Sorry for the delay on this - but the length should make up for things!
Bronn
By the time that the Maester re-emerged from the room in which he'd been sequestered with 'Lady Barnley' Bronn was beyond fretting and well on the way to worrying. The Maester had been in there for the better part of a day or so, with little word other than that he was still trying to save her life and could someone please send in some new coals for the brazier.
That was a bad thing, the brazier. That meant that the Maester was using fire. Which would explain some of the choked screams that had emerged initially from the room, before the dreadful silence had fallen.
And now Haster had finally emerged. His young face was drawn with strain and tiredness and what was probably extreme hunger. Bronn stood as he saw him and then waved at Ursula Stone, who hurried over whilst Harold, the poor bloody fool who had been driving the carriage and who appeared to be permanently terrified, also scurried over.
"She lives," Haster said wearily. "But her arm was… well, the wound was corrupted, as you know. Very badly corrupted. To save her life I had to take off her arm."
Bronn winced. "Where, exactly?"
Haster sighed. "I tried to save her upper arm – but failed. I had to amputate just below the shoulder, my Lord."
Bron gazed at the Maester with no small amount of respect. That was a tricky thing to do and have the person still live. He'd seen very large men lose an arm and then die not long after from one of the very many things that seemed to ail people with wounds at times. Then again he'd also see a small skinny runt of a Northman once lose a leg at the knee to a giant twat from the Iron Isles and somehow survive.
Harold had gone white with shock. "She lives though?" The question was asked in a quavering voice.
"She lives, aye. But I would be a liar if I said that I could predict if she will see the dawn a week from now or not. The loss of an arm is no easy thing to live through. The infection was deep. Why did you not seek a Maester earlier?"
The Valeman looked shifty. "She forbade us from seeking one. She was in a great hurry to get, erm, home."
There was a short pause as Bronn looked at the man and raised an eyebrow at Haster and then at Ursula Stone, who raised an eyebrow of her own back at him for a heartbeat. Then he sighed. Enough was enough.
"Get home? Come on lad. We all know who she really is." He paused as Harold stiffened and then reached out like lightning and grabbed the Valeman's hand as it reached towards his dagger. "Now don't be a complete idiot. You're a bad enough liar as it is – and I've known a lot of liars in my time. She's not 'Lady Barnley', she's Lysa Arryn. We all know that. The ravens came with her description. See sense, lad."
Harold's face worked for a moment and then he seemed to deflate like a toad being stepped upon. "Yes," he said eventually. "She is Lady Arryn."
"Who is accused of trying to murder her husband. The Lord Paramount of the Vale, the Hand of the King himself, Lord Arryn."
The Valeman hung his head in shame." "We… we didn't know that she had done so. She… she came out of the Red Keep and told us that she had to depart at once."
"Where to?" Bronn asked sharply.
"The Vale. The Eyrie. She was going to demand the return of her son. That was… that was all she could talk about. That the Stark would have to give him back because of Petyr's gift to her. That's what she said. I don't know if it was the fever talking, but that's what she said."
Bronn stared at him for a long moment and then looked at Ursula Stone, who was looking as baffled as he felt. "What gift?"
"Lady Arryn has a chest. A small one. She had it in the coach with her. She never let it out of her sight… until she became feverish. Then we placed it under her seat."
Bronn looked at his steward, who sighed, nodded shortly and then strode off. As she did Bronn looked back at Harold. "You and the others will be our 'guests' until word come from King's Landing. Maester Haster, please send a raven with the appropriate information on it, about Lady Arryn's arrival and her current condition. Then please return to caring for her. I've no doubt that the King will want her to live to be questioned."
The Maester nodded and then scurried off. As he did then Bronn beckoned to a guard, who placed a large gauntleted hand on Harold's shoulder, disarmed him swiftly and then marched him off. Bronn watched them go and then leant against a nearby wall. All of a sudden he was so very tired. Petyr fucking Baelish. That repulsive little weasel, whose legacy seemed to be to poison everyone around him who had even the slightest connection to him.
