Sorry for the delay on this. But here's a long update to make up for the wait!
Alek
They furled the sails once they caught sight of the island up ahead. It wouldn't do to arrive in daylight. Not on their mission. No, dark deeds like this needed a dark light. There would be the barest of new moons tonight.
He tried to ignore the mutterings around him in the big longship. Not everyone liked this little trip that they had been ordered to take and young Drenn had had to be… spoken to by Gelmarr. He'd waved his knife under the boy's nose and told him to shut the fuck up, or that he'd slit his fucking throat and leave him for the seagulls to peck out his eyes.
That said… Drenn had a point. Damphair had given him their orders and there was something about that man these days that set his teeth a little on edge. It was the eyes. There was something mad about his eyes. He paused for a heartbeat. He'd just used the word 'mad' about Damphair. That was bad.
As the sun started to kiss the horizon he squinted along a bearing towards the island, noted which way the wind was blowing and then kicked the men into life. "Row, you maggots! We've got reaving to do!"
They rowed. They rowed the way that Ironborn did, properly and with the occasional curse about any idiot who was a bit behind the stroke. As they rowed darkness fell.
They reached the shore roughly when he had planned to. It was all a bit rough and ready in terms of timing, not that he cared that much as they dragged the boat up onto the shore. Their orders were simple. Get to Harlaw, raid the harbour, burn a few ships and then leave. Their job was to provoke Lord Harlaw into doing something stupid, he knew that.
He knew something else. He was nervous. This was a bad idea. The Reader was not a fool. Many scorned his books – what kind of Ironborn needed books? – but the man wasn't a fool. Damphair though…
Perhaps two or three ships instead of just one?
But he had his orders. He led the men along the beach and up the path that led to the nearby harbour. They marched in silence and with every step a vague foreboding grew a little inside him.
As they reached a slight dip before the harbour he sighed and then stopped the men with a muttered command. "Torches," he hissed. "Light the torches. Now – fast and hard. Kill when you have to, burn whatever you can. If you see a possible saltwife grab her if you can. But remember this – we are doing this fast and if I have to leave a bloody fool behind because he forgot that, then I will."
The men nodded grimly in the darkness and then they started lighting the torches. As they readied themselves he drew his sword, sucked in a gulp of air, opened his mouth to shout the command to attack – and at that moment an arrow thwacked into the eye of the man with the torch standing next to him.
There was a moment of absolute shocked silence and then as the man started to collapse bonelessly to the ground more arrows emerged out of the night, straight for his men and especially those who were holding torches.
Fuck it, he cursed to himself as he looked around, the torches had killed his night vision. Where were they? Then he caught sight of more arrows headed his way and he ducked, which meant that an arrow meant for his head instead went over him and into Gelmarr's throat. Blood sprayed everywhere like a small bow wave breaking.
"Charge," he found himself shouting. "At them!"
But it was the others who charged first. Another volley of arrows and then the ground shook as men emerged out of the darkness. They were fully armoured, with swords, spears and shields and as they came they shouted just one word again and again. "Harlaw! Harlaw!"
They were ready for us, he thought dazedly – and then an arrow came out of nowhere and punched through his leather jerkin and into his right shoulder. Agony hit him and he let out a choked scream as the sword fell from his hand.
The attackers were in amongst his men now and they were carving them up. They fought as a unit, whilst his shocked men fought on their own. How had they been ready?
Then his mind caught up with his eyes. They were losing. His men were dying before his eyes. He reached down, picked up his sword, suppressed a moan at the flair of agony from his shoulder and then bellowed: "Back! Back to the ship! Disengage and back to the ship!"
He heard the odd cry of acknowledgement, but as he watched the men started to be overrun by the attackers. There was an exultant tone to the cries of "Harlaw! Harlaw!" now, and even the odd cry of "The Reader!"
A spear point jabbed at him and he barely had the strength to fend it off with his sword – and then he ran, stumbling here and there. Others followed him, but few of them, all too few. The pain from his shoulder was bad, but he didn't want to die and he somehow kept one foot placed clumsily before the other.
