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Chapter Fifty-One: The Child

With the darkness came tension. Margaery could feel it. A slow burning, incrementally rising tension that percolated through the streets and seeped in under the doors and through the cracks in the windows. It thickened the air they breathed. The people were testy and nervous, hurrying about their business much faster than before. If they did linger by the once-thriving markets, they huddled together in damp little groups by the light of the braziers and talked in low voices. Strangers were regarded with even more suspicion than before. She could see for herself when she watched from her windows, as the mothers clutched their children close for fear of losing them to the darkness, which meant the young no longer played their noisy games in the streets. There was no bawdy songs being sung and the stall holders no longer called out their wares. It seemed the darkness had sucked the life right out of their city.

When they did raise their voices, the ignorant and the fearful put forth their explanations for the never-ending night. From the ridiculous to the treasonous, with the darkness as their irrefutable evidence, the ignorant soon began to believe them. Some blamed the Lannisters for leaving a curse on the city (Ignoring the darkness everywhere else), others thought a shadowbinder from Asshai was advising the King and birthing shadows to blot out the sun. More dangerously still, others blamed the king directly. He had brought his demon wolf down from the untamed north, and the wolf had birthed a litter of shadowcats who drank up the light and diffused only darkness. Others, more calculating and better educated, attributed the darkness to the heretic gods of the northmen. The Faith Militant had cherry picked the best bits of all the theories, fused them into one convenient story that appealed to everyone and fit their own agenda. Now their poison-tongued narrative spread through the streets and grew in the re-telling. The king was half-wolf; the king turned into a wolf at night and roamed among the destitute looking for easy prey. The prince wasn't a human baby at all, but a shadow birthed from the loins of the shadow-binder advisor mentioned in another rumour. It was a self-repeating, self-nurturing fantasy feeding into the fears of the ignorant.

As for Margaery herself, they called her a whore whose rotten womb had spat out its demonic core in the form of a misshapen lizard child with scaled wings. She had heard of Targaryen Queens birthing such deformed infants before, Daenerys among them. Not that she was inclined to point that out just now. But, she could see them. She could see how they worked and why they worked. All she had to do was counteract it.

She could pull a Cersei on them and pull out their tongues with hot pincers. But she agreed with Lord Tyrion when he said that removing tongues only confirmed fear of what that person might say. However, she knew she could not let them go unchecked. Not with the mood among the people being as it was. Not with the Faith Militant threatening to kill the dragons and storm the pit and palace alike. For such a cold and dark winter, King's Landing remained tinder dry and any minute now the stray spark my fly to set the whole place off.

In the week since Jon had left for the north, she had arranged for the kitchens to start preparing great vats of soup and designated several ovens dedicated solely to the baking of fresh bread. They had broken into the stores of grain hoarded by Petyr Baelish during his years of market fixing which had pushed the prices sky-high, leading to rioting in the streets during the last reign. Soon the prices were plummeting again, back to the levels at the start of King Robert's reign. Her efforts would be cheaper still; for now it was free and she intended on distributing the bread and soup right under the noses of the Faith Militant.

Extra kitchen hands had been drafted in from surrounding inns and taverns to help with increased workload and paid from the privy purse. It was money they could ill-afford in the aftermath of war but the reward would be the abject humiliation of the Faith Militant. She and Tyrion entered the kitchens again that morning, breathing in the rich aroma of baking break and treading through clouds of scented steam from boiling soup. It was like entering another world.

"Your Grace." The head cook, a man they all called Roger the Bastard, bowed to her as she and Tyrion appeared.

"How goes the preparations?" she asked, gesturing for him to rise. All the others shied from her, too nervous to approach.

"We have twenty eight-gallon vats ready to go," he explained. "I've had girls up baking bread buns all night. It we keep it to one bowl and one bun per-person, then we should have enough to go round for the next three days."

"Three days," she repeated, dejectedly.

Roger the Bastard wrung his cap in his large, red hands. "By the time that's distributed we should have more baked for see them through a day or two. It's a rolling cycle, if you like."

"Your Grace, they were never going to have enough to feed the entire city for the duration of winter ready in a week," Tyrion pointed out.

Margaery had to concede that her expectations had been rather high. "Of course not. And thank you, Roger, the King and I are truly grateful."