Yes, he had profited mightily from catching said weasel. And at least the man was dead. Cutting his head off had been, well, something that he had enjoyed doing, if only because he knew that there was no question that he was dead.
Hearing footsteps approaching he looked up. Ursula Stone was approaching with a small chest, about the length of his forearm, in her hands. "This was in the coach, in the place that he mentioned," she said. "It seems to be locked though."
He took it from her with a murmur of thanks, raised an eyebrow at the lock and then pulled out the small pouch that always hung at his belt. Inside were a few small items that he had always found to be… useful. He picked out two of the smaller pieces of metal inside and then started to probe the lock on the small chest, humming as he did so.
After a long moment he realised that he was being stared at. "Something the matter?"
"Are those… lockpicks?"
"Happens that they might be. What if they are?"
"What were you before you became a lord again? My Lord?"
He smiled lazily at her. "I was the man who caught Petyr bloody Baelish for Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King. And before that… well, I was a man of many talents." He felt something give a little in the lock and devoted his full attention to it. After a moment the hasp came free.
Opening the chest revealed a number of letters. But it was the one on top that caught his eye because it was the one with a mockingbird seal pressed onto it. A broken seal come to that. He reached out, picked it up and unfolded it.
My dearest Lysa. By the time you hold this I might no longer be in King's Landing. Do not believe the foul lies and untruths that you might hear about me. I am an innocent man, guilty only of trying to do my best to save the Realm but being misunderstood most grievously in the process.
There is a plot against my life and I have been forced to flee. Do not worry, I will find safety. I have many friends in many places and I shall send word to you.
I suspect many people in this plot against me. The first person is your husband. I have discovered a terrible secret that he is hiding. The King's children are not his. They are abominations born of incest between the Queen and her own brother. You have only to look on them and realise that there is not a drop of Baratheon blood in them – they are all blonde. All Lannister.
Why your husband hides this I do not know. Perhaps he is biding his time. Perhaps it is a part of a wider plot. Perhaps he has been bribed by the Lannisters.
I have been trying to get to the truth in this matter, but all of a sudden I am fleeing for my life. All I have ever done has been for the good of the Realm. You know this to be true.
I will send word when I reach safety, probably in Essos. We will see each other again my sweet.
With love,
Petyr
By the time he finished reading it his hand was shaking more than a bit. As for Ursula Stone, who had been craning over his arm to see it, she was pale and trembling. "This…" she started to say, "This…"
He folded it back up immediately. "This is a letter that some would kill for," he told her in a low and very grim voice. "This is a letter that could start a civil war within the Realm."
He ran his hand over his short beard and tried to jam his thoughts back together in a coherent manner. Much to his surprise he succeeded. "This is the hand of Petyr Baelish. I should know. As I said – I caught the bastard. Problem is, how much is real and how much is lies?"
She stared at him and he smiled a particularly bitter smile. "Petyr Baelish, Steward Stone, was a conniving, double-dealing fucking weasel who gave particularly villainous weasels a bad name in comparison. He was a thief and a liar and that worst of things, a man who thought himself cleverer than anyone else around him. When I caught him I knew that I couldn't trust him, not matter how much he tried to bribe me. For one thing he kept offering my money that I knew he didn't have anymore. For the other, I knew that he'd put me on his own personal list of people that he was going to do anything to see dead, just for outsmarting him. Seeing him dead was a relief."
"You were at his execution?" She sounded surprised at that.
"I was. I was also the man who kept him alive to see first his trial and then his execution." He looked at the letter again. "The trial… that was private. Just Baelish, Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis Baratheon. I wondered at that. No clerks, no guards, nothing. I did wonder at the time. Perhaps… perhaps it was because of this. What Baelish mentioned. If it's true… well, Tywin Lannister would give anything to make this letter go away. Including wade through blood."
