Robb Returns Chapter 130, an a song of ice and fire fanfic

Sorry for the delay on this, but I came down with gastric flu just under a week ago, which left me genuinely ill. I am not much better - as this chapter shows. Enjoy!

EDIT: Argh, I forgot that I'd already put Tyrion's bit up before. Amended! (I don't think that I'm 100% better yet)

Robert

The trees shook with the howl of whatever the fuck that thing was, trembled almost in fear. Lyanna's face contorted in terror as she stared at the treeline – and then she was trying to shout something over the wind that had sprung up as he ran after her. She was hanging in mid-air, pulled by something. He screamed her name, stretching out his hand, so close to hers, just a little further and he'd be able to touch her, but she kept moving away from him, faster and faster, and then –

He woke up suddenly, coming bolt upright, his chest heaving as if he had been running. After a long moment he ran a shaking hand over his face. That damn dream again. He'd been so close to catching her…

He shook his head and then got out of bed and padded to the window. Dawn was breaking over Winterfell and he stared out as the guards were relieved on the walls. The walls of Winterfell were thick and old and he had a feeling that the fortress had been built on the hot springs for a reason. If the Wall ever fell then Winterfell would be the logical place to retreat to.

Hmmph. 'Winterfell'. Why call it that? How could winter fall? A King of Winter perhaps? Perhaps a King of the Others had died here? He needed to talk to Ned.

He walked back to the bed and stared at it. It was odd waking up alone these days. Oh, there were more than enough willing women here at Winterfell, judging by the sultry looks and the magically loosened bodices, but now that he wasn't in his cups every night he felt… different. It didn't feel right to roll in the sheets with some girl when he was over Lyanna's grave, or close enough to it. She wouldn't have approved. He felt closer to her now than he had for many years. Those damn dreams though…

Dressing did not take long and then he picked up Stormbreaker and opened the door. Selmy was there waiting for him.

"Your Grace," the Kingsguard said with a respectful nod. "There are no urgent messages for you from the Lord Hand, or from King's Landing."

"Good," he replied as they strode down the corridor. "Anything from the Wall?"

"No, your Grace."

He nodded and then continued on towards the Great Hall and breakfast. The Starks were arriving as they entered the hall, along with others, and he suppressed a smile as Bran Stark waved enthusiastically to young Edric and Robert Arryn – who waved back and then mouthed what must have been plans that presumably must have made sense to Bran, who nodded back at them and then started eating his food at a speed that was not healthy. Messy too.

He greeted Ned and Cat, nodded at Robb and Jon and then sat down started his own breakfast, sparing the odd glance for the Terrible Threesome, all of whom seemed to be eating at the same furious pace.

After a while he looked at Ned, raised his eyebrows and then jerked his head at Bran. Ned looked, rolled his eyes and then had a whispered word with Cat, who then muttered a stern warning to her son about the perils of eating too quickly. As she did that he caught the eye of young Rickon, who was sneaking a piece of toasted bread off of his mother's plate. He winked at him. The little boy giggled and then winked in an exaggerated manner back at him.

He watched Ned and his family for a while, with a certain wistful sadness running through him. It was obvious that his old friend was very close to his family and his wife, in a way that Cersei had never been. No. Thinking about Cersei was a bad idea, it just left him angry at the damage that that selfish bitch had inflicted to the Realm.

He needed an heir. He had one, Stannis, who was glaring at his porridge as if it had wronged him somehow, but that wasn't good enough. He needed an heir born from his own loins, otherwise certain lords would think that he was weak, or, even worse, infertile.

Of course the irony was that he knew full well that he was a fertile as a herd of bulls, it was just that his children were – thanks to that bitch – all bastards. He looked at Edric, who was being told off by Penrose for eating too fast. He was a good lad, but too young. To one side Gendry was sitting there, looking uncomfortable, talking quietly to Mya. They looked so much like him.

He needed to talk to Stannis about this.

After breakfast he strode out into the main courtyard, where his log was waiting, and as he hoisted it onto his shoulders he made a note to add another two circuits of the courtyard that morning, to walk off the bile that he could feel in the pit of his stomach. Right. This was important. He would return to his old fitness, the best form of his life, and let that cold bitch choke on the knowledge that he had been inspired to do so by her behaviour.