"An honour, your grace,."

With that the man returned to his onerous work. No matter how cold it got outside, inside the kitchens it felt as if the gates to all seven hells had been thrown open. The meat for the broth was roasting over numerous open spits and she could see the walls blackened by the open fire ovens. As she made her way out again, she was almost grateful for the bite of cold in the air.

"You realise the truth is we simply won't have enough to feed the whole city indefinitely," Tyrion said, once they were out of earshot of the kitchen workers. "We can keep this up for a month, perhaps. Maybe a month and a half."

"I know," she replied. "But for now, I want to bring the people soup and bread, where the fanatics bring only words and lies. It's something tangible we can do to utterly discredit them. Then it's only a matter of time before whatever brings us this darkness is defeated and driven back north."

"And you're confident the King will succeed?" asked Tyrion, frowning up at her as they walked down the gallery to the throne room.

Margaery allowed a smile to cross her face. "Absolutely. He is of the north himself, he knows these things better than any of us."

"And the High Sparrow?" Tyrion probed. "It's all very well you defeating his minions on the streets with soup and bread, but what about the man himself? He's the one really in control and, so far, we've no sight or sound of him."

"I'm sure one of them can lead us to him," she replied, more confidently than she felt. "I'm genuinely curious about this High Sparrow. What can he bring the people that we cannot? So far, all I hear from him is the ranting and raving of his followers and little of substance. Substance is something the Reach possesses in abundance."

She paused for a moment, turning her gaze toward the door of the throne room. No doubt, it would already be packed to the rafters with the day's petitioners. "Tell me, Lord Tyrion, have you heard from the King? He's been gone for more than a week now and no one tells me anything. Our marriage was political and people seen to disregard the small fact that I genuinely love him."

"If he hasn't reached the North yet, then it's only a matter of days," he assured her. "Try not to worry and concentrate on maintaining peace and calm."

It was easier said than done, but it certainly kept her busy.

The storm lashed seas swept over the gunwale of the Lady Lyanna, an old ship belonging to Robert Baratheon. Being carried north on a vessel named in honour of his mother, Jon thought, might make the journey a little smoother. Sadly, he had been wrong. The sea raged and roiled the moment they left harbour and only grew worse the farther they ventured from the shelter of land. Within a day, the wind was behind them, then in front of them, then blasting from either side and pitching the ship so that it threatened to spill them all into the sea. All the while, he lay on the floor of his bunk clutching the wooden case with the glass candle inside it for dear life. Whatever happened, he could not afford to let it fall into the water, or worse, smash to bits as the ship was thrown from side to side. He only let go so he could haul his kingly self over to where Ser Loras had left his helm and vomit into it.

"Very majestic," the knight remarked, from where he lay flat on his back on the bunk.

"Glad you approve," he replied. "I think I've changed my mind about changing course."

The relief from the other man was palpable. "I'll inform the captain myself".

They were supposed to dock at east watch, by-passing the long journey from Winterfell to the Wall. But they wouldn't be able to beat back the white walkers if they were all drowned at the bottom of the sea. As such, they let the storms sweep them as far as White Harbour, where the Manderlys waited to greet them at port.

When Jon disembarked, he looked back at his mother's ship and noted how her sail had been torn to tatters by the wrathful winds. They would never have made it to East Watch after all.

"Your Grace, a relief to see you I must say." Fat lord Manderly was approaching him from the other end of the jetty, a lit lantern in his hands. "These are storms the likes I haven't seen in many a year."

Manderly was one of his father's most loyal bannermen, a frequent visitor to Winterfell who had know both Jon and Robb since they were boys sparring with wooden swords. As such, he didn't mind showing his sea-sick weakened state to the man.

"I'd had half a mind to pitch myself over-board and be done with it," he confessed. "And my poor mother's ship is fit only for scrap now."

"Worry not, my lord, our fleet is big enough and strong enough to take you the rest of way as soon as these winds die down," the Lord assured him. "Now stop awhile at the castle and let me tell you the news from Winterfell."