His thoughts stopped skittering around and he looked around at the place that he had called home for these past few weeks. Well now. Time to choose. "I am a sworn banner to Lord Arryn. He might no longer be the Hand of the King, but this is a matter for him and his successor. I trust him more than I trust the word of Petyr Baelish. And – I have no wish for there ever to be a song called 'The Rains of Foxhold'."
She opened her mouth for a moment – and then closed it and nodded just the once. Then she closed her eyes for a moment, straightened and then looked at him. For once she didn't look as if she thought that he was something scraped off a boot. "What are your orders, Lord Foxhold?"
"Bring me a piece of canvas, about half a yard by half a yard. And I'll need a needle and a tough thread. This letter must be secured properly and I'll do it myself. I want guards placed on Lady Arryn's chamber. Have the master at arms pick men who are reliable. Her people are to be split up and secured. I want none of them leaving. Maester Haster is to tend to her. We need her alive. And I need five good men as an escort. I will ride for King's Landing with this letter at once. I want you in charge of the Foxhold in my absence. Be watchful. Take care of our people."
She gave him another look that again suggested that she didn't regard him as a deformed maggot. "As my Lord commands." And then she actually curtsied before hurrying off. He watched her go with a bemused look before shaking his head. And then for some reason he wished that he could pray at the nearest Godswood. For some reason he felt as if he could do with every possible help.
Gendry
By the time that the docks of Dragonstone were finally in sight he felt as if he was about to fall over from sheer tiredness. It was a weariness that he had never known before. Not even the worst possible day at Master Mott's forge had he ever felt as tired as he did now, as he sat in a quiet corner of the deck.
He was lucky, in a way. He hadn't been one of those sent up the remaining masts in all weather. Nor had he been one of those involved in 'fothering' the ship to slow the seep of water through the hull from the place where the lost mast had hit the side of it, although he had pulled on a rope to help tie the canvas to the hull as tightly as possible.
No, what he really ached from was the chain pump. The blasted device that sucked up water from the bilges and shot it over the side of the ship. The one thing that was keeping them afloat because of the water that was seeping through the fother, or canvas, or whatever it bloody was, and threatening to sink the ship.
Using the damn thing over a long period took stamina and strength. He had both. So he'd been at the chain pump more than others had. Around and bloody around. Endlessly. He'd tried to count the number of times he'd used the damn thing. He'd always failed, through exhaustion. Around and around. Each time saved the ship a little. And that little was the thing that drove him onwards.
At least the crew appreciated what he had been doing. Gendry Strongarm they called him now. Good King Robert's natural son. He was too tired to think about it much. He still felt strange about the very thought.
He frowned a little. The closer they got to Dragonstone the more he puzzled over it. Hearing the clump of seaboots he looked over to see Captain Hedrick approach. "Ever seen Dragonstone before?" The older man asked.
Gendry shook his head tiredly. "Never been far from King's Landing." He nodded at the fortress as it loomed ever closer. "What are those… things all over it?"
Hedrick barked a short choppy laugh. "Dragons, lad. The old Targaryens were a bit dragon-mad. Them and the Valyrians who held the island before them. Dragons on the brain. So they covered the place in dragon statues. The place is riddled with the bloody things."
His skin crawled more than a bit. "Dragons?" He looked back at the fortress and the island behind it. It was rather eerie. The island itself gave him the creeping horrors. It was dominated by a giant mountain, except that this one was, well, steaming. A thin plume of smoke came from the tallest peak. Frankly it was one of the bleakest places that he'd ever seen – grey and desolate, with just the odd splash of green here and there from trees.
As they finally made it into the harbour and moored at one of the docks he could see a number of people gathering and staring at the ship – at the jury-rigged mast and the canvas that had been used to fother the side of it. After a while a slightly stooped old man in black, with white hair and muttonchop whiskers, as well as a chain of some kind around his neck arrived.
