Sorry for the delay in this. Work has been manic, but has now calmed down enough for me to start writing again. And also we are off on holiday! Two weeks away on my first ever cruise. Which I desperately need as I am exhausted both physically and mentally. So there might be a small hiatus.
(The Daeron section was again written by Sardar, who as always has my thanks for such an interesting and well-written character that fits in so well to Robb Returns.)
Daeron
As the Blue Whale approached White Harbor, he let out a sigh of relief. They had stayed in Gulltown only two days to find another ship and the rough and chilly waters of the Bite had taken its toll on the Dornishmen, who were not used to such climes. As the ship sailed further into the mouth of the White Knife, he saw Seal Rock and the ruined ringfort atop the island passing him by. Soon the Wolf's Den came into view; the ancient fortress was the only thing that was not white in the city, though the white houses that clung to the sides of the fortress seemed to give it enough white colour for the Manderly's liking. The vast Outer Harbor could be seen below it, with ships of every kind coming and going. Nearer to the city was the Inner Harbor, protected by a high and heavily fortified wall built on the jetty, and the Wolf's Den from the Outer Harbor. He could also see New Castle and the Sept of the Snows from a distance, with the statues of the Seven decorating its pale dome.
As the Blue Whale continued towards the city's Inner Harbor, the smell of raw fish and the sea only grew stronger; which Daeron found to be strangely comforting, as if the sea had gone to sleep with under a blanket of seafoam on the Northern shore. When the ship finally reached the docks, Daeron's men were only too eager to disembark. As the Dornishmen made their way through the fish market they spotted who could only be Lord Wyman and several of his guardsmen who, to their amazement, carried shining steel tridents instead of spears or swords, waiting at a gate that led to the walled city. He was genuinely surprised to be greeted in this way; as a Southron Lord, he had expected to be received by one of Lord Manderly's sons or grandsons, not the Lord of White Harbor himself. He was also amazed at the size of the man; Lord Manderly was perhaps the largest man he had ever seen. And as the Dornish company came closer to the Seal Gate, Lord Wyman greeted him with a voice that was just as immense as the man himself.
"My Lord! Welcome to White Harbor! Or should I say, the North!" He boomed. "You Dornishman haven't been half as far north before, I presume?"
Taken aback by the volume of his voice, Daeron replied curtly, "Yes".
He quickly remembered his manners however, and suddenly added, "Oh! - and, erm, thank you for your hospitality My Lord! My men and I greatly appreciate it, especially since I know White Harbor is increasingly busy".
"Aye, your gratitude is much appreciated!". Lord Manderly then turned and motioned to follow him through the Seal Gate, and also commanded several servants to take him and his men's bags. Entering the walled city, they first passed through Fishfoot Yard, which sported a magnificent fountain with a statue of a Merman with a broken trident in the center of the town. However what caught Daeron's attention the most was just how bustling with activity the city really was. The smallfolk were practically shoulder to shoulder carrying all manner of goods; iron, grain, weapons, livestock and everything in between. Merchants crowded the streets trying to sell their goods and smiths could be heard in their workshops; the city was truly alive with activity. Their lordly entourage was given ample space to walk as many of the smallfolk made way for and greeted their lord with utmost respect. To his surprise, Lord Manderly greeted them back. Lord Wyman then continued to converse with Daeron.
"We have received many a traveler coming Northwards, including His Grace the King, and another Dornishman..erm..a Lord Dayne, was it? Are you acquainted with his Lordship?"
"Ned-" Again, he stumbled over his words. "I mean Lord Dayne - is my cousin by my grandmother."
Lord Manderly's thick brown eyebrows looked as if they would jump off of his face when he turned to face him. A brief moment passed before he replied.
"Your cousin?" Lord Manderly returned to his immense tone. "Beg your pardon My Lord, but you two look nothing alike!" Lord Manderly scanned Daeron up and down. "Apart from your eyes that is!"
Daeron smirked. Remembering his time at the Water Gardens, he recalled how all the other children, noble and lowborn alike, would balk and him and Ned when they said they were kin. Apart from their almost identical blueish-purple eyes, the two young Dornish lords shared almost no similar physical characteristics. Ned was a short, Stony Dornishman with pale blonde hair while Daeron was a Sandy Dornishman, well over six feet tall and had a mop of curly, jet black hair.
