if to guide her away to some place safe and comforting. But she shrugged him off with a force that took Robb by surprise. It seemed to him that, beneath that courtly exterior, lay a much tougher core.
Initially, Loras had tried to blame Brienne of Tarth. But Robb, Margaery and his mother had all borne witness to what happened. A shadow-like demon had materialised before their very eyes and killed Renly stone dead. Robb himself would never in a century have believed it himself, unless he had seen it. He readily forgave Loras Tyrell his scepticism.
Robb shifted along on the bench, making room for the older Knight to sit next to his sister. Loras was still wearing the rainbow cloak of the Kingsguard, bestowed on him by Renly. Out of them all, it was he who took the King's death the hardest. Even now, hours later, tears stood in his eyes and his expression was contorted with a raw anger.
"I should be with him," the knight said. "I should be guarding him."
"Your sister needs you too," Catelyn said, not unkindly.
Still, Robb caught her eye and frowned. An indication that she should stay out of it. Loras seemed conflicted enough – torn between duty to Renly and love for his sister – without anyone else chiming in. Catelyn returned her attention back to her wine and, seemingly, back to her own thoughts.
"We won't be able to keep this a secret for much longer," Robb said. "How many know?"
"Only the Kingsguard and the people in this room," Brienne answered. "We need to decide on what our next step is."
"I can answer that," Loras said, getting to his feet again. His fists were curled tight around the hilt of his sword, knuckles white with effort. "We march on Storm's End right now-"
"And repeat the mistakes of your father, Ser Loras?" Catelyn cut in, also rising. The other man glared at her as if she had suddenly also taken on the visage of Stannis Baratheon. "You cannot march on Storm's End, you can only lay siege and the last person to even attempt it was your father. We all know how that ended."
But grief and anger were still doing Loras' thinking for him. "How dare you-"
"Loras, Lady Stark is right!" Margaery retorted. "It was a fool's mission the first time round and if we repeat that little farce we'll be twice as guilty for the deaths it will result in."
Robb gently tried to smooth the way. "Ser Loras, I apologise if my lady mother gave offence. But please, listen to your sister if you won't listen to her. Trying to defeat Stannis through siege alone is doomed to failure and you know it. Stannis will now be mustering his fleet and setting sail for King's Landing. He's taking the war to Joffrey and the Lannisters. Which is also where my army is heading."
He needed the Tyrell forces to join his own and now, unfortunate timing aside, was the best opportunity. The door seemed to open for him, shining a light on his own dire necessity.
"I already have an army roughly equal to your own. If we join our forces together we could march on King's Landing and none would bar our path," he continued.
Loras looked sickened and pale. Sweat was beading his brow, the droplets shining in the light of the fire. Slowly, Margaery rose to her feet again and crossed the floor of the tent to join him. Linking her arm through his, she leaned up and kiss his cheek.
"Brother," she said, casting a quick backwards glance at Robb. "Think on it. We could join the Lannisters to defeat Stannis, but our victory would be short term. The Lannisters have no right to the Iron Throne and Joffrey is a bastard born of incest – their days are numbered. Perhaps, if we were only fighting Stannis, that would be an option. But we're fighting for the whole realm." She paused there, tucking a lock of Loras' hair behind his ear. "Our hosts with the Northern hosts would sweep this realm clean of Lannister and Baratheon alike."
Robb met Catelyn's gaze again, cocked an eyebrow at the lady and waited for Loras to make some kind of move. But still, he wasn't even looking at his sister. His death glare was still directed at the heart of the flames,
"We need to act now!" he stormed. "Not all this criss-crossing the realm, joining various forces here and there. We need to move south, attack from land while Stannis invades by sea. We can kick them back into the waves within hours. Then our score will be settled."
Margaery stood back from her brother and sighed. A flicker of impatience marred her smooth complexion. "Yes," she agreed, firmly. "But that would involve us joining forces with the Lannisters. That would mean us turning all our coats and joining up with Renly's enemies to avenge his death. Do you really think that's what he would have wanted?"
Her carefully cultivated mask of maidenly innocence was slipping now. Robb could glimpse what lay beneath that veneer: a political tactician who was used to getting her own way. She was appealing to his tactical side, as well as his emotional side. Robb's lip curled into a smile at the sight of it. But the negotiations were at such a raw and delicate stage that he didn't dare butt in. Coming from him again, it would seem as if he wanted nothing more than Tyrell armies to use as fodder in his own campaign.
However, Lady Stark had other ideas.
"You cannot make any decisions alone," she pointed out. "I suggest you call a meeting of your generals as a matter of urgency, then decide what you're to do next. Your Grace, may I request a private meeting with your father and grandmother?