An arrow came out of the dark sky and hit the back of the man in front of him, who let out a choked scream and then went down. He tried to swerve, but his legs were shaking badly and instead he fell over the body. The shock caused agony to flare up in his shoulder – and then darkness took him.
When he opened his eyes again he blinked muzzily at the sky. Where was he? And then the pain hit. Fuck, he was on Harlaw. And he was on his back? Had someone turned him?
Boots crunched on gravel and a men with a torch approached. He was dressed in armour, but he knew his face. The Reader himself.
"Alek," he said grimly, before bending over him. "Ach. You fool. To use Ironborn tactics on Ironborn… I had men with Myrish glasses on the high ground near the best points on the island before sunset every day for the past two weeks. Waiting for something like this. We saw your ship at last light. More than enough time to get ready."
There was a word for this, wasn't there? Oh yes. Irony. He smiled weakly and then coughed wetly. "Ordered to."
"By who?"
He coughed wetly again, used his good hand to wipe at his mouth – and saw the blood smeared there. Fuck it. Who cared now? "Damphair."
"Why?"
"Punish… you. Provoke you. Get you… to do… something stupid."
The reader nodded shortly. Then he looked at him again. "I have had enough," he said in a voice like nothing Alek had ever heard before, "Of Greyjoy stupidity. Asha?"
"Nuncle?" The word was said by a woman in full armour who approached carrying a torch.
"Send the raven to Old Wyk. Tell the Stonebrows that the time is now."
"Yes, my Lord," The woman said after a moment and then she strode off.
Alek coughed again, blood on his hand again. "Harlaw? End… me. Mercy… stroke?"
The older man stared down at him. "You were a good man once," Harlaw muttered. "I owe you this much." He pulled out a knife and the last thing that Alek ever saw was it coming down on his throat.
Jaime
The run in to White Harbour was... interesting. It certainly wasn't boring. The number of ships in the Harbour, or the estuary leading to the harbour seemed to surprise the captain of the ship they were travelling on.
"Busier than normal," he muttered as Jaime joined him at the rail. "Two or three times the vessels that would normally be here. Something's up."
He looked at the boats and then raised his eyebrows. "I'll take your word for it, good Captain. I wonder why it's so busy then?"
The other man shrugged. "I don't know Ser Jaime. Wait – I recognise that ship." He pointed at a departing vessel that to Jaime's eyes looked exactly like all others apart from a slightly different shade of sail and then grabbed for his speaking trumpet. "Ahoy there! Is that the Pentosi Rock?"
There seemed to be a flurry of shouts on the approaching ship, as it folded a sail – wait, furled a sail, all this sailing parlance bored him – and slowed a little, and then a man was standing on its bows with a speaking trumpet of his own. "Aye – is that you Corlen? How are you not dead yet?"
"Skill," the Captain drawled. "At least you've got your scow pointed the right way, bow-first!"
"I've told you before, I was drunk that time," came the response. "What's amiss?"
"What's amiss? Why's the harbour so crowded?" They were walking down the length of their ships as they shouted, with Jaime a fascinated spectator.
"Northmen going home. We helped ship the Company of the Rose across the Narrow Sea. There were a lot of the bastards, with a lot of equipment. Coin too. Paid me well. Oh and there's others coming in from all over Westeros. You heard of this Call?"
The Captain hesitated just a moment. "Aye," he finally shouted back. "Fair made my skin crawl. I heard it."
"Rather you than me. Strange times, my friend, strange times. I'm off back to Pentos. Odd things happening there too." And with that he waved, bellowed an order to hoist more sail and passed from earshot.
Jaime and the Captain watched the ship go, both frowning. This was all most odd. Perhaps he should have listened more to what was being said. And then there was a shout of "Look out below!" that heralded the arrival of the Fat King as he climbed down a rope and landed on the deck remarkably lightly. He eyed the King for a moment. The man was dressed almost like a sailor because he now loved to climb rigging (to the point where Cersei had been eying the rigging with a certain glint in her eye) and it was starting to show. He was not fat, not any more. Heavyset perhaps, but not fat. A lot of muscle had come back in a remarkably short space of time.