Jon would rather ride straight there. He had not seen Winterfell since putting down Greyjoy's occupation of the castle in what felt a different lifetime. Many a night in King's Landing he had yearned to be back there, in the snow and among the hot springs and glass gardens. Now that he had seen the realm, he knew for sure there was no place else quite like it. Nevertheless, his travelling companions and their armed men were exhausted and battered from the long journey.

"My aunt should be there by now," he said, letting Manderly lead the way up the jetty. "The dragons and all."

"Aye, she passed this way about two or three weeks back now," the Lord replied. "Her and those strange foreign soldiers of hers. Some say she hopped on that big dragon and flew the rest of the way to Winterfell."

Unable to say whether that was true or not, Jon merely nodded. "What other news from home?"

Manderly stopped, his lantern swung from his hands as he faced Jon. "Now that's something that'll have to wait until we get indoors, my lord."

Jon's mood darkened as he sensed bad news on the horizon. With a mute nod, he agreed to follow Manderly back to his castle. He would write to Robb as soon as he got there, telling him to wait at Winterfell for his host to join up with theirs. "Lead on, my lord," said Jon. "Whatever's happening, best I know before I get there."

Wrapped in layers of fur and wool, Sam ventured out t the forecourt of Castle Black. Some of the others had returned from their ranging, Ser Jorah among them, but others still lingered out in the wilderness beyond the wall. In this darkness, finding them again would prove impossible.

So, when the horn sounded to herald the arrival of visitors, he hoped it was some of his brothers back from the ranging. They could have arrived at the Night Fort, then made their way home on this side of the wall, easily.

"Thorne, Greyjoy or Lannister?" asked Ser Jorah.

The knight was still using his own clothes, having not yet taken his vows. There was no time for training any more, either. As soon as men who already knew how to fight arrived, they were sent north to range the wilderness and seek out the wights and walkers. If they were lucky, like Ser Jorah, they even managed to live to tell the tale. Sam's heart sank when he realised the visitors were none of their friends, but an unusual gaggle of old men huddled in thick grey cloaks. Exchanging a look with Ser Jorah, they both ordered the gates be opened. Up close, the men looked like flowers that had been kept too long in the dark – pale and shrivelled. Beneath their thick cloaks, they wore black coifs on their head and their backs were stooped, as though they spent their lives living in rooms to low for their height.

"Er, hullo there," Sam greeted them, trying to inject a little enthusiasm into his voice.

The eldest of them, from what Sam could tell, stepped forward and smiled a disconcerting smile. "Wisdom Hallyne at your service, ser."

Jorah scoffed. "Pyromancers." Leaning down to whisper in Sam's ear, he added: "I've heard about what these creatures do-"

"You're very welcome," Sam cut him off, stepping toward the men. "Have you got the wildfire the King sent up?"

The men parted, revealing a long, winding train of wooden crates stretching along the length of the wall as far as the eye could see.

"Hmmm..." Hallyn said. "There were a few, hmmm…. Unfortunate accidents on the way. But most of it is here before you, ser."

A smile made Sam's small blue eyes glitter as he reached for the dirk at his hip. He used the blade to winch up the lid of the nearest crate and carefully lifted one of the small packages inside. It was another wooden box, in which he found sand and crushed pebbles packed around a bulbous glass vial. Undoubtedly, powerful spells had also been used to keep the lethal substance inside as stable as possible. Carefully, so very carefully, Sam lifted out one of the glass vials and held it up to the light of a nearby lantern. The green inside shone a luminous emerald as it caught the fire light. That one jar alone could destroy a small village and everything in it.

"And this all belonged to Aerys?" asked Sam, turning back to Hallyne and his companions. "Excellent. Well, we can't leave it here so I say we start to transport it a safe distance from the wall."

Jorah looked relieved. "If this stuff blows here and now, all it will do is kill what's left of the Night's Watch. It needs to go north immediately; no wasting time."

Sam heartily agreed, but still couldn't decide where. He reached for the nearest guess. "The Haunted Forest will do, just beyond the wall."

Sledges, pack mules, carts and wheel barrows were all employed to get moving the wildfire. Progress slow, taking into account its age and volatility. But he knew if he kept a steady pace, he could get there in the end with the help of the pyromancers.

"What do you intend on doing with it?" Jorah asked, as they got started.

