Being an idiot who lost his notes, I have been forced to add an additional section to Chapter 91. There is now a section by Benjen after Oberyn's viewpoint. Apologies. I've also been working a lot of late, leaving me quite tired. Sorry for the delay.
Tyrion
If you stood at the base of the wall and then looked straight up then… you got the oddest feeling that you were falling up it. It was all a bit disconcerting. He looked down at his boots, gulped for a bit to try and settle his guts (and his nerves) and then stumped off to get a bite to east.
Castle Black seemed to be bustling. What was most interesting was to see all the new stonework or wood or tiles – because they stood out like a sore thumb. He could see at a glance that the castle had been in a mediocre state of repair until a number of months ago. And the number of those months coincided with the Call.
He sighed a little and then looked about. Would Father have sent help to a place like this? No, he would not have. Instead he would have raised an eyebrow at whoever might have had the temerity to suggest it, until that person eventually slunk away, their face crimson with embarrassment.
Which would have been a mistake. The more he looked at the Wall the more he realised that this was real, that this was not something that even Father could dismiss as just a Northern tradition. This was not a tradition. This was something that the First Men had built because there was something on the other side that they had feared.
Had Father ever been to the North? No, he had not. Years of being Hand of the King had rather crimped his travel plans no doubt. What would Father have said if he had ever seen the Wall? Would he merely have sniffed and said that it was a creation born of superstitious minds? Or would he have seen the immediate flaw with such a thought? Why would the old Stark Kings of old have deliberately limited their power? Yes, the North was vast. But if there was a forest to the North, then why give that up? If they had held such a huge area, what was a few leagues more?
It was at this point that his progress towards the mess hall was stopped by a skinny young man with black hair dressed in dark red leather armour. He had a rather battered looking sword at his side and had an air of… an air of…. Tyrion wasn't quite sure what he had an air of, but whatever it was he seemed to have a lot of it.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister? The Lord Commander, Lord Stark and Maester Aemon would like a word with you in the Lord Commander's quarters."
He eyed the youth darkly. "Will there be food and wine there?"
This seemed to throw the young man. "My Lord?"
"I was on my way to the mess hall. I'm hungry. Will the Lord Commander's study have food?"
A look of deep thought crossed the young man's face. "I can get some my Lord."
"Then do so please," said Tyrion grumpily as he stumped his way towards Mormont's quarters. "I've ridden a long way, I'm very tired, I've seen the Old Gods cure someone of blindness, I'm awestruck and I'll be attending a meeting of the Lord of the North soon which I thought would involve a lot of shouting but now… wait. Do I detect the accent of the Westerlands on your words?"
"You do my Lord."
There was a pause. Then: "This is your cue to tell me where you are from, lad. And your name."
"Sorry my Lord. Poderick Payne."
He eyed the boy. "Payne? Any relation to Ser Ilyn Payne, the tongueless Executioner at King's Landing?"
Poderick Payne turned pink. "A distant cousin my Lord."
"So what are you doing here?"
"I'm a volunteer my Lord." Another silence. Then, in a rush: "IheardtheCallandIcametohelp,eventhoughmyfamilythoughtIwasmad." And then he seemed to retreat within himself.
Tyrion ran the words through his head, added the necessary spaces between them and then blinked. "You came here from the Westerlands?"
"Yes my Lord."
"Against your family's wishes?"
"Sort of my Lord. I've heard that a cousin of mine is at the Shadow Tower."
Tyrion eyed the boy again. "I hate to point out the obvious, but you're a bit young."
"I still heard the Call my Lord."
"Were you a squire?"
"For my cousin Ser Cedric Payne my Lord. Another cousin."
"How many cousins have you got?"
"A few my Lord."
"And is Ser Cedric here?"
"No my Lord. He thought I was a bloody fool."
"So whose squire are you now?"
The lad looked shifty. "Night's Watch don't have squires my Lord. I'm making myself useful."
He nodded as he approached the door to Mormont's quarters. "So I see. Get me some bread and ham and a mug of wine or ale and bring it to me here. I have need of a squire and I am a Lannister of Casterly Rock."
The lad gave him another oddly unreadable look. "Will you be here in the Wall for long my Lord? I want to help here. I heard-"
"The Call, yes, I know. Know this… erm. Poderick? Such an odd name. I shall call you Pod. Know this Pod – I have no plans to leave the North anytime soon. I may stay here for a while, or I might go back to Winterfell, but I shall stay here for the immediate future. There's a lot to do. Now – shoo and get me something to eat and drink."
