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Chapter Twenty-Nine: Connections
All Daenerys knew of Westeros had come from her brother. The powerful families, their sigils and house words. Or the faith, and the septs and the great stone castles dotted about the realm. He told her of the Citadel and the maesters it produced, with its library that was a wonder of the world. She knew the food and the clothes, the correct manner of address. But, for all that, she had only the vaguest of notions about the Night's Watch. True, Viserys had mentioned the great wall of ice. But all she knew of the men who defended it could be written on the back of a cheese label and there would still be room for appendices. So it was with a small sense of wonder that she regarded the large young man recovering in her reception room.
Samwell Tarly had regained consciousness, when she, Doreah and Alysane had been able to prop him up and transfer him somewhere quieter. Alone with him now, she opened the one window in the room to let in a cool breeze and then poured him a goblet of wine. A crisp white wine from the Summer Isles and a personal favourite of hers.
"Drink this," she advised, pressing the goblet into his hands. "It's very restorative."
He thanked her, then downed the wine in one gulp. "Aye, that hit the spot my lady."
His companion was in another room, speaking with Ser Jorah in private. Given how far they had travelled, and all they had been through to track them down, Dany could only conclude the news was grave. Meanwhile, she noted how well the wine went down so retrieved the bottle and brought it to their seat in the window embrasure in the small reception room. Facing the gardens, they were still sheltered from the noise of the bustling streets of Qarth.
"Recently, I was invited to the House of the Undying by the warlocks themselves," she said. "Among the visions I saw was a large wall of ice, with a blue rose growing from a chink in the surface. Do you think it could be the same wall you guard?"
If he was at all confused by any of what she had just said, he did not show it.
"There can't be that many of them in the word, but you'll not find much by way of flowers there though," he said, then paused for breath. "My lady, I really wouldn't set much store by what you saw in there. Don't the warlocks make you drink essence of nightshade before you go in?"
"You know about them?" her eyes widen in surprise.
He nodded. "Well, I've read about them in various books."
"So, what else is at the Wall and beyond? I was born on Dragonstone, but I have no memory of Westeros at all."
She had poured them both another helping of wine, but she was relieved to see he was taking this one more slowly. He sat with his back flat against the oak panelled wall, staring at a spot on the wall opposite and deep in thought. He looked troubled, she thought. His brow tightened and then relaxed again, as if gripped in spasm. He had already admitted that he and Alysane had not expected to find Ser Jorah in the company of an exiled Princess. Maybe he was as surprised by her and her dragons as much as she was by him?
"Well, at the Wall you have an elderly relative, who serves as our Maester," he answered. "Aemon Targaryen."
Her breath caught in her throat. Having taken it for granted that she was the last of her line, the revelation momentarily stunned her.
"How come?" she asked. "Did the usurper, Robert Baratheon, not send hired knives after him?"
Sam turned to her with an apologetic look on his face. "He was in his late eighties when the Sack of Kings Landing happened. An old man who relinquished his family name when he came to Castle Black and swore a vow of celibacy. An old man, who posed a threat to nobody."
"He's more than a hundred now," she quietly stated, more to herself than Sam. "This man could tell me everything, but I'll more than likely never get to meet him."
He didn't contradict her. "He's such a gentle old thing. But he is frail and blind now."
It was like being given a family, only to have it snatched away again. Unbidden tears sprang into her eyes and she looked away to hide them. While the silence stretched out, she could feel his gaze still directed at the back of her head. Rhaegal was still in the room with them, so she got up and went to him, pretending he needed her attention. It was enough to distract herself from her own emotions.
"My Lady, there's someone else you need to know about," Sam suddenly blurted out.
It sounded as though he wasn't meant to be telling her. Her hands stilled as she caressed Rhaegal's wing. "Who?"
From the tail of her eye, she could see him tremble and flush. "Someone young and strong. Someone co-leading a vast army from the North, with forces from the Reach at his back, to take the Seven Kingdoms. My lady, he's your nephew."