"Aye, My Lord, you are right." Daeron said, his grin still stuck to his face. As they made their way through the city he admired just how exceptionally clean and well organized it was, with wide cobbled streets, fine white buildings, large signs and only the smell of the sea to fill your nostrils, and all this despite the immense crowds. The lordly entourage was soon in sight of the Castle Stair; which was a long, stepped street paved with white stone that led up to New Castle, the Manderly's immense keep overlooking the entire city. He saw that, flanking the Castle Stair were mermaids carved out of marble holding bowls of fire which illuminated the pathway in the evening. He had never seen a city such as this, though to be fair, he had never seen many cities anyway other than Plankytown and Gulltown. After the two lords had walked up the Castle Stair a good distance, Lord Manderly's expression shifted to something more serious as he began to speak again.
"So the Call was heard in Dorne?". Daeron's smile quickly leapt from his face when he replied.
"Yes, My Lord. Though not as loudly as one would have hoped. Many of my fellow lords still doubt it even went out, though I know the Stony Dornish were very receptive to it". A frown came upon the Lord of White Harbor's face.
"A shame that is. The realm needs as much help as it can get. And you, I presume, felt it strongly?".
"I did". He said it with a hint of defiance, as Daeron knew that North was cold and hard and bred cold, hard men who were very skeptical of outsiders. He deserved respect from them, he had come all the way across Westeros and he be damned to the Seven Hells if he didn't get it.
As the party approached the gates of New Castle, Daeron could see several people waiting for him and Lord Manderly. As they approached, Lord Manderly's voice boomed again.
"My Lord Vaith, I must introduce you to my family!". The eldest Manderly's bright smile returned. The first and largest man appeared to be a younger version of Lord Manderly; he was not as fat as his father but certainly balder, with the only hair on his face being his large walrus moustache. Next to him were two young ladies and an older one appearing to be his daughters and his wife; who was plump, but not fat, and had bright yellow hair.
"This is my firstborn son, Ser Wylis, his wife Lady Leona, and my two granddaughters Wynafryd and Wylla". The family bowed, and he did the same. Wynafryd, the elder granddaughter who was very pretty, shot a smile at Daeron that made him blush and butterflies enter his stomach. Girls were never his strong suit, that was always Ned's strength more than his. Lord Manderly motioned to his other son who was not as fat nor as bald as his brother, and had a slim woman about the same age as him on his arm. She had dark brown hair, almost black, and sharp attractive features. She appeared to be recently with child as well. Daeron could not figure out why, but he thought she seemed to have a bit of Essosi in her.
"This is Ser Wendel, my second born, and his wife Lady Lyarra, formerly Lady Redstark". That explained it. He had heard from sailors and merchants in Gulltown that the Redstarks had returned from Essos with the Company of the Rose, along with many other old and formerly extinct Northern families. Lord Manderly walked further to the right, introducing his extended family. A third Manderly man in armor, still large but made of more muscle than fat stood next to the other two with a stern look on his face and his left hand gripping his silver trident.
"My cousin Ser Marlon, captain of the garrison here at White Harbor-".
Lord Manderly then motioned to a fourth Manderly man, who was also stout and younger than the others, and his wife, both of whom looked rather Essosi as well. They had a restless group of triplets at their feet, two boys and a girl, who couldn't have been more than five years old. "-And Ser Godric, recently arrived from Essos, his wife lady Alearra and their children, Wyndyn, Wylan and Alys".
Just as he finished introducing his family, the gates to New Castle swung open. Almost as soon as they entered, the triplets began sprinting down the hall and their mother raising her skirts chased after them. Ser Godric then began to laugh with that booming voice that all Manderly's seemed to have. Lord Wyman then began to speak with Daeron again, the two lords walking side by side at the head of the Manderly family.
"I assume you are very hungry from a long journey, My Lord. The servants have already prepared dinner for all of us, and I would invite you to dine with my family this evening!".
"It would be my pleasure, my Lord.'' He replied, smiling again. Thank the Seven, he was famished.
As they walked through the halls of New Castle, Daeron observed on the walls many banners, broken shields and ancient swords from houses which had been defeated by House Manderly. Bolton, Greystark, Peake, Gardener, and… Dayne? Daeron paused at the tattered purple banner, and Lord Manderly noticed his confusion.
"Aye, we fought the Kings of the Torrentine when House Manderly still held Dunstonbury. When the Starfire burned Oldtown, the Manderly's helped drive him back to Starfall at the cost of many Manderly lives. This banner was taken at the Battle of the Laughing Ridge in the foothills of the Red Mountains, which was one of the Starfire's worst defeats, which my ancestor Wyram Manderly inflicted". Lord Manderly then shot Daeron a wicked smirk.