Pod gave him another of those odd looks and then he nodded and trotted off. Tyrion watched him go quizzically, noting that he seemed to know exactly where to get said food and drink. Then he looked back at the door and knocked politely. A muffled "Come!" greeted his knock and he went in, closing the door firmly behind him. This place was cold.
He found Stark and Mormont sitting at a table with the Maester, whose bright eyes seem to be jumping all over the place with a not very well hidden delight. As Tyrion approached the empty chair by the table the old man stared at him fixedly – and then he smiled.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister," Maester Aemon smiled. "Be welcome to Castle Black. I trust you are well?"
Tyrion stepped on the footrest that someone had placed before the chair and then got onto the chair itself. "Well, yes, if a little saddlesore and hungry. I encountered a lad from the Westerlands outside and asked him to bring food and drink as otherwise my stomach will meet my spine."
Jeor Mormont flushed slightly. "Apologies," he muttered, "I didn't think of that." And with that he stood and poured him a mug of ale. Which vanished down his throat in the blink of an eye.
"My thanks Lord Commander," he sighed, suppressing a belch. "Now – how can I help you?"
The three men exchanged a long glance. And then Ned Stark rubbed his nose and then looked at him. "Tyrek Lannister."
"Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at the time of the abandonment of the Nightfort, I believe. Yes, I have read of him. What of him?"
Another pause as the other three looked at each other. "We found a bricked-up doorway here," Jeor Mormont said reluctantly. "In it were many chests. Many things from the Nightfort – many things we did not know we ever had. One of those things was the journal of Tyrek Lannister."
Excitement flared deep within him. "Really? His journal. Fascinating. What did it say?"
"Much about the working of the Wall back then," Maester Aemon replied. "And then there was something else." And with that he pulled out a black leather folder, the edges of which had been stitched together. He placed it on the table and then nudged it towards him. "This is for you."
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end. "I'm sorry, what?"
The Maester reached out and then turned the leather object over. And then he saw it. Someone had stitched a name on the outside with faded yellow thread. His name.
He reached out with a hand that trembled more than a bit and traced his name on that thread. "This is for me?"
"Apparently so," Ned Stark said sombrely. "You'd best read it."
Tyrion swallowed as he picked it up and looked at the worn leather. "How could a man who died before the Dance of the Dragons know my name?"
"Perhaps," Maester Aemon said softly, "You should open it and see."
He nodded, pulled out a knife and then carefully sliced through the thread that had held the folder closed for more than two centuries. His heart was thudding in his chest as he pulled the leaves apart. Within were some pages of excellent parchment. He pulled them out carefully and then started to read.
"My dear Tyrion – I hope that you will not mind the informality of my addressing you as such. You are family after all and as I am dying I realise that I not give a damn about formalities. You are a Lannister, as am I.
"Your first thought will be to ask how I knew your name. There is a simple answer, I have the Greensight. I have had it since I was a boy. That is a thread that connects us. I know that you are short in stature but great in mind. How do I know that? I dreamt it.
"You sit in a room. In that room sit a Lion, a Direwolf – literally! – a Bear and a Dragon. As I said – I have dreamt it.
"I know that your father scorns you for your short stature. My own father scorned me for my dreams. My mother understood – she was a Blackwood – but my father never did. Not until towards the end of his life.
"The Greensight is both a blessing and a curse. It is a blessing because three times in my life I have seen disaster approach and been able to steer around it. A curse because I know what lies ahead of me for the Night's Watch. The abandonment of the Nightfort was just the start. The Night's Watch will fall further, fall to its lowest ebb ever. If you are reading this now then one of two futures has been fulfilled. I will not mention the other as you would wince a lot.
"I know what lies ahead for you. It will be a difficult path. You must trust your heart and your head if you are to negotiate what lies ahead. A second Long Night comes, as is feared.
"You must go to the Nightfort. I know that this is macabre, but seek out the crypt where I have ordered that I will be buried, You will find something of ours there, some things that the Lannisters – or should I say Casterlys? – of old had forgotten about. I found them deep in an old storeroom when I was a lad, driven there by the Greensight. Use them well.
"There is another crypt there. The source of dark legends. Take a Stark with you. The half-Tully perhaps.
"Don't start too much when you meet various guests there. The first will be unwelcome. The second set will be most welcome to you indeed. There's a man on the other side of the Black Gate. See him for what he truly is. Watch out for late wolves.
"After that… follow your heart. Be sensible though the moments of pain and realise when you need to grasp that moment of happiness.
"Be well, distant nephew. Fight the Long Night that is to come.
"Tyrek Lannister."
As he placed the letter down in a slight daze and then pushed it across the table towards the others, there was a knock on the door that heralded the entry of his new squire with a plate of bread and ham and a goblet of actual wine.