"We're going to rig it up all along the lands of the always winter," replied Sam. "They we're going to drive the White Walkers back north and as soon as they're in range of the wildfire, the we're going to set it off."

It promised to be a sight so spectacular that even he couldn't miss it.

Robb glanced out of the window just as one of Dany's dragons took flight from the Broken Tower. In the poor light he could not tell which one. All he could see was the vast, winged silhouette as it flew across the face of the full mooon and vanished into the darkness beyond. One of them had eaten a local farmer's herd, which Dany had had to pay for from her own purse, which made him question the effectiveness of the restraints she brought from Dragonstone with her. Soon, he knew, complaints from the Lords and smallfolk beyond would come flooding in, if the beasts were left to fly at will.

Still, the dragons had their uses. Their fire had been used to light the hearths in the common hall and bed chambers of his siblings. All of which guttered out whenever they tried lighting them with flints. Dimly, he could recall someone telling him that dragon fire had magical properties and he found himself wondering what it was that snuffed out their own fires that dragon fire was immune to. He tried asking Maester Luwin, to no avail. Like the rest of his order at the citadel of Oldtown, Luwin would rather the creatures had died out and stayed dead forever. Ever since their arrival, he had been immune to the curiosity that gripped everyone else in the castle and lands beyond. Robb himself could not even guess at these special properties alone.

In the meantime, he had pipe leaks to locate. Dany had used Drogon to light a number of torches that were now lining the turnpike stair leading down into the crypts, as far as they could go before hitting the water. From those, they had lit a number of lanterns, easier to carry when descending to the lower floors, deep beneath the castle itself.

"The crypts are bigger and wider than the castle itself," he told her when she came to his solar. "Ever since I was a boy, I'd wondered what's down there."

"Well then, it's time we found out."

Before long, he was doing just that. The water from the upper most levels had been drained, meaning his father and grandfather were now dry again. Lyanna and Brandon now wore tide marks on their granite clothes, but were otherwise unmarked. He paused by their likenesses, checking closely and soon found all to be as it should.

"Is that Jon's mother?" asked Dany, holding up the lantern.

"Yes," he confirmed, moving on.

Dany had become distracted by the late Lord Stark's effigy, next to that of his sister. "Your father. Is it a close likeness?"

Robb hadn't really looked before, but personally no stone would ever resemble his flesh and blood father. "Not especially. I can only see stone."

Soon, he was passing the spot where Jon had hidden in the crypts and accidentally overheard their father talking to Robert Baratheon. It was still damp in that dark corner, but noting serious. Not far away was the place where he had talked Jon into covering himself in flour in an attempt to resemble a ghost to scare the children. The memory made him smile as he walked past the spot.

Although they had left the door to the crypt open, the sounds from human activity without soon receded. The silence, like the darkness, seemed to close in on them as they descended deeper into the ancient vaults. He could make out the sound of running water, coming from much deeper in and shone his lantern round, seeing if he could identify the source. But there was nothing.

They reached a door that looked locked, but the bolt had rusted to nothing more than a blood red streak staining the iron. Robb shouldered it open and Dany was the first to step through. She held up her lantern, trying to shin the light up to the ceiling. All they could see was darkness, but the echoes sounded stone-vaulted to him, rather than the sonorous ringing of steel and iron girders. All they found was another chamber full of older tombs.

"Have you been here before?" she asked. Although speaking in a whisper, her voice somehow managed to fill the room.

"Yes, but a long time ago," he replied.

He couldn't even remember when and even then it was probably for a silly dare issued by Jon or one of the other boys about the castle. Now it made his skin crawl as he cast the light of the lantern around the vault. Eventually, he found a stairwell that led further beneath the surface.

When Daenerys drew level with him, she folded her hand around his own. "Together?"

"Together," he agreed,

There was just enough space in the stairwell for them both to go down side by side. Even with the lanterns, he could barely see where he was putting his feet and soon he was bracing his lantern arm against the wall to feel his way down. Every footstep echoed, even the sound of his skin brushing against the wet stone walls resounded. And it seemed to go on and on, deep below the ground. Eventually, he tried to go down the next step, only to find the ground level and he almost tripped over himself, making his stomach flip in panic.

Daenerys righted herself just in time, then stood holding up her lantern and gazing upwards. "What is this place? Look up there and see."