Daeron was surprised at that. He had almost forgotten that the Manderlys were originally from the Reach, and were deeply intertwined with its ancient history. I wonder what Ned had to say about this? He thought. Soon after his tour of New Castle, Daeron asked to be led to his room. He then changed into a fine dark grey silk doublet and trousers to prepare for dinner. As he made his way to the Merman's Court, he could smell the aromas wafting from the Kitchen nearby. Even from just outside of the great hall, Daeron could distinguish the different foods being prepared; eels, crabs, clams, various fish, lobsters, pork, beef and sausages. He could also smell the various fine Eastern spices that one could only acquire in the markets of a major port city. All of it made his mouth water.
When he entered the hall, Daeron was awestruck. On the walls, the ceiling and the floor there was incredible art that depicted in great detail all myriad creatures of the sea. He had never seen anything like it, and was mesmerised by the detail and beauty of it all.
"Marvelous, isn't it?"
"Aye". Daeron replied, without giving a second thought to who he was speaking to.
"Never thought I'd see it in my lifetime". That stole Daeron's attention away from the murals. He jumped slightly as Ser Godric had seemingly appeared out of nowhere right next to him. Ser Godric chuckled a bit, and Daeron turned a shade of red.
"Do not worry, I did the same when I first saw it". Ser Godric said through a grin. "Let us take our seats". He was seated very close to Lord Manderly, right next to his granddaughters in fact, but he was too focused on the smell of the arriving food to have noticed that.
Daeron had never particularly enjoyed seafood, but the Manderly chefs had somehow made him change his mind that night. After the seafood, a variety of salted and deliciously spiced meats were served and he practically inhaled all of it. He had never been particularly fond of ale as well, though he washed his many meals down with several cups of the stuff. Perhaps it was the fact that he was practically starved after a long sea journey of eating nothing but salted beef and bread, but this was one of the best meals he'd had in a long time. After he had finished, Daeron slumped back in his chair and looked around the table to see the Manderlys (especially the men) continue eating and conversing. This brought him a pang of sadness, as he had never had a large family, only his grandmother and Ned. Perhaps one day, though. Perhaps one day.
The vast majority of the discussion however seemed to be involving Northern defenses and White Harbor's management and economy, though sometimes they did crack a jape here and there. And even the women, he overheard, spoke of marriage alliances for their daughters with other Northern houses.
Daeron stayed in White Harbor for the next week, continuing to feast, converse and wander around the city. He had made sure not to stop training with his Valyrian steel blade, and fortunately Ser Marlon and Ser Godric were very glad to instruct him in the Northern ways of combat. Daeron was actually enjoying himself somewhat despite the biting cold, as he was fed well and enjoyed training with his sword. All of it seemed to make the fact that the living dead were marching on the realm seem distant and faint. However that came to an abrupt end when Lord Manderly insisted that he see the Wight head that had been left in White Harbor. Apparently Lord Stark had wanted it to stay here, so that sailors and merchants would spread the word across Westeros and the world. He saw it on his last day in White Harbor, before he made his way to Castle Cerwyn, and Ser Marlon personally escorted him to it in the Wolf's Den which was White Harbor's Prison. Personally, Daeron had expected the head to be a mess of rotting flesh that was barely held together, and which could do little more than twitch and grunt, while stinking quite a lot.
A mess of rotting flesh it was, though it did significantly more than just twitch and grunt. Upon approaching the cage, the head's eyes shot open to reveal deep blue orbs, seemingly frozen in its eyes, and its mouth opened to reveal rotting teath that it bore at him like a feral beast. He jumped backed, instinctively drawing his sword. The Wight head then began to screech, even louder than before. Gathering himself, Daeron looked at the head closer, and put his sword back in its sheath. The head stopped its screeching, but still growled and snapped at his face.
"Don't get too close, My Lord. We've had several men who've lost fingers to that...thing" Ser Marlon spat in contempt.
"I know. Just, it seems to have calmed down, though I don't know-" Daeron hastily unsheathed his sword fully and brought it near to the head when he figured it out. The Wight's blue eyes reflected off of the dark blade vivivdly, though that was not what Daeron sought to test. The head screeched once more and shook the cage violently as Daeron slowly brought Truth closer to the cage, and the shaking almost undid the chains that held it to the pedestal on which the cage sat.
"You're more clever than I thought, My Lord". Ser Marlon said with a smile. Daeron gave a smirk of his own in reply. "Word from Lord Stark said that several months ago, when his sons led a party to the Nightfort, they were attacked by a band of Wights and Others. Three of them were carrying Valyrian steel blades, and they found out that they are very effective at killing Others".