"My nephew was put to the sword," she replied, flatly. "If you tease me, ser, I will not thank you for it."
"I'm not teasing," he assured her. "Prince Aegon and his sister were put to the sword. I know that and the whole realm does, too. But the realm never knew of the son Prince Rhaegar had with Lady Lyanna of House Stark."
Memories rose to the forefront of her mind, of Viserys raging over the woman their older brother had run off with. He had blamed Dany herself being born too late to marry Rhaegar; she had countered that he should have been born a girl, then suffered the violent consequences. Then Rhaegal spread his wings and nipped at her finger, jolting her out of the reverie she had lapsed into.
"What is his name?" she asked, full of uncertainly about this man. He seemed to be helping himself to her crown.
"Jon," replied Sam. "Jon Snow, as was. But he's Jon Stark now. I think you're about the same age."
She left the young dragon, returning to her place beside Sam. "Viserys said Rhaegar was unhappy in his marriage. But he also told me he died for the woman he loved. Perhaps, I should have guessed this would happen."
"There's quite a different story circulating around Westeros," Sam pointed out. "But Jon knows the truth, as does Aemon."
She raised a brow. "You know this Jon Stark?"
"Yes," he affirmed. "He's very brave- "
"I'm sure he is, but he's taking my crown," she cut over him. "I have spent my whole life being dragged from place to place, been made to beg for money, sold off to a Dothraki horselord, all for the sake of our lost crown that my bastard nephew is now blithely snatching from under my nose. Don't expect me to be pleased to discover that this has all been for nothing. What relation is he to Eddard Stark, who helped the usurper kill my family?"
As she vented, Sam seemed to sag in dismay. He shook his head sadly, cheeks flushing redder than ever. "He's the late lord Stark's nephew, but was raised as his son to hide his real identity. The late Lord Stark had no hand in the killing of your niece and nephew. It's only because of him you have another nephew still living."
She paused, drawing a deep breath to gather her thoughts. "He is a bastard- "
"Legitimised," Sam countered. "Even so, Lyanna and Rhaegar were married in secret, before the weirwoods on the Isle of Faces. It was detailed in a letter sent to Maester Aemon."
Dany was still consumed by memories of her early years. Selling her mother's crown to survive, the mockery her brother endured and the madness it inspired in him. The humiliation, the degradation. The Beggar King and the Pauper Princess. The only thing that had kept Viserys going was the thought that they could get it all back, one day. Until she married Drogo, all she wanted was to go home.
"Join your army to his," said Sam, quietly. "Take Westeros from the south while he is marching down from the north. Together, you can take back the realm. Then nothing you went through would be in vain."
"He's not going to want another relative around to throw doubt on his claim to the crown- "
"Not at all, my lady," Sam insisted. "Let me act as an intermediary between you both. I'm sure there's a way to orchestrate your land invasion with his northern uprising."
"I have no army," she pointed out. "I have three dragons not yet old enough to fly long distance. But I have no soldiers and no ships to get us home."
Sam smiled. "But the dragons are your key to both, so long as you play your hand right."
Any further protest froze on her lips. Ser Jorah had already been to Slaver's Bay, enquiring of their safe passage out of Qarth. If her nephew already had a large army, all she needed was enough to mount the landings off Dragonstone – just like Aegon the Conqueror. The possibility tempted her, despite her misgivings.
"For dignity's sake, I would raise my own army instead of hitching myself on his," she said, sharply. "And I want to hear much more – all you know – about this Jon Stark first. Then I will make up my mind."
Sam beamed happily. "So, I have your permission to contact him?"
She found it within herself to return his smile and nod. "You may, and I thank you Master Tarly."
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths only had thirty-five hearths. Robb had already counted them. Still, it was huge and in-tact; easily large enough to entertain all his commanders and many of the soldiers from both the Reach and the North. Better still, it was warm and buffeted from the winds and broken towers that slowly crumbled all around them. Great candelabras hung from the ceiling, casting a steady light all day and night, and directly below them the expansive kitchens were easily accessible.