By the time he had done his 25 turns around the courtyard he was sweating like a pig and aching in his shoulders and legs, but as he lowered the log to the ground and stretched until his spine popped he felt as alive as he ever had. He poured a bucket of water over his head to get rid of the worst of his sweat and then strode off to his quarters to change, avoiding the Terrible Threesome as they hurtled down a corridor, chased by a red-faced Septa Mordane.

As he walked into Ned's solar, which he was sharing with the Lord of the North, he could see that Stannis was already there with a pile of raven messages. "Your Grace," said his brother formally, "Today's messages."

He nodded and then they plunged into it, and as Stannis talked he found himself realising yet again that Stannis was bloody good at this. For one thing he had sorted the messages out into three piles, urgent – like the latest message from Castle Black about condition of the Wall, as well as the latest sighting of the Others by Rangers and Wildlings, moderately important – like the fact that that the fighting on the Iron Islands seemed to have died down a bit, and finally 'dross' – like the messages from various lordlings saying that their daughters were available for marriage.

"You'll be getting a lot of these," Stannis said as he held one up. "Lord Tendring of the Riverlands says that his daughter Alyse is of an age to get married."

He paused to recall the woman. "Alyse Tendring is 36 years old, has a flat chest, a nose like a crow and is so clever that she has a tongue like a Valyrian steel dagger. She also from a house that is ludicrously small."

"Aye, it's said that she's still a maid."

"And likely to stay one. No." And then they plunged into the important messages again. Again, Stannis navigated his way through them, focussing on the important ones and mentioning the dross only in passing. Yes, Stannis was a good Hand of the King.

Lunch intervened, a relatively simple affair involving crusty bread, a rich stew and well watered wine. Not what he might have eaten months ago, but it was enough.

When they were finished he wandered back out again and eventually found himself on the walls of Winterfell, looking down at the denizens of the place as they went about their business. He watched as Domeric Bolton tutored the Terrible Threesome, observed from a distance by Lords Royce and Redfort. And he also watched as Gendry worked in the smithy, striding out on a regular basis to stack a new wightspear head on a growing pile. He noted that his older son was also being watched by a curious Arya Stark. Hmmm.

After a while Mya came to the smithy to get Gendry for a riding lesson, something that seemed to annoy the lad a bit at first. Robert watched them for a while and then turned and stared North. They were coming. He knew it. He could feel it. There was a threat to the Realm, the greatest threat that it had seen for thousands of years, and he knew it in a way that he had never felt before. Death itself was coming and he had to concentrate on that, but there were so many damn distractions. Damn Cersei. Damn her to the lowest of the Seven Hells. Her father was coming and he had to meet the bloody man and tell him just what was what.

"Robert." He whirled around to see Ned standing there, a disapproving look on his face. "You are brooding."

He eyed his old friend. "I can brood if I like. I'm the bloody King."

"Aye," Ned replied. "And we need you to stop brooding and be the bloody King. You… must lead us, Robert. You have to stop this brooding and move on to leading us." He took a step forwards. "I did not tell you the full truth before. Yes, you have not been the best of Kings and I know why. Lyanna's death hit you hard and you've wallowed in depression since. But that needs to be put in the past. You've worked very hard to get fit again, but we need you to stop brooding and bloody well lead us. You know what's coming. You know what's coming for us all. That statue told you to be the Storm King when you discovered Stormbreaker. That's what we need. The Storm King, Robert Baratheon. My friend."

There was a long pause – and then he wiped a tear from his eye. "Damn it Ned, it's easier said than done. Storm King? How do I become a Storm King? What do I do?"

Ned shrugged and then threw him a practice sword. "I don't bloody know. You hold Stormbreaker. You'll find out. Now – follow me. I'm going to thrash some sense into you on the practice yards."

He followed Ned down off the walls with a sigh, before passing into the practice yards. Selmy was standing there to one side, nodding as he passed, and then Ned raised his own practice sword and they both launched into it.

It was like being in the Eyrie again, under the gaze of Jon, only this time they were older. He was reminded of the fight against the Kingslayer. Although, of course, Ned didn't have a sword that kept shattering into a hundred pieces.