"So, the Company of the Rose has returned. Varys said that they were on the way." Baratheon peered at the city ahead. "The North. The North… a hard place, but a beautiful one. Breeds good men and women. The biggest of the Seven Kingdoms, by size! Aye, and now the most mysterious…" His voice trailed off, his eyes on the distant horizon, or on something that Jaime couldn't quite see. "Oh aye, there's a war coming. I smell it in the air. Best get ready."
By the time that the ship had broken out the royal standard and then started to approach the main wharf there was a crowd assembled on it. A pinnace had gone on ahead of the flotilla and word had obviously spread that the King had arrived. In pride of place was a carpet, with a rather fat man wearing a greenish surcoat with a merman on it standing at the end. The problem was that it wasn't the right fat man.
Baratheon, now dressed properly, strode down the gangplank and as he set foot on land the crowd knelt almost as one. He strode up the carpet, with Jaime and Selmy not too far behind and then stopped.
"Your Grace," the kneeling man ahead of him said, "White Harbour is yours."
Baratheon gestured for the kneeling fat man to stand up. "Ser Wylis Manderly is it not?"
"Aye Your Grace," Manderly said as he stood with an effort, the others standing as well after a few heartbeats.
"Is your father ill or something?"
Ser Wylis looked the King in the eye. "He is gone to Castle Black, Your Grace. Lord Stark has called the Lords of the North there."
Well, this was unexpected. Selmy's eyebrows flickered slightly. Jaime stole a look at Baratheon's face, which had a look of deep concentration. "Has Ned Stark called his banners then?"
"Not yet Your Grace. He has called my Father and the others to Castle Black for a council of war though. And to spy out the lie of the land methinks, North of the Wall."
Now this was pure idiocy. However, Baratheon rocked backwards on his heels for an instant and then exchanged an odd look with Selmy. "The Call was loud here then?"
Ser Wylis bowed his head and nodded. "Like a thunderclap Your Grace," said hoarsely. "It was heard by us all. My father was very shaken. We all were." He straightened up. "Something dark is coming, Your Grace." He said the last words intently.
Baratheon looked at him and then nodded. "Aye," he said after a long moment, as he laid a large hand on the fat man's shoulder. "When is your father due in Castle Black?"
"In the next day or so Your Grace, if things went as was planned."
This made Baratheon pull a face. "Not much point in me heading up there then. By the time I get there Ned's council of war will be over. Very well – Ser Wylis we will need your hospitality for a few days as we prepare for the trip to Winterfell. I will meet Lord Stark there."
Ser Wylis nodded. "Of course Your Grace. We have quarters prepared for you and your family." He nodded respectfully as something behind them all and Jaime turned slightly to see a slightly sour-faced Cersei march down the gangplank, with her children behind her. "Oh – and we have messages for you at the New Castle. Ravens brought them from Kings Landing and other places."
Baratheon nodded and then turned to his steward, a hard-faced Stormlander called Flinders. "Unload what we brought on the ships. We stay here for a few days and then move to Winterfell. We'll be moving quickly. Do what you must, as I discussed with you on the ship."
"Aye, Your Grace," Flinders muttered and then vanished off.
Baratheon wanted a fast trip to Winterfell? With the wheelhouse that Cersei liked to travel in? He must have knocked his head on something, Jaime thought with a hidden grin.
"So, Ser Wylis, let us ride for the New Castle," Baratheon rumbled as he strode through the parting crowd. "And you can tell me all about what's been happening. Oh – and what of the Company of the Rose? I heard that they had returned?"
"They have, Your Grace," said Manderly as he followed. "Their leaders have left for Winterfell. A Stark leads them."
Baratheon paused for a moment and then strode on with a laugh. "A Stark?"
"A distant cousin to Lord Stark."
"Ned will find that passing strange – but then he's always wanted a large family!"
They strode on, but all of a sudden Jaime felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He carefully looked at the crowd around them, looking for any eyes that lingered. He had the oddest feeling of being watched all of a sudden. And then after a long moment it went away. He shrugged internally and then carried on walking to the waiting horses. Imagination.