However, at that moment, it was just him and Lady Stark in there. He at the head of the long table, her to his right. Arya had only just left them, promising to return in an hour with the best pies Westeros had to offer. With neither he nor Lady Stark unable to refuse an offer like that, they had kissed her and sent her on her way.
"There's news from King's Landing."
Lady Stark's tone was sombre, automatically setting his nerves on edge. "And?"
"Sandor Clegane fled the field of battle," she replied.
Robb laughed. "The mad dog is actually craven!"
"And taken Sansa with him," she added, ignoring his jibe.
Robb's heart leapt into his throat. "What? How? I mean, why?"
His mind reeled with the possibilities. Clegane could have abducted her, raped and murdered her and left her to rot in the Kingswood. He could have forced her to marry him, or carried her off across the Narrow Sea. At best, he would bring her here and ransom her. Whatever he intended to do with Sansa, his intentions would not be good. Then, his blood chilled as he considered how the Queen received the news of Sansa's escape.
"Apparently, they were just gone," Catelyn replied. Now Robb noticed how pale and drawn her face looked. The only other time he had seen her like that was when Bran was in his coma. "All her things had been left behind, except a cloak and a doll your father had made for her. There were no signs of struggle."
Robb was still uncertain. "But how do they know she's with the Hound? Sansa would know better than to take off with a man like that."
"Robb! She is surrounded by her enemies," Catelyn snapped. "She has waited for rescue for over two years, and no one came for her. What if she just jumped at the first opportunity that came her way?"
There was a note of accusation in her tone, but he ignored it. She knew, as well as he, that there was no way either he or Jon could just go swanning into the Red Keep to rescue Sansa. They would be lucky to make it past the door before being recognised and hauled before Joffrey and Cersei. But still, guilt filled him as it did when Bran and Rickon were in danger. He had failed to protect his younger siblings. Diverting his gaze from his mother, he scratched at the wood grain of the table.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Arya is proof that there's always hope. She's ten and survived against all odds. Sansa can do it, too. If we send out a host to search the area, it might even get her home sooner."
Catelyn sighed, then reached over and squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I'm not angry with you, Robb. Just worried about Sansa. In a way, it's almost worse now that we have Arya back. I'm so close to having you all together again that I'm just waiting for someone to snatch it away."
"That's not going to happen," he swore, looking up again to meet her gaze. "Wherever the Hound's taken her, we will find her. If he's hurt her, he will pay for it twice over."
Catelyn raised a pained smile, but the black circles under her eyes gave away how tired and worried she still was. "Arya is different now, don't you think?"
"She will get better now that she has us again." But the words rang hollow in his own ears.
"When I first arrived, after I got the message she had been found, she and I sat up all night talking," Catelyn continued. "The things she's been through, Robb, the things she's seen. No child should ever have to live through half as much as she has. The man she worked for here used to beat her bloody. This Weese man. And the women were no better. Then she was forced to act as Steffon Lannister's cup bearer."
Robb had heard it, too. Arya had witnessed people being tortured to death, and seen the corpses swinging from the gallows and the heads rotting on spikes.
"Arya is resilient, mother." It was all the reassurance he could offer. But he had seen the change in his sister for himself. She was cautious and secretive now, almost fearful. Before all this, fear had been an alien concept to Arya Stark.
"As soon as we get word of Sansa; I would ask your leave to return to Winterfell with them both, if possible. They need to be home, with their brothers, surrounded by the people who love them."
Robb drew a deep breath. He had known this moment would come eventually. "You brought the Tyrells on board. You have brought us this far. I think you've done all you can. Of course you have my leave, mother."
Her smiled was one of relief. But before she could make any reply, Arya made good her promise and returned with pie. Or, at least, a large round boy bearing a platter of pie. She beamed from ear to ear as she hopped into her seat at the table. The smell brought Jon out of his hiding place in the outer-gallery, with Lady Margaery following close behind.