"What happened Hedrick?" The old man called out. "You're normally so careful!"
"Ach, we caught the arse end of a storm. There was a flaw in the mast that we hadn't spotted and of course the wind finally had its way with it. Damaged the hull as it came down and we damn near broached. Fortunately this lad over here helped cut the sail loose in time."
The old man nodded as he looked over at Gendry – and then seemed to stagger, the blood draining from his face. "By all the Gods – Robert? Wait, no, it can't be," he muttered – and then as a gangplank was put into place he shuffled up it as fast as he could. Having reached the deck he stared at Gendry fixedly. "Good gods. What's your name lad?"
"Gendry, my lord. Gendry Storm."
The old man smiled slightly. "I'm a Maester, lad, not a lord. Maester Cresson is my name. And you… you are the very likeness of… Your name is Storm. Who is your father?"
He stared at the old man and then at the davit, the deck, the plank, a rope, a rat and then back at the desk again. "My Lord – I mean Maester Cresson – they say… I mean he said that… well, my father is his Grace, the King." He said those last few words in a low mutter.
The Maester stared at him for a long time and then nodded just the once. "Aye, and I believe it. You are the spitting image of your father when he was but a lad himself. Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary." Then he seemed to shiver for a moment as he looked about the ship, before beckoning the captain over. "Your pardon. Where are you bound for?"
"Storm's End, Maester Cresson. A cargo for there – plus the lad here. On the orders of King Robert himself." Hedrick said the words quietly.
Cresson stared at him and then back at Gendry. "I see. Well, you'll need a new mast stepped in. And will the ship need to be careened?"
"Aye, she will. I'll not go anywhere until I've seen the damage repaired. It'll take a week at least. Can the lad be sent on?"
Cresson shook his head. "I doubt it. Too many ships are going North these days. And I myself have sent off three ships to Eastwatch by the Sea with… well supplies of a kind. 'Tis been a bewildering time of late. I shall check though."
Gendry felt his eyelids fluttering and he shook his head for a moment. Gods, he was more tired than he thought.
The Maester sighed for a moment. "In the meantime – are you well lad?"
He realised that his eyes had fluttered again and that he was almost asleep on his feet. "Your pardon my – I mean Maester."
"The lad's tired. He stood more than his fair share of shifts on the chain pump getting us here. He's done his duty Cresson. Done his father proud, if I might say so."
Gendry inspected his feet again, swayed slightly again and then suddenly found himself blinking furiously.
"Onshore lad. Get to the barracks. Get bath, a meal and a bed. We have all the help we need for the ship."
He nodded, feeling increasingly exhausted – but then Cresson held a hand up. "I think that I have better quarters for you."
The Maester did indeed have better quarters. Dragonstone had tunnels snaking everywhere and he led Gendry to the finest quarters that he'd ever seen. For one thing the bed had a pillow that wasn't stuffed with straw. There was also a room to one side with the oddest bath he'd ever seen. Warm water bubbled up from somewhere in it and then ran off to one side. A servant with a poorly hidden sneer of contempt had to tell him to just get in and start scrubbing. Whilst he did the servant took his clothes and left with them at arm's length and a face that meant that they probably stank.
Once he got out and found a robe, he also discovered that there was indeed a meal on a table to one side. It didn't last very long. And after that there was bed. It was ridiculously soft but he didn't notice much as he fell asleep almost at once.
When he woke up he had a moment of bleary confusion as he didn't recognise his surroundings, but he soon worked out where he was. His clothes weren't back yet, but someone had left some replacements. He fingered the cloth worriedly. It was too high quality – someone had made a mistake somewhere. He put the garments on anyway – he had nothing else to wear, as he had left his bag on the ship. Then he paused. His Warhammer was propped up in one corner. He walked over to it and traced a finger over the head. He'd never really thought about it much, but who had his father ever used it against? Had it been used to kill people with? Was there blood on it? And did he care?