It vanished in the blink of an eye.
Jon
The Wall was… interesting. It certainly was impressive. It was hard to look at it and not feel your mind whirl at the very size of it. This was something that men built for one reason: fear. They had been afraid of something. Something terrible.
Robb and the others were watching some of the new recruits to the Night's Watch spar, watched over by a thin, grim-looking man with black hair that was flecked with grey. He looked… vaguely disgruntled, as if he wanted to complain but couldn't.
The men in the courtyard held their swords well and seemed to know what to do with them. But it was the way that they seemed to be swinging them against the targets in front of them, the sacks stuffed with straw with sticks for arms and legs that was interesting. They weren't trying to kill them. They were trying to dismember.
"They're training to fight wights," Robb muttered next to him and he nodded as he too made the connection. Then his brother – he had to keep thinking of Robb like that, he just had to – nodded at the man overseeing the men from the Night's Watch. "That's Ser Alliser Thorne. Master at Arms at Castle Black."
He'd heard about Ser Alliser. The man had been a Targaryen loyalist, taking the Black when offered a choice between that and the headsman's axe.
"Swing at the joints!" Ser Allider roared, making them all jump a little. "When the Others come they'll send wights against the wall. Dead men. Dead women. Dead children. You can't fucking flinch, you dare not, flinch and you'll be dead and raised as one of them. Dismember the twats! Cut their arms off, cut their legs off, smash their heads in! They're already dead. Make them deader."
"That just leave the Others themselves," Robb muttered. "And steel can't kill them."
"Archers can," Theon replied from the other side of Robb. "Arrows with dragonglass. Send enough of them in the air."
"This won't be a war with room for strategy," Robb said with a grimace. "We hold the Wall. That's it. We hold the Wall or we all die."
He looked back down again at the men in the courtyard as they swung at the targets. And then he saw the look of what seemed to be conflicted anger that Ser Alliser Thorne was sending at Robb and himself. He seemed to know who they were. He also seemed to be both angry at them and grateful. It was a very odd expression.
"Why is that man looking as if he's happy that something curdled in front of him?" Theon asked.
"That's Ser Alliser Thorne," Robb muttered. "He was a loyalist in the Rebellion. It was the Night's Watch or death."
Theon frowned a little. "So why the funny frown?"
"Father and Robert won the war, so he hates Father for him being here and by extension us. But at the same time Father's brought a lot of help to the Wall. Do you see all the repairs and the new storehouses?"
Ah. Robb had a good point. He looked about the place. It was old, but some parts looked newly repaired. And judging by the fact that some man were busy replacing a section of walkway with new boards, the repairs really needed to be done quite urgently, to stop people from falling through broken sections.
Hearing the sound of boots to one side he turned his head. Tyrion Lannister was standing there, looking at the courtyard. He too had an odd expression on his face, but this one was more the look of a man who had just been walloped over the back of the head with a branch. After a moment he seemed to shake himself a little and then wandered off, obviously deep in thought.
And then Maester Aemon stepped out and stood there, his fingers dancing on the guardrail. The moment he saw Jon and Robb his eyes lit up and he walked over to them. "Ah. You must be young Robb and Jon Stark – and Theon Greyjoy I presume? Yes, you all bear the look of your forebears. Being able to see you is a blessing that I can never thank Lord Stark for."
"I am heartily glad that you can see us, Maester Aemon," Robb said with a smile. "Is my father still talking with the Lord Commander?"
"He is. You must go and talk to him. In the meantime I must return to my library. I have a lot of books to read." He turned away for a moment and then turned back. "Young Jon, you have strong arms. May have borrow you for a short time? There might be books that I cannot reach and my assistant is being drilled in fighting wights by Ser Alliser."
"Of course, Maester Aemon," Jon smiled as he walked up to the old man. "Lead the way."
The Maester of Castle Black did in lead the way, his gait combining both age and the fact that he could see what must have been a memorised route for the first time in years. As they entered the library the Maester looked about as if greeting old friends again for the first time in many years. Which was probably quite true. The Maester was also looking about the place and as he sat down in a chair he gestured at the door. "If you wouldn't mind locking the door. I don't see anyone else in here, but please check the back areas as well."
He locked the door and then walked quickly around the large room. No-one was there and he returned to the fire and sat down as Maester Aemon gestured at the chair opposite. And then the old man just sat and stared at him, as he was trying to memorise every part of his face.