"Everyone, this is Hot Pie," she declared to them all, once seated.
"Really, it looks lovely," Catelyn replied.
But Arya frowned. "No, not the pie Mother. This- "she gestured to the blushing boy – "This is Hot Pie. He makes the best pies in the seven kingdoms."
"And he's looking for a job," Jon whispered in Robb's ear.
"I knew there'd be a catch, brother," he replied.
But the pie was good, there was no denying it. With Gage dead, Winterfell needed new kitchen hands. Once they were all finished, and the pie was no more, the decision was near unanimous. The only dissenting voice being Margaery's, who joked that she wanted to send him to Highgarden.
"You can't follow a war camp, so you'll be escorted north within the month," Robb assured the boy.
Hot Pie trembled, flushing an even deeper shade of red. "Thank you, your grace, I'll serve Winterhell with honour, your grace."
"Winterfell!" Arya hissed as the boy's mistake fell into a well of ringing silence.
"Winterfell," he belatedly corrected himself. "I'll serve Winter-FELL"
The others all forced themselves to smile in an effort to ease their new cook's discomfiture.
"Er, thanks then," said Robb in conclusion, dismissing the boy with a wave.
When the new cook was gone, and Arya and Lady Stark departed not long after, the other three remained. Already Jon and Margaery were sitting side by side at every turn. Despite the way he had felt about her, he knew he had no regrets.
Every day, at first light, Theon was the first in the drill yard and the last to leave at night. He took up arms against those who would soon be his brothers. The rapers, thieves, murderers and pickpockets. Most had never held live steel before and it showed. His years of training in Winterfell saw to it that he beat each of them off easily. A few parries, a few thrusts and even the biggest of them fell into the frozen ground. 'I yield, I yield!' was a refrain that rang out across the training yard with grim monotony. Despite his experience, however, his arms still ached and his back was tense by the end of each day. Winterfell had been cold enough, but this far north was another matter altogether. There was no warmth to be had anywhere, even inside the barracks.
Only at the end of the day, when his literacy dictated that he had to go and help Maester Aemon, did he avail himself of a few creature comforts. He read the old man's letters to him, wrote out the dictated replies and then fed the ravens. The racket they made, the screeching cries and their wings beating at the bars of their cages set his teeth on edge. Grim work that he had to push himself through, closing his eyes as he tossed in the chunks of scrap meat unfit for human consumption. When that was done, he'd light the fires and finally feel a trace of warmth.
For all that, though, he found Maester Aemon a gentle old soul. Every time Theon went in there, the old man would hover around him, attempting to make small talk. In time, he deduced the old man missed his old Steward – a brother he referred to only as "Sam". Although curious, Theon didn't bother asking what had happened to Sam. Somethings were better off left unsaid. Some of the stories he heard from returning Rangers were enough to set his nerves to prickling. Marauding Wildlings, the dead rising from their graves, beasts that for him had only ever existed in Old Nan's stories, all free-roamed north of the wall.
Sometimes, he caught himself standing in the middle of the yard and just gazing up at that wall. Even after all he had heard, there was a compulsion to just walk on through the tunnel and out the other side. Part of him yearned to see what was really out there; part of him that grew bigger by the day. Before he could lose himself in hopes of a ranging, the whip-like voice of Alliser Thorne would jolt him back into brutal reality. He turned from the wall, took up his sword and knocked another raper into the hard-packed earth.
When the time came, he took his vows beneath the boughs of a weirwood tree. Thousands of leagues from the sea, there was no place else for him to take a vow before his own gods. The Faith of the Seven was anathema to him. So, once again, the old ways of the North overrode his own ways. And taking the vows in the godswood gave him his first glimpse of what lay beyond the wall.
Back in the yard of Castle Black, as the sun set behind the trees, he gathered with the rest of his new brothers. Alliser Thorne was up on the terrace, reading aloud from a scroll of parchment, assigning each of them a role. When his own name was read aloud, he felt his body tense.