He sighed and then jumped slightly as someone knocked on the door. When he opened the door to the corridor there was servant waiting there, who looked rather baffled as to why he had opened the door. "Maester Cresson desires to see you," the blond man said stiffly and then gestured to follow him.
He found the Maester in a room with more books in it than he had ever seen before in his entire life. They seemed to be everywhere and he stared at them all in wonder, before a cough from the old man brought him back to the desk.
"Captain Hedrick sent your Warhammer and clothing on. I'm having it cleaned – you had a rough passage. Everything smelt of sweat and seawater."
He shifted uneasily on his feet. "There was always too much to do."
The Maester lent back in his chair and looked at him levelly. "Captain Hedrick thinks highly of you. What will you do when you reach Storm's End?"
He shrugged. "Don't rightly know. I'm to be trained, I know that much. Trained to use a Warhammer. Though the only hammer I know how to use properly is one for a blacksmith."
"You were an apprentice blacksmith in King's Landing?"
"I was. With Master Mott, in the Street of Steel."
Cressen looked at him consideringly and was just opening his mouth to say something when someone knocked on the door before entering. She was a girl, short and with long braided black hair. Her ears stuck out more than a little, but that wasn't what caught his eye the most. No, what made his eyes widen was the grey skin on the left hand side of her face and parts of her neck. Greyscale. He'd heard about this from some people. She looked at him curiously through a pair of sad eyes that grew a little sadder when she saw that he was staring at her. Then she turned back to the Maester.
"Any word Maester Cresson?"
The Maester shook his head sadly. "None. I am sorry child. The boat patrols came back again this morning. There is no sign of him anywhere. He must be… dead."
The girl sighed and wiped a tear from her eye. "I know," she said wretchedly. "I just… hoped differently. Poor Patches."
Cresson leant forwards and patted her hand awkwardly. Then he looked at Gendry. "Forgive my manners. Shireen, this is Gendry Storm. Gendry, this is the Lady Shireen Baratheon, daughter of Lord Stannis Baratheon and his wife Selyse Baratheon."
Shireen peered at him almost shyly, before nodding her head at him – and then she paused and looked at him closely, intently. "Do I know you? You look familiar. Actually – you look like Uncle Robert!"
Gendry cringed a little – but for some reason the old man looked proud of the girl. "Very observant of you my dear! Young Gendry is in fact the, erm, natural son of his Grace the King."
She looked at him again, this time with a smile that transformed her grave features. "You're my cousin?"
He gaped at her. Cousin? "I… I… well, I suppose so… but…"
She peered at him again and then her lips quirked into a smile. "Yes, I'm your cousin."
"Shireen-" Maester Cresson started to say, but he was forestalled by Shireen.
"Yes, I know, he's a natural son of Uncle Robert, I know that there's a word for it and I know that Mother would be very… snobbish about me meeting him. But she's not here right now. She's with Father in King's Landing. So therefore – I respectfully don't care what she might think about me meeting Gendry."
There was a short silence whilst Cresson and Gendry both stared at her and then the Maester chuckled. "My dear, you are far older than your years at times."
"Thank you." She looked at Gendry again. "Is this your first visit to Dragonstone?"
"Aye, my Lady, it is."
She looked at him owlishly. "I suppose I'll have to teach you to call me 'cousin'. Now – I shall give you a tour. I have decided it, and in the absence of Father and Mother I am in charge. Is that not so, Maester Cresson?"
The old man threw his hands up and then clasped them together. "Oh, entirely so."
And so Gendry found himself getting a detailed tour of Dragonstone, with Shireen pointing out all the various odd nooks and crannies as a few servants trailed behind them discreetly. And saw umpteen statues of dragons. As he looked around a feasting room that had been built in the shape of a bloody dragon he finally voiced what he had been thinking for some time: "They were mad for dragons, weren't they?"