Robert
He looked at the pile of messages with some trepidation. He was tempted to send for a large ale and then put it off, but no. He was King and he threw himself into them. They had all be marked for his eyes only and if anyone had read them then he'd have their guts for garters.
He had to admit something. Stannis might be a pain in the arse at times, but he was a good Hand. His reports were succinct, informative and bloody good. The first messages were about the fighting near the God's Eye. Something had happened there to damp everything down and he wondered what. Someone had stamped on the Faith Militant there, good and bloody hard. Excellent. He wished he could have been there.
He reached for the next message, opened it – and then his breath caught. Jon. Jon had woken up. He found a massive grin stealing over his face, before he stood up from the desk and then all but dancing in glee around it. Then he caught himself. Damn it, he had to act like a king.
He turned back to the message. Jon was awake… and he was recovering. Pycelle thought that he would make a full recovery as long as he did not exert himself, and he snorted at that. Oh, he'd make sure that Jon didn't exert himself, even if he had to lock him in a fully-equipped room with ever luxury known to man.
The next messages were routine and then he reached one that made him stop dead again. Stannis had gone to Dragonstone because… a Godswood had been found there? On Dragonstone? That rocky dragon-carved island? That made no sense at all.
Then he paused, his mind whirling. No, wait. Things had been mad enough of late. Stannis would not have gone without a bloody good reason, and besides he was due to follow them to the North eventually.
More messages and then something written in Stannis's own hand. "From Lord Stannis Baratheon, Hand of the King, to His Grace the King Robert Baratheon. Travelled to Dragonstone to investigate report that Godswood found by Shireen Baratheon and Gendry Storm. Story true. Lost Godswood found and Heart Tree. Shireen cured of greyscale scars. Old Gods have made their presence felt. Travelling at once for White Harbour with my family."
He sank back into the chair in utter shock. This was… this was astonishing. A sweet child, Shireen. Not pretty, but she had a good heart and an even better mind. But there was always that sadness that lay like a blanket around her. The greyscale. Not something that had ever been her fault, but it was something that made people stare – and then look away. And she knew it as well.
And now she was free of the greyscale. How? How? The Old Gods. They existed. He had known that before, but now he knew that for certain. He looked down at the message again. Astonishing. Well, Ned would probably give one of his looks when he heard of this. That look that said 'I told you so, but did you listen? Of course you bloody didn't.'
Someone was shouting something outside in the corridor that led to the room and he looked up. Oh. The Scold was here. The bloody Nag. And sure enough she burst in, followed by a slightly red-faced Ser Barristan Selmy.
"There you are!" Cersei shouted. "You dolt! You dullard! Did you think that it was funny not to bring the wheelhouse? To make your family suffer? Your own family?"
"We need to move fast to Winterfell," he said quietly, his mind still spinning more than a little. "The wheelhouse would have slowed our progress. So I didn't give orders for it to be brought."
"So your family means nothing to you!" Cersei bellowed and he saw Selmy wince for a moment – and then he looked at him properly and frowned.
"Your Grace, is everything alright? Has there been any bad news about Lord Arryn?"
"No – no. He woke up. That's good. But then there's this." He handed it over to Cersei, who took it with a frown that was almost a sneer. Selmy peered at the message too.
When Cersei looked up there was a new look on her face, one that was perplexed. "Is Stannis mad? Nothing can cure greyscale scars. And what's this about a Godswood on Dragonstone?"
"I don't know. That's what he said though." He stood up again. "Something's happening, Cersei. Something bigger than anything that anyone can imagine."
She stared at him, baffled. "This is nothing but insanity. And if you think that I have forgotten about the wheelhouse then you're just as mad." And with that she threw the message at him, whirled and stamped out.
That left Ser Barristan Selmy, who just stared at him. "Your Grace?"
"We train now, Ser Barristan," he said in a voice like stone. "War is coming. I must be ready. You must be too. The North is where we fight this war."
Robb
The boats on the Long Lake were… something of a revelation. He'd expected some kind of barge organisation, towed by different teams of horses at a good steady pace, but instead there were large ships with sails that looked almost as if they came from the Riverlands.