"Interesting". To say that he was glad that he had brought Truth along with him was an understatement. Having one of the only weapons in the world that can kill and Other was a comfort that he would gladly take, and he thanked the Seven for it. But now, he found himself even doubting the Seven's very existence. Daeron had always been loyal to the faith, but never particularly fervent. He did listen to the Septons and prayed every once in a while, but this.. this made him doubt what he had been taught his whole life. While he was pondering at the wight head, suddenly, almost as if it was being shown to him, an image of a weirwood sapling sprouting out of the sands of Dorne flashed in his mind.
Gendry
No-one knew what to do with him. Which was a fair point, because he barely knew what to do with himself… well, himself.
They'd moved him to a slightly better room, which was still a lot better than anything he was used to. There was even a small mirror to shave with. It was very odd to see his face in it. He'd been used to small plates of shiny bronze now and then.
He was the King's bastard son. He was sitting in that shadowy bit between those two last words. Some viewed him as a bit of dirt under their boot. Others viewed him as almost important.
Because no-one knew what to bloody do with him.
So he was doing what he'd been doing for years now, which was standing in the forge and banging the shit out of a piece of metal. Well… shaping it. And right now it looked like shit on a stick.
He reduced the power of his blows a bit and concentrated on where he was pounding. That was better. It was going to be a war hammer. Heh. Why not? Something that could be used to smash a wights head into its ribcage.
He kept hammering, shaping the metal with his blows. This was what he was used to. The head of the hammer went back into the coals of the forge and he pumped hard on the bellows as he watched the colour of the flames carefully. Steady. He had to have a steady flame. When the metal was the right colour he pulled it out, put it back on the anvil and pounded on it again, more carefully this time. That was better.
"You less pissed off now?"
It was Mikken. The old man was standing by the door, a wry look on his face. "I might be," Gendry muttered. "People keep looking at me funny."
"You looking over your shoulder as much as before?"
Ah. That was a point. "A bit," he confessed. "But not as much as before."
"Good, because you were getting bloody jumpy." Mikken looked around and lowered his voice a bit. "And that Lannister brat's going to be gone soon, as he's not the King's son. Off to the Wall and the Night's Watch."
He thought about that little blond shit dressed in black in what he'd been told was a massive wall of ice. "Good riddance," he grunted and then went back to shaping the Warhammer. Mikken looked at him for a moment and then nodded firmly before getting to work on his own work, another spearhead.
Gendry lost himself in the metal and the heat for a while, as he finished off the head of the warhammer. It was a brutal thing, like all warhammers. And as he slid it into the right quench barrel he wondered why he had made it.
As he looked around the room and wondered what to do next a head appeared at the door, a familiar one. Shireen peered in carefully, looked about and then gazed at him. "Have you seen the Terrible Threesome, Gendry, Master Mikken?"
He shook his head, as did Mikken, and his cousin groaned. "They're somewhere out there and I can't find them. And they're plotting something, I know they are. If you see them, will you let me know?"
He grinned at her. "You're like a mother hen for those three, Shireen, you know that?"
Shireen just looked at him. Then she sighed. "Someone has to keep an eye on them. Just like someone has to keep an eye on you. Are you alright?"
His grin flickered. "I'm fine."
"He's not fine," Mikken grunted. "He doesn't know what to do with himself."
Shireen looked at him again. She seemed to be counting to ten in her head. "You are Uncle Robert – the King's – natural son. Wait until Uncle Robert decides what to do with you."
He stared at her, his eyes widening. "Do with me?"
His cousin nodded. "You might be his heir. Or he might make Edric his heir with you after him. But he will keep you close, Gendry. He has to. You're his son."
That familiar sick feeling of horror crept over him. "I don't want to be a prince, Shireen. I don't know how to. I'm just a bloody blacksmith!"
Once again his cousin just stared at him. Then she smiled at him. "You're Uncle Robert's son. And my cousin. You're a good man – you're Gendry Strongarm. All you have to be is just… Gendry."
He looked at her for a long moment. "How did you get to be so wise?"
"Practise," she said pertly. "I need to find those three troublemakers." And with that she turned and left.
Gendry watched her go with an odd feeling, a combination of fondness and bemusement. Mikken on the other hand was just amused, because he laughed openly and shook his head. "That one's a right handful, isn't she? The Old Gods help the man she marries, she'll ride over him roughshod. Might let him think otherwise though." The old man glanced at him. "She's right though, lad. Just be who you are. You can't do nothing else but that. The Long Night's coming and there's the Others to deal with. And by the time that's done who know what you'll be used to? Take each day as it comes, lad."
He sighed and looked at the warhammer he had made again. And then he almost jumped out of his skin, because a voice behind him said: "Words of wisdom, all."