She perched herself on a bench and smiled slightly at him. "They were. They were Valyrians, after all. And they weren't very nice people. They were very cruel. They enslaved people, killed people. And then came the Doom. But the Targaryens came here before the Doom." She looked at him gravely. "We're both part Targaryen, did you know that?"
No, he had not, and he felt a little faint at the thought. And then she continued the tour, moving on from room to room. Only once did she show any reluctance to go anywhere, when they approached a room with large arched windows.
"That's… that's the room where Patches jumped," Shireen whispered. "On the night he…. he died."
He thought desperately about something to say. "Odd name that, Patches."
"Patchface," she said sadly. "His name was Patchface. I called him Patches though. He was my friend. My only real friend, odd though he was. He almost drowned on the day that my grandfather and grandmother died in a shipwreck. He was a jester. He made me laugh. And then almost a week ago he went mad. And he threw himself from one of those windows."
He had known that she was a desperately lonely little girl almost from the start, but that about broke his heart. "I'm sorry," he said eventually. "You miss him."
"I do," she said simply. "But his last words were an odd message to me. Said that I should seek out the Godswood here."
Confused, he stared at her. "There's a Godswood here?"
"No. There's no record of one, not here on Dragonstone. The oldest records don't mention that there was one here when the Valryians came here. So why did he say that I should seek out something that isn't here?"
One thing that occurred to him was to point out that she had said that the man had gone mad, but that wouldn't have been polite to point out, so instead he led her away from the room, pointing out a few little carved dragons that were in dark corners.
"I keep trying to count the number of dragons here and I keep having to amend my total," she said wryly, before finishing the tour in the most amazing room he had ever seen – a room with open windows to one side and a table carved into the shape of Westeros itself.
"Aegon the Conqueror had this made," she pointed out in a matter of fact voice. "So that he could plan the Conquest."
He gaped at it. And then, after a guard cleared his throat meaningfully, he ended up back in the Maester's room. The Maester greeted them both and he thanked Shireen for the tour. She smiled at him and then left, leaving him alone with the Maester.
"A sweet girl," Gendry said. "Lady, I mean."
"She is a treasure," the Maester said with a smile. "News from Captain Hedrick. Repairs proceed apace and he thanks you for your analysis of the bad iron in the upperworks. It's being replaced. Hopefully, if things go as planned you can resume your journey to Storm's End in a few days."
"Can I help at all? I mean, with the ironwork?"
The Maester laughed a little. "Nay, it's all in hand. Dragonstone has been a naval base many times before. There are ample supplies – and blacksmiths aplenty. I have arranged for you to take a meal in your quarters again. You look tired my boy."
That was true enough and he ate the meal with gusto before falling, exhausted, into bed again that night and then sleeping very heavily. His dreams were odd though, and disturbed him a bit. When he woke up again in the morning he had a vague memory of a dream of snow, trees and a woman.
He broke his fast in his room, uneasy at the thought that people were waiting upon him, before going for a walk. Somehow he found his way back down to the docks, but noticed that the ship he had come on had been moved to the different part of the docks, far further way, where it was getting a new mast installed. He watched from a distance, feeling vaguely frustrated at not being able to help, but then had to admit that there was nothing he could do. So instead he walked off in the opposite direction.
Eventually he ended up on a beach to one side of the harbour. Knowing that there was a corpse somewhere out there made him watch the high tide mark with more than a little concern, but he saw nothing apart from seaweed and the odd dead fish. He wandered on, noticing that the tide was going out and then eventually stopped by a cliff face and peered back at what he could see of the island.
The mountain – sorry, fire-mountain, or volcano as Shireen had called it, was still smoking and he wondered about that. The fortress itself though was still ugly, he had to admit that. A massive, brooding, dragon statue-studded thing. He sighed. What would Storm's End be like.