"You have to excuse the imagination of an old man, whose fondest relatives have long since passed from this world," he said eventually in a low and rather emotional voice. "But I do see a little of my own family in you. It's the set of the shoulders, the set of the jaw and the look in your eyes. Subtle touches, overwhelmed by the look of the Starks. And I thank the Gods for the latter. My brother Aegon hid his looks by shaving his head. You do not need to." He tilted his head to one side a little and looked at him again. "You do remind me of him. I think that he would have liked you. He was an… unusual man. For the best of reasons. He saw things differently from the rest of us. He knew the Smallfolk and they loved him for it."
Feeling more than a little lost Jon nodded slowly. "It's good to see you again Maester Aemon."
A bright smile crossed the face of his great-great-granduncle. "And it is with very great pleasure that I can see you now, Jon Snow. Ah. Wait – I hear that King Robert has legitimised you?"
"He has. I am Jon Stark now."
A look that combined sadness with satisfaction crossed the Maester's face. "It is good that you are embraced by your family now. You will always have a difficult path before you. You must live in a world where there are those who would kill you merely because of your blood. Has Lord Stark discussed a plan with you yet?"
He nodded slightly. "We have talked briefly on it. I would found a cadet branch to House Stark. Be a bannerman to… to Father and then to Robb. That's all I've ever wanted. A hold, a wife, a family."
The Maester of Castle Black looked at him for a long moment and then nodded as if satisfied. "A good plan. A safe plan."
"You're not… disappointed?"
"Disappointed?" Maester Aemon's eyebrows flew upwards for a moment. "Nay. Nay. I have lived through three Blackfyre Rebellions and the War of the Ninepenny Kings, when the last legitimate member of that unhappy house was finally killed. I have seen the consequences of great ambition – death and ruin. All you wish is to live and not be a threat. That is laudable. What you teach your yet unborn children – well, that is up to you. But you must think on it most carefully. No false pride. You have the example of both Greystark and Blackfyre to show you the consequences of such pride."
He shivered a little. "I had thought of that," he said in a low voice. "I just want to be a Stark. And be a threat to no-one. Just to be loyal to House Stark. To Robb. We are brothers."
Maester Aemon looked at him again, that same intent look. "Good," he said eventually. "Let go of the boy that was Jon Snow - kill the boy, forget him. Become the man that will be Jon Stark. Work towards your goal. Live, Jon Stark. And think of a name for your cadet branch that has meaning. Because there is a Long Winter ahead of us and those with the blood of dragons will play their part in what is to come." He seemed to shiver for a moment. "I do not have dreaming of our ancestors, but a foretelling is on me, young Jon. You have a key part to play, you and your cousins. Your aunt too, I think. You must all be ready for what is to come."
A silence fell as Jon eyed the old man with both wonder and fear. After a long moment the Maester shook himself a little. "Your pardon. Such a feeling has not been on me for many a year. You must become used to it – Lord Stark himself was possessed by the Old Gods and has restored my sight, after all. Now – I need you to unbolt that door and fetch me some books. I spoke truthfully when I said that I needed your help in that. We all shrink as we age."
Jon stood and took a step towards the door – but then stopped dead. "Nay Maester Aemon. You have not shrunk. You are greater than you think. And I will heed every word of your advice."
And then he strode off to unlock the door.
Arya
She stared Nymeria in the eyes. Sadly Nymeria had eyes only for the remains of the lamb chop on her plate and would not look back at her.
"You," said with a combination of disgust and affection, "Are nothing more than a walking belly." The direwolf sent her a brief look that seemed to be amused – and then went back to staring fixedly at the chop.
She placed the chop in front of her face and then tried to look into Nymeria's eyes. It didn't work. Instead her direwolf merely stared even harder at the chop even harder. After a moment she started to drool.
Eventually she admitted defeat and, once she was sure that Mother wasn't looking in her direction, she placed the chop under her chair. There was a dart and a schonk noise, followed by the sound of the chop surrendering to young jaws.
Arya sighed a little. 'Young warg' the Old Gods that had possessed Jon has called her. But she still didn't know how to be a warg. How could she start to learn to be a warg if she had no idea where to even start?
She yawned. Her dreams had been a bit odd lately. She kept dreaming about walking down the halls of Winterfell. The odd thing was that she seemed to be the same height as the Imp. Perhaps she was dreaming about being as old as Rickon again? That was odd.
Something that was also odd was the thought of having a new brother or sister again. She'd barely gotten used to Rickon being able to no speak in baby babble and now she was going to have to go through it all again. A sigh emerged as she looked about the Great Hall. Life could be so unfair at times.