The two man turned. The Green Man was standing there in a corner, next to the other door. How had he entered so quietly? He was about to open his mouth to ask what he wanted, when old green-cloaked bugger tossed something at him. He caught it one-handed, almost dropping it in bemusement. It was a worn piece of armour – part of a gauntlet perhaps? It was metal – steel, with a bronze inlay and… runes?
"I need that replaced," the Green Man rumbled.
Gendry looked at it helplessly and was about to hand it over to Mikken when the Green Man spoke again. "Gendry Strongarm must do it."
"I must?"
"You must. Mikken, you need to keep making your halberds. The Others are coming." And with that he left through the door.
Baffled, Gendry looked at the closing door, then at the piece of armour and then at Mikken, who shrugged. "Don't ask me, lad. Green Men haven't been seen outside the Isle of Faces for centuries."
So he just shrugged himself and then looked at the piece of armour. Life was getting odder by the day.
Theon
By the time that a giggling Ros collapsed off the top of him and fell into the bed by his side he had stopped seeing double. Just about.
She looked down between her legs and then looked back at him with her eyebrows raised. "Saving it up for me were you my Lord?"
He grinned as his breathing slowed a little. "Been too long, Ros."
"You been too busy courting the ladies of the Court?"
He blew a raspberry. "Gods, what ladies? The Westerlands snobs? The scattering of Stormladies?" He shook his head, sweaty hair flipping about. "And the less said about the Queen the better. Snobby cold bitch even before she fell from grace.
Ros shuddered. "Fucking her own brother. Having his children. Beggars belief." She wrinkled her nose. "Southern perverts."
"They're not all like that," he said chidingly. "Not like us here in the North."
"'Us here in the North'? Ah, you're a man of the North now, my Lord," she giggled, her breasts shaking. "Lord Greymist."
"You've almost called my Theon Greyjoy twice tonight," he said with a smile. "Aye, I'm of the North now."
"And where will your keep be, my Lord?"
"On the Stony Shore. And I will build it high and strong, and build a town next to that, so that the shipyards I build there as well will be fully manned as I build the Starks a great fleet."
Ros looked at him, her head tilted to one side. "Ah, now there's the old Theon Greyjoy I remember! You and your plans!"
And this rattled him, that reference to the old him. Something of what he felt must have shown on his face, because her smile faded. "What?"
"I'm not boasting Ros. I'm not. I will do it." He fingered the little weirwood pendant around his neck. "I have sworn it by the Old Gods."
She stirred uneasily next to him. "That tale you told of how you got that pendant… it still gives me the collywobbles. And I know you promised… it's just that you always had such plans in the old days."
He stared grimly at the ceiling. "I know." And then he sighed. "I was a boastful twat."She looked at him levelly and he stirred a little. "I am not still being a boastful twat in all my talk about my keep and town and dockyards, you know. Lord Stark has promised me every help."
Ros nodded at that and then they just lay there for a long moment, content in each other's company. And then eventually Ros broke the silence. "So, who will be your Lady Greymist? One of the new girls from Essos?"
He laughed softly. "Anyone I want. Would you like to be Lady Greymist?"
There was a moment of utter shocked silence – and then she burst out laughing. "Me? Give over Theon! Don't be so daft! What a joke!"
"It's not a joke. Honest."
She half sat up. "Theon I'm a whore. You can't have a whore for a wife."
"You wouldn't be a whore. You'd be my wife."
"A Lord's wife can't be a former whore!"
"Why not?"
"Because… a lord has standards, or something! People would talk."
And now he laughed, bitterly. "Ros, they'll always talk about me. I could live to be 100, build the best fleet in history, stand back to back on the Wall with Robb Stark fighting against the Others, have half a hundred children like Lord fucking Frey and yet I'll still always be 'that former squid' to many in the North. How long did it take the Manderlys before they were no longer known as 'that lot from The Reach'? Five hundred years? Six hundred?" He shrugged. "So, people will talk. Let them. I want to be happy. Don't you want to be?"
She gaped at him – and then she lay back down next to him. "You are truly daft, Theon. Life's never that easy. Life…" She seemed to struggle with the words. "Life isn't a song! It's harder and nastier than that."
"I know it's not a song. The Others are coming for us all. That's not a song that's a nightmare. I've seen them, I know what they're like. They're a nightmare like the one I had about my brothers and the Drowned God. I broke out of that when I chose the Old Gods. And some people speak of lordships as being chained down by duties. But why not break out of that as well? I'm founding a new house, by my rules."
Ros stared at him for a long moment, and there were tears in her eyes, tears that she wiped away with her hand. "It's not possible," she said eventually. "I'm just a whore."
"Don't you want to be more than that? How long did you even want to be in this life?"