The wind kicked up for a moment and he shivered a little. And then he saw it, a leaf in the far distance. It rose and fell in the wind, blowing this way and that and he watched it with amusement. He felt a bit like that leaf. The wind was blowing him – and where would it take him?
The wind died down and the leaf fell to earth by his feet. He bent down to look at it – and then he picked it up and frowned at it. It was red. Strange. Leaves were green normally – weren't they? Except during autumn of course – but this was still summer. He twirled it by the stalk for a moment – and then he froze. Someone had once told him that the only trees with red leaves were Weirwood trees. Which were in the North. Or in Godswoods.
Still holding the leaf he started to walk back to the fortress, only to stop as a group of figures appeared in front of him. It was Shireen, along with two guards. "Hello," she called out, "I tried to find you to talk to you, but you weren't in your room. Then someone said that they'd seen you out here. What are you looking for?"
He walked up to her and then held the leaf out. "Here – that just blew onto my feet."
She looked at it curiously – and then she gasped. "It's from a Weirwood tree! Where did you find it?"
He pointed to the spot and they both hurried over to it, before looking around. "The wind was from that direction," he told her, pointing. "The leaf came from there."
"Then we need to look there," she said decisively. "That cliff looks sheer, but… let's look."
The cliff did indeed look sheer and as they looked he started to doubt their discovery. The island was rocky and barren. What if the leaf had come from a dying tree? And then he saw it. The faintest of carvings on the cliff face, worn by rain and time. It looked like a carving of a tree with a face. He stepped back and looked at the cliff. There was a notch there, a place where there might once have been an opening, far above the high tide mark. It was clogged with rocks and he started to pull them out.
After a moment Shireen joined him. "What is it?"
"There might be something here. Stand back – this might be dangerous."
She stood back and he started to pull out more rocks and other debris – tree branches and other things. And then a rock fell away and he saw something that made him stop. "There's a wall here."
"A wall?"
He pulled more rocks away and then peered again. "A wall. We need something to break it down. And fetch Maester Cresson."
Shireen barked orders and the guards stared at her – before running off. The one asked to bring a pickaxe arrived first and Gendry plucked it from his hands and then swung it straight at the top of the wall. Metal sparked a little on stone and the pickaxe jarred a little in his hands, but he clenched his hands harder and then swung again. The stones crumbled under his onslaught and he hammered at it, again and again and again. As it started to collapse he gestured for Shireen to stay back.
By the time that a puffing Maester Cresson arrived he'd cleared the wall – and also the earth and debris that had collected behind it. The Maester stared in astonishment at the cleft, muttered about what the carving might mean and then told Gendry to keep going.
He did. More blows cleared the last of it – and then he stared up at the narrow cleft that the wall had been hiding. "It's a path," he muttered. "Going up. But up to where?"
"Let's find out!" Shireen burst out. But Gendry placed a hand on her shoulder.
"I'll go first," he told her. "It might be dangerous."
He was right to go on ahead of the others. The path was narrow and in places it was almost blocked by rocks and stones that had come down from the cliffs to either side. Twice he had to stop and then send the others back to the start of the narrow winding path as he cleared out rocks and made the footing underfoot less treacherous, resulting in debris skittering downhill.
How long had it been since anyone had been on this path? He looked at the debris as he made his way up. It all looked like stones from rockslides from the cliffs on either side and he wondered how this path had even come to exist. Who could have come here? The First Men?
Hearing excited chatter behind him he smiled. Shireen's reaction to their discovery had been one of sheer excitement. He was growing fond of the girl. She was clever and desperately lonely, especially after the death of the dead fool. And how had a madman known of this path, which had been blocked off for what must have been hundreds of years at least?
He tested one section, pushed a boulder carefully to one side as it almost blocked a bend in the path and then pushed around the bend itself. And then he stopped dead in his tracks.