At least they had some interesting company. Lord Dondarrion had the most interesting personal sigil that Bran had ever heard of. She had to admit that it was quite interesting. All those lightning bolts. He was also very popular. Jayne Poole was 'smitten' by him, whatever that meant, and Domeric and the Terrible Threesome certainly liked to talk to him. Sansa would sit to one side, not far from Domeric and listen with a slight smile on her face. "He's a knightly man," she had explained to Arya the previous day. "Domeric says that he's a good man who know what a good lord must to be kind to his people."
And then there was Thoros of Myr, the large, tall man who wore the red robes of a priest of some kind of red god. She wasn't sure exactly what kind of a god had to be on fire all the time, but Thoros was a priest of his. He was very fond of wine, liked the kind of stories that would make Ser Rodrik Cassel roar and Mother glare, and was kind in a head-patting way that made her want to bite his hand.
Oh and there was Lord Dayne. Now, he fascinated her. He was small, had blonde hair and very blue eyes and there was something about him that annoyed her. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she didn't know why. He was Robb's age apparently, which surprised her given how he was smaller than Robb.
She'd asked him about that. "My mother was not well after I was born," was all that he'd pretty much say, with an odd look on his face. "I'll grow, I've been told. I'll grow." And that odd look would cross his face again.
Arya looked at Lord Dayne again. He seemed to be eating yet again and he also seemed to have taken on that look that Robb had gotten just before his growth spurt recently. He also had that peculiar hunted look whenever Mother was around.
Well, at least he wasn't wearing that sword again. There was something about it that set her teeth on edge. The thought that Lord Dayne's uncle had tried to kill Father with it… and that Lord Dayne had been named Ned in honour of Father because he had returned Dawn and also Ser Arthur Dayne's bones to Starfall afterwards… well, something felt a bit off there. A bit strange.
Jory and Annah weren't there again today. She didn't really want to know what they were up to. Old Nan had said a lot of things about there being a baby expected there quite soon.
She shuddered. Why did grown-ups have to be so disgusting?
Dinner wended its way to a close, Thoros and Ser Rodrik went off somewhere to find some more ale, Lord Dayne retired to the Godswood to pray, Lord Dondarrion went off to talk horses with Domeric and the various others all broke apart. Mother had a quiet word with her about not feeding Nymeria at the table (how had she known?) and then she was off back to her room, Nymeria padding after her.
She was quite tired. It had been a long day. But as she snuggled in to bed, with Nymeria sprawled out on the bed next to her, she still felt that annoyed irritation that she hadn't been able to break through and warg into Nymeria.
The dream started oddly. She was walking in the Godswood, walking up to the Heart Tree in the moonlight and that was odd because there was no moon that night. The place was lit by a silvery half-light and by it she could see other figures around it. Sansa was there, asleep by the trunk, with Rickon a restless little bundle next to her. To one side she could see two vague shadows that looked familiar, but they looked odd, as if they were there but also very far away. And then there was Bran. He was sitting bolt upright and staring at the face carved into the Heart Tree. After a moment he looked at her and smiled slightly, before going back to staring at the tree.
This was a very dull and boring way to behave, but for some reason she felt herself sitting down and also staring at the face. It was a melancholy one, it had always been that way and always would be that way.
Until now, because all of a sudden its eyes seemed to open and it smiled at her. She stared at it, not in terror but in fascination. A wind picked up and for a moment the leaves rustled together like hands clasping at each other, whilst far, far away she seemed to hear a voice shouting her name for a moment. And then she heard it.
Little warg.
"Who are you?" She wanted to shout the words but instead all she seemed to be able to do was whisper.
You know who we are, little warg. You have heard our voice before. It is it time for you to hear it again.
"But I'm not a warg! I keep trying and failing!" She could see Bran next to her, also whispering something that she couldn't make out.
You have tried. Who is to say that you have failed?
She frowned. "You're speaking in riddles. I hate riddles."
The voice seemed to both sigh and laugh. Starks. Always to the stark truth. Open your third eye little warg. You and the others must open your third eye.
"But I've only got two eyes!"
Your third eye is in your mind. You dream with it. You use it now. So let us see what you can see.
And suddenly she was back in her bed. Or was she? She didn't have a pillow under her head – and there were no blankets over her! Where was she? She stood up – and then stopped. Things felt odd, very odd. She was in her room, but her balance was off, strange, wrong. And then she stopped dead. There was someone in her bed. She stepped forwards, somehow lost count of how many legs she had and sprawled on the bed, on the figure under the covers.
The figure didn't move – but looked familiar, by the light of the guttering candle that she'd forgotten to put out. She peered at it.
She noticed that she had a muzzle at about the same time that she saw that the figure was her, motionless and with eyes that were the colour of milk.
At which point she suddenly woke all the way up with a shriek that was part excitement and part terror.