When he had asked Father about them, he had looked amused for a moment and then coughed slightly. "Well, I did ask your mother. And Theon had a few suggestions about things he'd read as well. Seems to work. The winds mean a bit of tacking but it's faster than a horse. And we'll be travelling at night as well. Cabins on these things aren't much, but we'll have to put up with it."
He nodded and looked at the direwolves, who were gravely sitting in a row, Frostfyre at their head, watching the shore go past with a look of grave fascination. Theon was standing by a stanchion, also staring out at the shore and he walked over to join him. "You alright?"
Theon started slightly and then smiled slightly. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
His friend – and Theon was still his friend, so many things had been crammed into just a few months – paused, his jaw working a little. "The future," he said eventually. "What it holds. For me, for the North, for… for my family. I don't know what to do, Robb. I just… don't. What can I do?"
"You mean other than bring up a direwolf pup, fight at our sides as we fight back the Others, save the Wall and all of Westeros?"
A smile came and went quickly. "Aye – that's quite a bit there, isn't it? But if I survive it – oh don't look at me like that, I'd heard Lord Stark's tales, war is a game of bloody chances and hard fighting – then what? Back to the Iron Islands? I barely remember them and besides I doubt my father would want me now after so many years of being a Greenlander."
Theon sighed. "My uncle Rodrik – Lord Harlaw, the Reader – wrote to me, you know. Said that Father was obsessed with the old ways, the iron price, as a means to strengthening his rule. Mentioned the Rebellion as well. Thing is – my father's an idiot. He thought that he could gain independence for the Iron Islands by taking on the rest of the Realm. How many died until he realised how wrong he was?"
A silence fell as Robb stared at him. "You don't want to succeed your father, do you?"
"I… I don't know, Robb," Theon said in a choking voice. "I don't know. I'm a Northerner now, not Ironborn. I worship the Old Gods. I have a direwolf. The Iron Price means nothing to me now. I know what the cost of the Iron Price is. Blood. The Ironborn wouldn't want me as their lord. I wouldn't them as it stands now." He sighed again, before laughing slightly. "Of course, I have to live long enough to make a decision. You're right – we have a war to fight. A war against something that we have to win again. What did you think when you saw that wight's head?"
He remembered the look in the face of that dead woman, the way that the mouth worked, the way that the blue eyes swept around the room. And the mingling of horror and fascination that he'd felt. That was before the wrongness of it all hit him. The fact that this was something… unnatural. Evil in fact. "I knew that we have a war that we have to win on our hands. Have to. We have no choice on this. We win or we all die."
"Aye," said a voice behind them and they both started. Father had somehow appeared behind them and he looked at them both with as serious an expression as he could muster, something that made Robb swallow nervously. "You do have the right of it. We win or we die. That is all we can think about for now. That said – Theon, you will get a better idea of what you want as times goes on. Fate would not be fate if it did not have surprises in store for you. From what I have heard things are.. tense… on the Iron Islands at the moment. Your father seems to have decided to ignore the Call. That is not a popular choice for some, such as your uncle Lord Harlaw. Theon, I am reading the ravens from the Iron Islands very carefully. If your father does something stupid…"
"Then he will show himself off as an utter fool," Theon said bleakly. "I understand, Lord Stark. I cannot – no, I will not – fight for him. I don't care about being his heir. Asha can be his heir."
Father nodded sombrely. "From what I've heard recently, she might not want to be his heir either." And then he strode off along the deck.
Robb exchanged a long and troubled look with Theon, before his friend finally shrugged. "Never cared much for the name Greyjoy anyway. What can be grey about joy?"
Which was a good point. Robb raised his eyebrows and then nodded. "Just don't be a Greystark, brother. Too much history there."
Theon shuddered. "The Boltons again," he muttered. "No. Greymist perhaps. I'll think about it."
Robb nodded again, before they both went back to watching the shore slide past.
"Do you think that The Imp has his eye on Dacey Surestone?" Theon asked eventually.
"If he does he'll have a lot of people watching him as they sharpen their swords in front of him," Robb replied with a certain grimness. "My cousin's been through enough of late. That said, if he brings her Bootle's still-warm heart on a plate, we might look on him a little more favourably."