"Theon Greyjoy," Thorne called without looking up from the scroll. "Ranger."
He smiled then, relief washing over him. Ranger he could do. Ranger was something tangible, something he could carry off with pride. A flicker of excitement curled around his belly as he thought his first ranging could begin by dawn.
"You got what you wanted then?" Later that night, he was helping Maester Aemon retire for the day.
Theon couldn't recall telling him what he wanted, or anything else for that matter. Normally, he let the old man's chatter wash over him. Instead of being garrulous about it, however, he just raised a smile.
"I'm more than satisfied with the appointment," he answered. "The Wildlings are coming to kill us, and I intend to stop them. Savages that they are."
In that oddly disconcerting way he had, the old man fixed him in a cataract stare, rooting him to the spot. "Don't be too surprised, master Greyjoy, if you find the Wildlings to be human beings just like you or I."
Despite himself, he had to marvel at the position he was in. He was to atone for the deaths of innocent people by being the death of other innocent people. "They are the enemy," he stated, flatly. He had come to make amends, not waves.
"A letter for you, Lord Stark." Margaery glanced over his shoulder, to where the servant in Stark livery lowered a silver tray over Jon's shoulder. "It arrived this evening."
Curious, he took the letter and thanked the man. He and Margaery were in the solar, enjoying a drink and watching as the sun set outside. Now, he hoped the old adage of "dark wings, dark words" had not come to give chase to their rest and relaxation. It was bad enough that his shoulder still pained him as he opened the letter, reminding him of the previous week's fighting and the fighting yet to come.
"What is it?" asked Margaery, rising from her own seat at the table to sit next to him.
"It's from Sam Tarly, an old friend," he informed her. "It seems he's found Ser Jorah Mormont, as requested."
"That's good, he can return to Castle Black and keep us informed of what's happening north of the wall," she replied.
Jon read the letter again, frowning at the words that weren't exactly dark, but a curious blend of opaque grey. "It seems Ser Jorah is with my aunt, Daenerys Targaryen."
Margaery met his gaze, raising a smile. "But that's good, isn't it? When the fighting is done he can bring her home again."
"It appears she has three living dragons," he blurted out.
Whatever she was about to say in response, she stopped herself. "Real ones?"
"Real ones," he confirmed. "Three of them."
He remembered the dream he'd had. The bronze and emerald beast bursting from a girl's loins, at the heart of a raging fire. A dream he had already told Margaery about.
Margaery kept herself in check. "Whatever happens, we must not allow her to come over here burning everyone to death. Not after the war we've already put the realm through. She's not Aegon the bloody Conqueror. And your claim to the throne is greater than hers. Just remember that."
"I know." Jon nodded. "And I agree." Despite that, he knew he could not leave her languishing in exile. Not now that he knew where she was.
The great Stone Drum of Dragonstone lived up to its name. The sound of the storm blowing up outside boomed all around the central keep, making those inside startle and whip round to the entrance doors. But Ser Davos had bolted them firmly shut, so no invading army was getting through, even if they did manage to scale the castle walls.
Only Selyse, sitting at the head of Stannis' old war room conference table, remained utterly unaware of all the commotion. Her blank gaze remained fixed on the painted table, as though she were planning an invasion of her own. Other than her and Ser Davos, Shireen was wrapped in a blanket in the corner. Ser Axell Florent, the Queen's uncle, was facing a sea-view window. And Davos himself made four.
"Where is the Lady Melisandre?" he asked.
Selyse flinched, but Florent answered. "Gone."
It was no less than he had expected, but he was still towering in his anger towards the red woman. Before all this, he would have given his remaining fingers to be rid of her. But this felt just like she had created this mayhem and then fled before any consequences could come her way.
"Well," he began, but then realised he had no idea what he was going to say next.
But Florent turned from the window, grim in countenance. "'Well' what?"
"What do we do next? We can't just sit here waiting for the Lannisters to take the castle."