This threw her for a moment. "I want to be one of the lucky ones. Be careful, choose the right men, never get the pox, or never get turned ugly by the cure to the pox if I ever got it, own my own house. If I got that far."
"I like you." He licked his lips nervously. "Like you a lot. And I know that you've got a soft spot for me, because you're always available for me. You have your letters and your numbers. Why not?"
Blushing a little Ros once again stared at him. "Theon, you are daft. What would Lord Stark say?"
"He'd… I'd talk to him."
"What would your father say?"
"Bugger him," Theon replied bitterly. "I renounced his legacy when I changed my name, remember?" There was a tense moment of silence and then he sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "I'm headed for the Iron Islands with my sister in a few days. To Pyke, to help Lord Stannis Baratheon broker a peace there. And when I am there I'll tell my father that I'm not his heir any more. I'm Lord Greymist now, with my own direwolf. And there's nothing he can do or say to change my mind. I'm of the North now."
He said the words with such a drive and intensity that she just stared at him, as if she was no longer sure who or what he was. "You mean that," she said eventually. "All of it?"
"All of it," he replied. "Every bit of it. And what I said earlier. I've chosen a new path. So can you."
Something happened to her eyes at that point, something deep and emotional, like a fire appearing from the other side of a wall of ice. And then it vanished as she looked away and then stared at his crotch and his stiffening cock. "You'd better come back alive from Pyke, Theon Greymist. Because we need to talk. Now – get your money's worth and fuck me again. Hard."
Ned
"The Reach?" Cat said the words with deep dismay. "Ned, that's at the other end of the Seven Kingdoms! You'd be away for months! And what's all this about a gate?"
He took her in his arms and held her close for a long moment, trying to calm her down. He failed, he could feel that by the tautness within her frame, but she did relax just a hair.
"I won't say I'll be gone and back before you know it, but I'll be away for less time than you think. Asha Greyjoy has promised me a fast ship and a crew that will get me to Oldtown, sailing from Torrhen's Square."
Cat looked at him uncertainly. "Do you trust her? She's Ironborn."
"She needs our help. And the help of Robert. She will not let us down. She dare not. And her ship will get me there fast. She ordered it North and it should be there by now. I have to deal with Barbrey bloody Dustin and this fog in Barrowtownfirst, but then I'll be off down South – for as little time as possible – and then back again. I'll be back well before it's time for the baby to come, I swear it."
She looked at him again and then hugged him. "I'll hold you to your word, Ned Stark. You'd better come back. There's a war to be won at the Wall, after all."
He smiled and kissed her lips. "I'll be back. Now. There's a lot to be done. Robert and many of the other lords leave for the Wall to see the lay of the land in a few days. I leave tomorrow. It's important, Cat, this thing with this… gate. Don't ask me why or how. I just know it's important."
His wife sighed. "I don't like it Ned."
"Neither do I. But it's got to be done. I… I have a feeling about it."
And so Cat sighed and nodded and left to make the arrangements. He had issued his own orders, but he had a feeling that they would be inadequate compared to what she could do. He was, merely, her husband. And that made him laugh a little.
His feet took him through Winterfell afterwards, as the sun started to make its way down towards the horizon. He loved this place so much. The place that his ancestors had built. He sighed and then strode towards the Godswood. Perhaps he needed some guidance from the Old Gods? But then, before he reached it, he saw Robert. The King was sitting on the log he'd been using to train and was wiping his face with a piece of cloth. Judging from the sweat stains on his jerkin and the bucket of water at his feet, he'd been training. He was also staring at the nearby wall of Winterfell with a frown. So he went to join his friend.
"Are you well, Robert?" He asked the question in a low voice.
Robert started a little and then looked at him. "Fine, Ned, just fine. Just sitting here and thinking. And looking at that wall. Dropped the log earlier on. It scraped some of the moss off the lowest course of stones. Are those runes carved there?"
He looked and then nodded. "Aye, there are runes here and there on the stones. Never really thought much about it."
Robert sighed a little. "Storm's End has similar stones. First Men work, all. They knew things that we don't."
"Aye, but we have things that they did not."
Robert chuckled slightly. "Usually I'm trying to cheer you up, 'cause you're a dour bugger at times. But I am thinking that Bronze Yohn's worries about the runes are right. We do need to know more."
"I was thinking about that. We should ask Luwin and Maester Aemon. They'll take it very seriously indeed. I think that there are runes on the Wall as well."
Robert nodded. "I'll ask Aemon at the Wall."