This bought him a bark of laughter from Theon. "It might at that. Well. How long to the Wall?"
"At this rate… a day to the end of the lake. At the rate that Father rides, two days after that to the New Gift. A day to Mole's Town perhaps? And then to Castle Black."
Theon shivered a little and then looked back at the shore. The Kingsroad could be seen from here and there was a trickle of wagons and other traffic going North. "Hard riding."
"Urgent riding. We win or we die."
Brynden
They made camp in a small wood that evening. The party of Green Men was already smaller than it had been, with several of them travelling off in different directions. They were to do a little gardening, the Green Man had rather cryptically told Brienne and himself, in some places that had been neglected.
As they built the fire Brynden noticed with a slight start that they were close to a ruin. It might have been an old holdfast, or a tower, built from large stones and it looked older than anything he'd seen for some time.
"I've camped here before," the Green Man said softly as he saw Brynden looking at the ruin. "A long time ago. When I had a squire called Egg."
Egg? Then he made the connection. "That was King Aegon?"
"It was. A good man. The best of the Targaryens. We walked around the ruins. Wondered who had built them. Speculated on the stones. Egg thought that this place had been built by the First Men." He smiled slightly. "Different times. Happier times." His eyes glittered for a moment. "That was before Summerhall. And before I… knew things."
A short silence fell as they looked into the fire. After a long moment Brienne looked at the Green Man. "Where do we go now?"
"High Heart. We will be needed there."
"How can you tell?"
The Green Man smiled slightly, before standing. "The first time I was here I found something. Walk with me."
They exchanged glances and then stood, following the old man as he led them through the trees and past the ruins. They passed the crumbled remains of a wall and then he saw it. A Heart Tree. There was a Heart Tree here.
The Green Man strode up to it and looked at it with some fondness. "There are more of them in the South than you think. Hidden here and there. In woods, by ruins like this. Waiting for people to remember them. Ready to come alive again." He gestured at the ground, where small white-stemmed saplings with red leaves were starting to sprout.
"When the Call went out, people started to remember. The Old Gods strengthened from that. And the Heart Trees heard it too. Magic lies not just in the hearts of men and women but also in the air, in the water, in the earth. Weirwood trees tap into that. And that means that they can be used to those who are… attuned to them."
"Like Green Men?" Brynden asked shrewdly.
"Yes. You'll learn to do it."
"Why did you choose us again?"
"You both see to the heart of matters. See the truth, even if it hurts. Which is why you are needed. It is hard to see the truth at times. We face a hard future, with prophecies making it hard to see that truth. And prophecy is something that can be twisted, abused and just simply misinterpreted. I have seen it happen right in front of me. Which is why we are here. I need to show you both something."
"I thought you already had – the tree."
"The tree is a tool. It can be used to see what has passed. You have already seen one glimpse, back at the Isle of Faces. Now it's time to show you another." He placed his burn-scarred hand on the white trunk and then extended the other in their direction. "Touch my hand, both of you."
He swallowed nervously, noted that Brienne did something similar, and then reached out and touched the age-spotted hand at the same time that she did.
And then fell into darkness. Down he fell and then he sensed her next to him. Down into the darkness – and then he felt the ground beneath his feet. Looking about he saw that they were in the Great Hall again. There was a fire burning in the hearth and the Green Man was sitting on a chair staring into the flames, his hood raised so that the horns loomed over his head.
And then the doors at the end opened and a silver-haired young man strode into the hall. Brynden stared in astonishment. "Rhaegar Targaryen," he muttered. "By the Old Gods. Just as I remember him."
There was a combination of swagger, annoyance and curiosity about the way that the younger man strode up to the Green Man. "Your men," he snapped, "Are insolent. I am the Heir to the Iron Throne, but they actually told me that only I could enter this hall."
"My men – and women – are loyal to me. And your title means nothing here, Rhaegar Targaryen. The Isle of Faces is outside the Realm. That was agreed a long time ago, by Kings and Princes now long dead."
The Prince stared at him for a long moment. "They say that you can see the future."