Margaery nodded. "Of course, Lady Stark." She turned to her brother and continued: "She is right again, Loras. It won't be tonight, though, will it? It will be in the next day or two."
"Of course. Later, when we all calm down," Catelyn replied. "Tonight, take stock of what happened. Cool off and try to sleep. In the morning, we reconvene and break the news of Renly's death. The council meeting will follow and we can all speak our piece. But first, I must speak with Lord Mace and Lady Olenna. Please, grant me that?"
Margaery consented, looking immensely relieved.
Nor could Robb argue and nodded his agreement; it seemed as though his mother had a plan. Truth was, his head was reeling from what he had seen. Loras, too, looked appreciative of Lady Stark's suggestion. But Robb could sense that he would not rest; that he would head straight to where Renly's body now lay. They didn't have time to pick him up before they fled the King's tent and, to the best of Robb's knowledge, he was still sprawled on the floor. He almost felt ashamed.
Brienne passed him, paused just as Loras left and whispered in his ear: "My sword is yours."
Robb flushed with relief, turned to thank her but she had already left. Only his mother and Margaery remained now.
"Mother," he said. "Can the Queen dowager and I have a moment alone?"
Lady Stark hesitated, as if reluctant to leave her boy alone with a girl. But she soon followed the others, probably back to Renly's tent. Meanwhile, Margaery drew a deep breath and sat back down beside him.
"Queen Dowager!" she laughed, drily. "You make me sound as ancient as my Grandmother."
Robb smiled bashfully. "Forgive me, but strictly speaking you are the dowager now."
"I was never even Queen; not truly," she retorted.
When she reached for the wine Robb stayed her hand. "Please, allow me."
He poured them each a cup and returned to his seat. "If there's a chance you're with child, you know he or she would be the rightful heir to the Stormlands. Stannis cannot get his hands on that."
Margaery raised a regretful brow. "If only that were the case."
At such a delicate stage, Robb had the sinking feeling he had inadvertently treaded into very sticky territory. "Please, forgive me again, I didn't mean to pry like that."
But Margaery was all charm again. "Don't be silly, Your Grace. It's all right. But Renly and I … our marriage wasn't really like that."
"You mean he didn't…" Robb frowned, utterly perplexed and not quite sure how to phrase things. "He didn't, you know…"
"Consummate?" she finished the sentence for him, quite unabashed. She drew a deep breath and smiled knowingly. "Did you pay any particular attention to my brother's reaction and compare it to mine?"
Robb cleared his throat again, as if his reply had become lodged there. To cover his awkwardness, he forced a laugh that came out as little more than another cough. Margaery laughed aloud at his seeming innocence. Naturally, he had heard the rumours about Renly and Loras but passed them off as his enemies making trouble. No Baratheon was short of enemies. Not even amongst themselves.
"Renly was a kind and loving man," she pointed out. "He really was a caring spouse. Alas, there is not a chance that I could be with his child."
Somewhere deep inside, Robb was not ashamed to admit to himself that he was relieved.
'Jon,' he reminded himself, forcefully, 'she will be Jon's queen.'
Jon was startled by the sound of horses crashing through the marshlands. Tiny Crannogmen had to dart out of the Destrier's way as the rider tore along the riverbank in the direction of Greywater Watch. It was a Northman in Bolton livery, bearing down on them as if forming a route. Angered by the disrespect shown to Howland Reed's land and people, Jon reached for Dark Sister and went to investigate.
"You're lucky you aren't drowned, man!" Jon called out, reaching for the horse.
The rider as good as ignored him. "Urgent message from Lady Stark, my lord. I had to deliver in person, no raven can get here."
He was right, but Jon was still annoyed by the manner of delivery. He took the letter and entered the gates of Greywater Watch to read it properly. Meera was there, waiting for him where he had just left her.
"King Renly is dead!" he read aloud to her.
Meera frowned, stepping closer to him. "What happened? What does it mean for your brother?"
But Jon couldn't answer that. It was the second half of the letter that caught him off-guard. "Lady Stark commands me to set out for the Stormlands at once. She humbly begs that Lord Howland Reed accompanies me."
Their gaze met as Jon lowered the letter, where they exchanged a deeply puzzled glance. "She doesn't say why she wants your father there," he added. "Do you think he will come?"
Lord Reed rarely left the Neck, but rarely didn't mean never.
Meera nodded. "I'll speak with him, but I can make no promises."
She stepped around him, returning indoors. Meanwhile, Jon read the letter again. With Renly dead, he knew, their army could be about to swell in size. Now, he had the feeling he was about to be used to make sure it happened.
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