Ned thought about how Robert would treat the old Targaryen and something of that must have been visible on his face. But Robert placed a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. "I'll treat the old man with all due respect, Ned. I know he's nothing like Aerys or Rhaegar. He's a Targaryen to respect. Those are words that I never thought I'd say, but it's true."
Ned nodded and then looked over his shoulder. Yes, they were truly alone. "He knows about Jon," he whispered. "And gave him advice. To do his duty to House Stark and stay alive. No ambitions, he said. No false sense of entitlement. No, Jon will do his duty and found a new House here in the North."
Robert studied his face carefully and then nodded. And then he grinned. "Is that red-haired Wildling lass going with him to Pyke? You know that she has her eye on him, don't you?"
"I know," Ned said with a sigh. Gods, he felt as if he needed to have eyes on the back of his head these days. Jon was dancing around with Ygritte, someone who expected certain things in a man. Ironically he had a feeling that Robert would approve of a match with Ygritte. If the truth about him ever came out then a Wildling wife would not be something that any Targaryen loyalist would find attractive. As for Robb and his yearning looks at Val… well, he needed to have a word with that boy. "I still don't like the idea of him going to Pyke. Balon Greyjoy is a fool."
"Stannis will be there. Not even Balon Greyjoy would be fool enough to go against the Hand of the King. The Reader's men should be there as well."
Ned nodded. "I know. But there's something about this Iron Islands matter that puts my teeth on edge. I don't know what it is. It just… bothers me."
Robert nodded. "I know, I feel it too. I've talked to Stannis. He'll be careful. You leave tomorrow with them?"
"Aye. And you go to the Wall after. Who's going with you?"
"The Lannisters. The Valemen too." He paused. "And Gendry too, I think. I want to see how he does on the Wall. Might bring Mya too. I've been watching them both, quiet-like. He's a good lad. Kind. Bloody good with a hammer. And she's good with horses. Got a hell of a mouth on her for those who cross her." He fell silent. "I've been a shit father to them both. That said, I didn't even know about the lad until this year. Still… he deserves better than he's known. And my Gods, they both look like me. Why didn't I see the truth about Joffrey and the others?"
"You didn't expect Cersei to betray you in the way that she did." Ned shook his head. "What's to become of her?"
A shrug was Robert's initial answer. "I think that Tywin Lannister has sent a raven to Jon asking him if there was a handy – and remote – island off the Vale somewhere. Exile. Just her and a female servant. Might not even allow the servant. Let her rot."
Ned sighed slightly. Good. He didn't want her blood on his hands. "Joffrey goes to the Wall with you?"
"Oh yes." Robert's eyes glittered. "Do you know, there were times when I was beset with boring shit in the Red Keep, with a thousand and one little things to bog me down, and I thought about tossing my crown on the table and telling them that I was abdicating and buggering off to Essos to found my own sellsword company. Do you know what stopped me? Two things. One was the thought of letting Jon down. The other was the fact that Joffrey would be King after me. And I knew that he'd be a shit King. Well… Robb's tale confirmed my worst fears."
There was a long moment of silence and then Ned sighed – and stood. "Well, now. We both have a lot to do."
"Aye," Robert rumbled as he stood as well. "I won't be trying to match your great ride South. I heard Rayder singing that song of his about it earlier. Catchy."
Ned could not help but to laugh a little. "Aye, he's a talented fellow, for a King beyond the Wall." They clasped forearms and then slapped each others shoulders, before breaking apart and walking off in different directions, he to talk to Luwin and Robert to hopefully change that sweaty and stinking shirt.
But it was Tywin Lannister who waylaid him first. The Lord of Casterly Rock strode towards him with his brother Kevan behind him. "Lord Stark, I would like a word if you please." The green eyes that swept over him were… intent, but not worryingly so.
"Of course Lord Lannister," he replied. "Is this a matter that requires my solar?"
A nod. "Perhaps so."
Frostfyre was waiting for him in his solar and as he sat in his chair she padded next to him and then sat by his side, her eyes on Tywin Lannister – who hesitated for a heartbeat and then sat himself, with his brother sitting behind him. Jory Cassell, who was a constant presence, closed the door at his nod and then stood there as a doorwarden.
"I would like to discuss the immediate marriage of my son Tyrion to your cousin Dacey Surestone," Tywin Lannister began. "You leave for the Reach tomorrow, I leave the Wall with His Grace the King not long after that. They are both of an age to marry, they seem to be fond of each other and above all it will forge a link between our two houses – and the North and the Westerlands – that will be important."
Ned blinked slightly. Bloody Hell, was Dacey a mindreader? And then he nodded. "Aye, I agree. Given the short notice it will not be particularly extravagant, but I agree." He looked to one side and then pulled out a sheath of papers. "Dacey has already made some plans for it."