"I have that curse on occasion."
"Curse?"
"The future is never an easy thing to see. It can be like... a broken window. Shards give a slightly different view, depending on your perspective. Sometimes it's clear. Sometimes it's only obvious the closer you get. And sometimes it's only when it's past that you can see it."
This seemed to irritate the younger man. "For some it is very clear indeed. There were Dreamers in my family. And I have read of prophecy extensively. I know what I have seen."
This in turn seemed to amuse the Green Man. "You do, do you?"
"I do," the Prince said firmly.
"Then why are you here?"
"Because… because I read that people had come here to consult with your predecessors."
"Addam Velaryon. And others. They came seeking answers. You seem to think that you already have them. So why did you come, again?"
Rhaegar Targaryen folded his arms for a moment. "Because I want to know if I am doing the right thing. Because I want to know that I am right, that only through me can the Song of Ice and Fire be sung. That only I can bind the Realm closer together at the end of a war that I think is coming."
The Green Man stared at him for a moment, before sighing. "Nothing I can say will convince you. I can sense that. You are both right – and wrong. Prophecy is difficult to interpret. It can be slippery. Nothing can be as it seems. You must be careful – and the Song of Ice and Fire, the prophecy of the Prince that was Promised, has been discussed by those who think they are wise for centuries. Longer than that. Everyone has a theory."
"My theory," said the Prince in a low and terrible voice, "Is correct. It fits the facts. I know it. I feel it."
"Then you do not need to be here. Have fun at the Tourney. Beware of laughing trees. By the way, I hear that your father is coming to it."
The Prince stiffened. "What? No, he is at King's Landing. And how would you know?"
The Green Man said nothing in reply, just staring back at the Prince, who flushed a little and then stirred irritably.
"Very well. I must go. Perhaps we will meet again."
The Green Man looked straight at Brynden and Brienne for a moment. "Oh we've met before today. And because of what you said we'll meet again. It is inevitable now."
Rhaegar Targaryen looked confused – and then seemed to shrug before turning on his heel and walking off to the doors. As he left the Green Man sighed deeply. "So that is what they have been reduced to." Then he looked at them again. "One window closes and another opens."
Brynden opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but then the darkness fell again. He felt as if he was being pulled forwards for a moment and then when he opened his eyes again he was back in the Great Hall again. Once again the Green Man was sitting by the fire, staring at the flames with his hood up. There was a chair opposite him.
Once again the doors opened – but the Rhaegar Targaryen who entered was different. He wore armour that gleamed with rubies. But his eyes did not gleam. They were sunken and he looked as if he had not slept properly in weeks. His hair was caught in a queue at the back of his head but he looked somehow unkempt.
The Prince walked slowly to the fire and then sat in the other chair. "You knew I was coming then," he said in a voice filled with tiredness and something else that Brynden couldn't put his finger on. "As you said."
"I did. You march to war."
"I do. Cousin Robert marches South. I intend to meet him head on."
"Yes, you will meet him. You do not look well."
The Prince smoothed his hair unconsciously with a hand that shook a little. "You were right," he said eventually. "I did not see the truth after all. I just saw what I wanted to see. Everything… everything has gone awry. The Realm is broken into pieces. Because of me. Because of my pride."
The Green Man stared intently at him. "There's more than that, isn't there?"
The younger man stirred uneasily in his chair. "I… I am ashamed of what I have done. I thought… I thought that it had to be done. But when she heard that her father and her brother were dead, killed by my madman of a father… she wanted to leave. I couldn't allow that. I had to… to force her."
A short nasty silence followed. "So you are now both a prince and a rapist?"
The Heir to the Iron Throne stirred again in his chair, blood rushing to his face – and then he seemed to cringe internally, to twist. His hands came up to cover his face for a long moment. "Yes," he whispered. "I… I thought it had to be done. The Dragon needs three heads."
"You were certain?"
"I was."
"And now?"
Silence. Then: "I… I do not know."
"Then you have at least learnt a little from this. Not enough, but a little."
Rhaegar eventually seemed to drag his hands down and gaze at the Green Man. "When will the nightmares end?"