Ned won the first bout, he won the second one, and then they had a long drawn out third one that Ned barely won. As they both leant on their swords, panting, he chuckled. "I've… missed… this, Ned. Gods, it's… good to see… you again."

"You need more practice," Ned wheezed. "Ser Barristan's… teaching you well… but… you need more. You're not using a Warhammer anymore these days."

He grinned at Ned. "Aye. A sword… as old as your Fist." He straightened and rubbed his back. "There really is something going on here Ned, isn't there? You finding the Fist, me finding Stormbreaker." He paused. "Does it make you feel… any different?"

Ned looked at him rather oddly. "Different in what way?"

He was about to say 'dutiful', when he realised that Ned had that word written all the way through him. Instead he shook his head. "Never mind. Another bout?"

They fought another, that he just about won, judging by Ser Barristan's comments, and then a last hard-fought bout that Ned won by the skin of his teeth. Once he caught his breath and slapped Ned on the back he paused. "You're a good man Ned. Better than me. I always knew that."

But Ned shook his head. "You always tread the same path as me Robert. You just need to be nudged back onto it once in a while." Ned's smile vanished after a moment. "I'll meet you in the Godswood later for the ceremony."

He smiled tightly at that, before striding off back to his quarters, where he plunged into the bath that was waiting for him there and scrubbed the stink off him. After he dressed he opened the door and nodded at the waiting Stannis, who strode in with the afternoon list of messages. They were sorted into the same three piles and once again they dealt with the wheat before the chaff. That said, even the dross had to be dealt with, as an ignored idiot might one day become a truculent or even rebellious idiot.

Once the last message was dealt with and Ser Barristan had entered the room and muttered that it was time, they both stood. Robert put his crown on, clasped his cloak on, grabbed Stormbreaker and then strode out, followed by the other two men. Down the corridor they passed, acknowledged by the inhabitants as they passed, and then out into the courtyard, heading towards the Godswood.

As they entered the little wood a hush seemed to settle over the little group, a stillness that came from the trees. He looked around as they strode over the dense moss and luxuriant grass, and he noted that the trees seemed to be a bit redder of leaf and whiter of trunk. But above all he got this overwhelming sense of time, almost pressing down on his shoulders, time of an ancient sort. It made him shudder a little.

Ned was waiting for them at the Heart Tree. He had the Fist of Winter in his belt and was dressed formally, as the Lord of the North. He had a hand on the tree and looked up at them as they approached.

Robert nodded at Stannis and Ser Barristan and they both turned to look back at the way they had came for the party that was soon to arrive. Robert stepped forwards to join Ned. "How old is this place?"

Ned's eyebrows went up. "The Godswood? Easily as old as the castle. Why?"

He shivered a little. "I can feel something here, Ned. Like the weight of something. Time maybe?"

Ned looked around. "You feel the eyes of the Old Gods, your Grace. They are always here."

And that was enough to make him shiver. The Old Gods… he'd never really thought about them before, not really, but the weight of age in this place…

"Your Grace, they're coming," Ser Barristan called, and he looked up to see Lord Commander Mormont and the Cassells escorting the Kingslayer through the trees, followed by Tyrion, Gerion and Allarion Lannister and then Robb and Jon Stark. The last three Lions were pale faced but composed. The Kingslayer on the other looked terrible. There were black circles under his eyes and he looked as if he hadn't slept in a week. Oh and the moment he caught sight of his King he flinched more than a bit and then glared around at the trees as if they were about to assault him.

Mormont brought that treacherous sack of shit up before them and then stood to one side. "Ser Jaime Lannister," he said eventually. "You have been sentenced to join the Night's Watch. And you will now say your vows, as you have requested. Lord Stark?"

Ned stepped forwards, his eyes in shadow, as he pulled out the fist and held it in front of him with his hands on both ends. "Ser Jaime Lannister, this is the Fist of Winter, the weapon of the Starks of old and the North's age-old symbol of justice – and punishment. You will swear your oaths with one hand on the Heart Tree and one hand on the Fist. And know this – such an oath cannot be broken. If you do break you will die."

He shuddered a little at the utter finality in Ned's voice – but not nearly as much as the Kingslayer, who swayed a little. "I thought," the blond shit said in a low voice. "That I was going to swear this vow at the Sept."