"What is it Gendry?" Shireen piped up from behind him and he stumbled forwards a few feet. As the others saw what had stopped him his tracks they paused too. In front of them the cleft widened into a small natural bowl shape, with cliffs towering to the North and East. And in that bowl were trees. There were ten of them, full sized, and some saplings, as well as some dead trunks. They were stunted in places, probably because the soil was so thin and rocky. But they all had red leaves and white bark. And the biggest of them all… it had a face carved onto it. A solemn face that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he looked at it.
"It's a Godswood," Maester Cresson breathed as he walked up to Gendry. "By the Gods… I don't believe it. Why did no-one ever see it before?"
"The path was blocked, Maester," he pointed out. Then he paused. "Oh wait – they had dragons didn't they?"
"Aye… perhaps the cliffs hid it. Odd."
He walked closer to the trees, with an awestruck Shireen next to him and Cresson a few steps after them both.
"Patches said that I had to seek this out. But why?" Shireen asked and he could only shake his head in bafflement.
"This place… it's old," he stammered eventually. "So very old." And he knew that it was true even as he said it.
A silence fell as they looked around the place – before they all turned back to the tree. Even the guards were in awe of the place. And then Gendry saw something out of the corner of one eye. The cliff came close to one tree but there was an overhand – and beneath it a pile of stones. A rather regular pile of stones. "What's that?"
Maester Cresson followed his pointing finger and then walked over to it. "It's a cairn," he said quietly. "I think it's a grave." He approached it with Gendry and then paused. "Oh."
"What is it?"
The Maester reached down with a hand that shook slightly and picked something up that had been laid on the cairn. It looked like a pair of ancient and very worn antlers, attached to a rotted piece of what might once have been leather. "This… this is… perhaps the grave of a Green Man. But that's… I don't understand."
"Maester Cresson," Shireen piped up, "Gendry's right. This place is very old. Who could have carved that tree? And if that's the grave of a Green Man, then who buried him?" She walked up to the tree with a face carved onto it. "And this… this is a Heart Tree is it not?"
"Yes. Yes, it is," Cresson said thickly. "I must consult the Histories again and-"
They never heard what he was about to say next, because at that moment Shireen reached out and laid a hand on the trunk of the Heart Tree. For a moment Gendry felt as if the ground had shook, but the leaves on the trees stayed motionless. And then Shireen's eye blazed with red fire – like the heart of a forge. Gendry stared in shock and the others cried out – but all of a sudden everyone seemed to be frozen to the spot.
After a long moment Shireen looked at them, red fire still burning in her eyes. And then she spoke. "A child born from storm and garden! It is as it was foretold. The blood of the First Men still burns here, like the heart of the mountain. Send the harvest on. The dragonglass is needed on the Wall."
Gendry gaped and then voiced what they were all thinking: "Who… who are you?"
The red fire focussed on him. "Another child of the storm! Well met! You have many miles ahead of you, child of the storm. Your father will need you."
"Who are you?" Cresson barked, and the red eyes narrowed as they gazed at him.
"You stand in a Godswood. The Gods are here."
"You… you are the Old Gods?" Maester Cresson asked in what looked like deep shock.
"We are. We speak through this child as a conduit. You have found this place again. We wax. Send the dragonglass North. The Stark in Winterfell needs it. And the Maesters of Oldtown – they must not meddle any further. The Call has been sent. Magic has returned. The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed."
Cresson went white. And Gendry looked back into those terrible, implacable eyes. "What must I do?"
"Help your father. The Storm King returns, within him." The gaze returned to Maester Cresson. "You heard the Seer. He was touched by things that some would not have survived. And he gave his life – for this life. The bargain was struck. We will honour it."
Red fire seemed to envelop Shireen for a moment and as Gendry watched the greyscale on her face rippled and boiled – before peeling off and then bursting into flames. Her very skin and muscles seemed to glow for a long moment – then the fire faded. "A life for a life," she whispered – and then the flames in her eyes were snuffed out and she swayed and then collapsed.