"When you are dead."
He shuddered at that. "I thought I would unite the Realm from a terrible danger."
"Perspective is everything."
"I don't understand."
"Not yet. What do you plan to do next?"
"Ride North. Fight Robert and his army of rebels. End this war."
"How? By killing Robert Baratheon? How will that end the war?"
The Prince frowned. "He is their leader. Without him-"
"Don't be a fool, boy. He is their figurehead. Your father has murdered a Lord Paramount in a horrible manner. Every Lord Paramount has good reason to be nervous now. Do you think that killing Robert Baratheon will stop the Northmen from wanting vengeance for their slain lord and his murdered eldest son? Or stop the men of the Vale for fighting against the death sentence that your father has levied on Jon Arryn? Do you think that it will stop Ned Stark from seeking you out for taking his sister?"
Rhaegar Targaryen closed his eyes as if in pain and then covered them with one hand. "No," he said tiredly. "But this war must end."
"If you march North and you win, what will happen to your father? I have heard that he is as mad as Aerion Targaryen was, or even madder. He burns people alive, boy. And he enjoys it. Enjoys it so much that he rapes his wife, your mother, after each burning."
The hand came down. "My father…"
"Your father is a lunatic, a murderer and a rapist. And in that last part – the apple did not fall far from the tree, did it not?"
"You cannot judge me, or my father-"
"I have every right!" The Green Man bellowed the words and there was a slight susurration in the rafters as something seemed to stir. "I was there when you were born! I knew your father well!"
The Prince stared at the Green Man in shock. "Who… who are you?" He asked in a small voice. "You cannot have been a Green Man all your life."
The Green Man reached up and pulled down his hood. "You would not remember me. I helped deliver you. I held you in my arms and just before I gave you to your mother you opened your eyes and looked at me – and in that moment I knew that Fate would not be kind to you. I placed you in your mother's arms, lit by the fires that claimed my friend the King and my namesake, his eldest son, and I knew that something terrible was coming."
Rhaegar Targaryen stared at the old man, stared as if he did not believe the evidence of his own eyes. "Then…" he stopped, before rallying. "Then you must be… no. No, that's impossible. You're dead. You died at Summerhall."
The Green Man pulled his sleeve back and held up the arm with the terrible burn scars. "I nearly did. I came here instead. I was once Ser Duncan of the Kingsguard, once called Ser Duncan the Tall."
The Prince stared and stared – and then he seemed to almost shrivel in the chair, his eyes going even deader, if such a thing was possible. "You were said to have been the finest knight in the Realm," he said eventually.
"I was just a knight."
"What... what would my great-Grandfather have thought of me?"
The Green Man curled a lip. "Very little," he said shortly. "You have been, put simply, a fool. A cruel fool."
The Prince flinched at those words, as if he had been struck. After a long moment he looked at the Green Man. "You once advised my great-Grandfather. Advise me know. What must I do?"
"You know, in your heart, what you must do. There is one way to end the war. Seek out Robert Baratheon. Face to face. Fight him."
"But… but he is taller and stronger than me. He would…" His voice came to a halt as he looked into the implacable eyes of the Green Man. "Ah," he said eventually. "Ah. I see now. Yes. I am the given sacrifice am I not?"
"You asked what would end the war. You also asked when the nightmares would end."
"Of course." A short silence fell. Then he stood up slightly shakily. "Thank you for your advice. It seems that I have a battle to fight, if not for the reason I first thought."
"I have never had to give such painful advice."
"But it is still appreciated." And with that he walked away to the doors, his shoulders still slumped, a look of defeat hanging over him – but also with a certain grim purpose.
"He goes to his death," Brynden muttered and just for a moment Rhaegar seemed to turn his head in his direction and frown slightly, before leaving through the doors.
Brienne nodded, a fierce look on her face. "Good," she muttered. "He will pay for his crimes."
And with that they were suddenly back at the Heart Tree. The Green Man lowered his arms. "Rhaegar Targaryen thought he had read a prophecy correctly. He was wrong. Come, let us eat. And I will tell you of the Prophecy he mentioned."