When he did, he could make out tree roots as thick as a man's body twisting and descending from the roof. And lower they went, through the stone floor and down in the levels below. Water was dripping down them, splashing into unseen puddles below. In the places where the roots had broken through the floor, a thin white mist shimmered through the cracks. It looked like steam, but it was so cold it hurt to breathe.

"It's the roots of the heart tree," he said, approaching it cautiously. "We must be beneath the godswood."

"Stay here," he said to her as he neared the white mist. "I want to know what it is."

"So do I," she pointed out, but remained where she was all the same.

Before descending to the level below, he turned back to her. "I'm going on alone. Can you remember the way out?"

She nodded. "I think so."

That would have to do. Robb came to another door whose lock had rusted away to nothing. Now even the free-running water had washed away the rust stain and it was already ajar. But when he stepped through the awning, he could see that the passage way was blocked by fallen masonry. Then he remembered someone telling him the lower floors were inaccessible. Still he tried, climbing over fallen buttresses and crawling under the timbers that blocked his path. Jutting nails snagged his cloak and he cut his hands on the still sharp edges of the fallen stones. Cursing, he sucked the blood from his finger and carried on, reaching another stairwell that led deeper and deeper down.

He came to an archway that overlook a deep, cavernous pit. At the bottom of the pit was a large pool of water, or what looked like water. Closer inspection revealed that it was the same white mist that penetrated the floor above. Once again, the roots of the heart tree twined down the walls, resting its lower tips in the white, shimmering mist below. Here, it was so cold he could barely feel his hands and feet any more. To keep himself moving, he descended a set of stone steps that led into the pit.

As he descended, he noted ancient runes of the old tongue engraved in the stones. Some were worn and flattening out, others looked like they had been carved last week. None of them meant a thing to him. As he descended, he found himself becoming in the cold white mist. So cold it made his bones ache and every breath felt like a knife to his chest. But he reached the bottom and crossed the room to where the heart tree roots hit the floor and pressed his hand against them, trying to keep himself upright.

"Gods, what is this place?" he asked aloud.

There were cloisters and ante-chambers lining the bowl of the chamber. As he looked at each one, he could make out different things happening in each individual room. Startled, he leapt back against the roots of the tree, only to recover himself seconds later. The white mist made its own light, so he approached the cloisters and took a slow walk through each one, every time seeing something different happening inside. In one, he saw Jon being sick in another man's helm. In another he saw Daenerys emerge from the heart of a roaring fire, three baby dragons clinging to her sooty skin. He saw his father, kneeling on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, Ilyn Payne's sword ready for the kill.

"None of this is real," he told himself. "This is just a dream."

Still, his feet urged him forward with a will of their own and the third room he passed made his heartbeat cease altogether. He saw himself pierced by many crossbow quarrels, slumped in the arms of another man. "The Lannisters send their regards," he said, pushing a knife into his heart. Shaking, Robb had to gather his wits before moving on to the next room. Inside, he could see his father cradling a dead woman covered in gore, a silent baby squirming in a cradle at her bedside. In the next, Arya changed her face as easily as he changed his small clothes and Bran looked at him with three eyes instead of two. In the final room, he saw a blue-eyed ice creature riding a dead horse, with tendrils of flesh hanging from its open belly as a vast wall of ice cracked and crumbled.

"Lord Stark!"

Robb whipped around, startled by the voice that had no body that he could see. His heartbeat raced, making the rush of blood pound in his ears. After everything he had just seen, he had minimal patience for disembodied voices. Thinking it was another false vision from this hall of lies, he backed down and tried to calm himself. But then the voice spoke again, seeming to come from the roots of the tree itself. He had to squint through the white mist to get the tree roots in focus now.

"Lord Stark, please," it said, as though being polite would make him more inclined to patience. "Lord Stark, come to the roots."

He approached with caution, to where a small person curled against the tree roots that gathered along the floor. The breath caught in his throat as he took in the nut brown skin, dappled white. The child of the forest looked up at him through large golden eyes, imploring mute appeal.

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome if you have a minute.

BTW, the theory I'm going with in this story may just be tinfoil. But I love it all the same. Thank you again for reading.