Already he could see the scarlet sails out across the bay. Just like the Tyrells in days gone by, they had formed a blockade around their tiny island and boxed them in.
"You can see our predicament," Florent snapped at him, as though it were his fault. "What do you suggest we do?"
To Davos, the answer was obvious. "We get out of here. I have a new boat with black sails. The sun is setting and in under an hour I can sneak past them-"
"I keep forgetting you're a smuggler," he cut Davos off disdainfully.
"I've never denied what I am," Davos retorted. "But I'm a smuggler who saved your lives once and could be about to do it again!"
Ser Axell trembled in anger at his effrontery. But Davos was in no mood to pander to the nobility after all he had been through. Now the other man was taking slow, measured paces towards him as though entering a tense barroom brawl.
"You will take that back-"
"Ser Davos is right." To the shock of both men, it was Selyse who spoke. Her expression was still blank and she still fixed on the same spot on the painted table. But she had definitely spoken up for him. After a long and loaded silence, she finally looked back at the men. "But he's wrong about one thing. He will never be able to smuggle us all out." She paused again, motioning toward Shireen who was still huddled in a corner. "But you can save my daughter."
Davos' brow tightened into a frown as he tried to fathom what she was getting at. "My Lady, if-"
"No," she cut him off again. "Take her to the cellars, where you will have easy escape. You have one hour to do so, then I will go up to the battlements in person and yield the castle to Jaime Lannister. Do you understand, Ser Davos?"
He replied with a mechanical nod. Meanwhile, Shireen had moved from her place in the corner and approached him, looking up at him through large blue eyes.
"Ser Davos," she said, "What's happening? Tell mother she must come with us," she added in a whisper.
"Niece! Have you taken leave of your senses?" Florent stormed at her.
Selyse did not flinch. "What other option do we have? Our fleet is sunk, Stannis is dead, the only survivors bent the knee to Joffrey. The only hope we have left is Shireen. The only hope we have of getting her out of here is Ser Davos. Please, uncle, stay and help me. If not, I will not try to prevent your leaving."
She spoke flat and toneless, like someone who had already made up their mind a long time ago. Still, Davos was on the point of tears in gratitude to her. Such a show of mother love so late in the day, but not too late. He would not risk taking Florent in his tiny, black sailed boat. But nevertheless, he nodded appreciation to them both.
"Go," said Selyse. "Go now, both of you."
She turned from her daughter, unable to look at her, although Davos did hesitate to give them some time. Eventually, the deposed Queen rested one hand on her daughter's head and caressed her cheek. Only when Shireen began to cry did Davos take her away. High up the stone drum, he picked her up and held her tight as he descended the stone drum's tower. They had time to collect a few items, but not much. Spare clothes and a book or two for the journey. Then it was down to the cellar, where the little boat bobbed in a mooring hidden by a fissure in the rock face. Just like the fateful onions, so many years ago, the little princess was hidden inside a roughspun sack.
Darkness fell fast, sweeping in over the seas and revealing only a crescent moon. They would have to skirt the coast as close as possible, navigating the dangerous rocks that lay hidden just beneath the waves. Davos knew every route like the back of his hand. Eventually, a hew and a cry went up, he heard the old drawbridge lowering. Shireen did too, turning her tearful face toward the source of the sound.
"Mother's yielded the castle," she said, trying so hard to be brave. "They are taking our home."
Davos couldn't bring himself to answer. He fixed the princess' sacking in place, raised his sail and pushed off as soon as a gap appeared in the Lannister formation as their ships suddenly surged forward to take Dragonstone. Davos watched, a tear stagnant in his old mossy eye.
Thank you for reading; reviews would be lovely. Also, another moment of your time would come in handy.
Since Sansa left King's Landing, I now have no POV characters inside the royal court. I'm torn between Cersei, Tyrion and Jaime. But whose PoV would you like to read? It doesn't have to be those three, btw. I'm open to any suggestion, so long as they are high ranking court insiders. If you don't want to comment on the story, my inbox is always open. Thanks again!