"The Old Gods are not in the Sept," Ned growled. "They are here. Your vow here, in this place, will bind you in ways that a vow at the Sept will not, not in the same way. Let me make this very clear Kingslayer. Break this vow and you will die."

The Kingslayer's mouth worked slightly as he seemed to weigh up what to say next. He glanced back at the party of now grim-faced Lannisters and Robert noticed that Tyrion seemed to nod slightly. And then, shoulders slumped, he turned back and nodded at Ned. "I will swear this oath here and now, Stark."

Mormont gestured at the Heart Tree and the Fist and the blond shit sighed and reached out to place a hand on each. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins," he said. "It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

And then, as he said the last words, red light flared from three places – from where his hand touched the tree, where it touched the Fist and, most shockingly, from Ned's eyes, which blazed suddenly with red flames.

He stifled an oath, not being the only one given the shocked mutterings from behind him. Stormbreaker felt warm in his hands all of a sudden and he looked down to see that it was shining in a way that he had never seen before. Then he looked around. Stannis and Ser Barristan were standing there, thunderstruck, whilst the Cassels and younger Starks were all falling to their knees hurriedly. Tyrion Lannister was staring at Rocktooth, which was also shining, whilst the other three Lannisters looked baffled.

And then Ned – or whatever was looking through his eyes – looked the Kingslayer. "A Casterley lion! Well – are you of Lann the Clever's make, or are you as faithless as his father? The Old Gods are here to witness your oath. Should you break this oath then you will die in an instant, as quick as lightning falls from the sky. The Fist has power over your oath, child of Casterley Rock. Hold to it though and your life will change. The Others come. The Stark has called for aid. You are needed."

Jaime Lannister was shaking like a leaf as he stared, wide-eyed, at Ned. "I," he said in a trembling voice at last, "I will hold to my oath."

The red-flamed eyes stared at him. "See that you do." Then they turned to Robert. "Storm King!"

He cleared his throat to make sure that no squeak would emerge. "Aye?"

"Trust yourself. And your blood. Much depends on you." And then the red flames vanished, to reveal a rather puzzled Ned. "What just happened?"

"The Old Gods just spoke through you, Father," Robb Stark called out an instant before his brother.

"Ah," said Ned, before looking back at the ashen-faced Jaime Lannister, who was now trembling in every limb. "Very well. Lord Commander?"

Mormont shook himself out of his own state of shock. "Ah - Ser Jaime – my new brother. We must talk. And you must prepare for your trip to the Wall."

It wasn't until they got back to the Great Hall, where wine was waiting for them all, that his hands finally stopped shaking with shock. "Does this kind of thing often happen to you Ned?" he asked in as jovial tone as he could express as the crowd around them buzzed with the news.

"Three bloody times now," Ned groused. "Once here, which led to Frostfyre coming to Winterfell. Once at the Wall, where the Old Gods cured Maester Aemon's blindness through me, and now… this."

"Well," he drawled after taking a long gulp of wine and then looking at the place where a white-faced Kingslayer was sitting, still shaking, "It obviously has its uses."

As the afternoon merged into the evening that moment in the Godswood stayed in his mind – and not just his. He found Stannis staring in the direction of the Godswood a few times, his face working with thought, whilst Ser Barristan seemed to be valiantly fighting off a pervasive sense of shock that was similar to Mormont's.

Dinner was… subdued. Ned was in a brown study half the time, whilst Cat talked worriedly with Robb and Jon whilst the other children listened with their ears all but wagging in her direction. The Lannisters were in one corner, talking in low and intent voices, their overall aspect one of… again, shock.

As for him… he sipped at his wine again and toyed at his legs of chicken until hunger and thirst made him consume them both. And then he stared at the fire in the great range. He felt as if he was standing on ground that might move under his feet very swiftly, but he could not tell in which direction. And he was tired.

So he gave up. He clapped both Ned and Stannis on the shoulder, made his excuses and left for his chambers, where he brooded for a while in a chair, his fingers drumming on the hilt of Stormbreaker. It hadn't been his imagination, it had glowed earlier. The sword of his ancestors.

As he eventually got into bed and pulled the sheets over his body he stared at the ceiling for a long time before he finally blew the candle out and turned over to get some sleep.

And, of course, the dream started.