Tywin Lannister's right eyebrow twitched upwards. "She has?"
He handed the papers over. "Oh yes. She is a Surestone to her bones."
The Lord of Casterly Rock looked through the papers quickly – and then for a fraction of a second smiled. It was gone in an instant, and then he passed the papers on to his brother, who took and read them with a frown. "Her father would be proud."
Ah. Her father. Ned nodded sombrely. "He is much missed."
After a moment of silence Tywin cleared his throat. "You should be aware that Tyrion is my official heir now. Ravens announcing that have gone back to Casterly Rock." He pulled a slight face. "You should also know that despite some… rumours about his height, he is more than capable of fathering children. He has had a… reputation as someone who enjoys the company of… certain women, and he has always had a supply of Moon Tea on him. On the occasions when certain women have not taken that, ah, concoction, I have always made sure that they were made to if they showed signs of pregnancy."
He looked at the man who would soon be his cousin by marriage. "Thank you," he said eventually. "I know that Dacey wants to make sure that there are Surestones after her."
"Which brings me to my other point," Tywin Lannister said. "The issue of inheritance. I know that there is a saying in the North that there must always be a Surestone in Surestone. As Tyrion is my heir, he is also responsible for making sure that there are Lannisters in Casterly Rock. I therefore propose the following: that their firstborn be a Lannister of Casterly Rock, but that their secondborn be a Surestone of Surestone."
"That is also agreeable to me," Ned said, before looking at Kevan Lannister. "The tenth page. Towards the bottom."
The older man frowned at him, shuffled through the pages – and then he stopped. His eyebrows went up and then he passed the page to his brother whilst winking at Ned. Tywin Lannister read the proffered page – and then he laughed for a moment. "Clever girl. Yes, her father would be proud. We are agreed then?"
"We are agreed." He held out his hand. And Tywin Lannister took it.
Old Griff
It was late. He was late. The man who called himself Old Griff carefully positioned the brazier on the deck of the ship. You had to be careful with fire on a ship. Too much tar, too much canvas and rope that might catch light. He looked at the flames and then scowled, before suppressing a yawn. It had been a long day.
He glowered at the flames. Too much had gone wrong these past months. Mopatis dying had been bad, although he hadn't mourned him that much. The Magister had only been interested in their enterprise because he thought that he could introduce slavery to Westeros and profit from it. Heh. No, he wouldn't have profited a single bronze coin from it if they had succeeded when the man was still alive. Not after being stuck full of arrows. Him and his Unsullied guards.
He heard the distinctive sound of boots on the gangplank that led to the shore and he placed a hand on his sword and looked at the entranceway. After a moment a cloaked and hooded figure came into view. As it reached the deck of the ship it looked about, spotted him and then hands came up to pull the hood down. Ah. Varys. The cockless wonder.
"You're late," he grated as the eunuch sat down opposite him and warmed his hands by the brazier. "I expected you hours ago."
"My apologies," Varys muttered. "However, you did choose a quite isolated anchorage, shall we say? The next boat is almost half a mile away."
"I've found that caution is better than boldness these days."
"Wise words," Varys simpered, and he looked at him. There were times when he didn't trust anyone and those times seemed especially heightened when he was around the Master of Ships of Westeros.
He looked back at the brazier. "We can talk freely here. The crew's buggered off to the nearest whorehouse and the boy is asleep."
Varys looked about. "Where is he?"
He jerked his chin at the forrard cabin. "Over there. He was tired."
"Good, then we can indeed speak freely. About many things."
Oh yes. "The Martells have gone silent on us. No letters, no promise of gold, nothing."
"Ah." Varys nodded as if he knew something that he did not. "I expected that."
"You did?"
"Indeed. The Call has made them cautious."
Fuck. The Call. The fucking Call. "I don't see why some bloody Northern superstition should have affected so many people."
Varys tilted his head to one side, like a bird peering down at something it didn't understand. "Well, it's both simple and hard to explain."
He waved a hand in utter denial. "No, enough. The Martells have cold feet. Fuck them." Yes, fuck them. He would have his revenge, despite them. "At least we have the gold that Mopatis left you."
Varys tilted his head the other way. "Ah, that. Yes, he did leave me gold. But not in the quantities we might have wished."
He opened his mouth, closed it again as he stuffed his temper back into the black hole where it seemed to spring from so easily these days and then said a single word: "What?"
The eunuch sighed. "Yes, he did indeed leave me a substantial amount of gold. But he also left a legacy to his illegitimate children, who were rather more plentiful than I might have imagined. I shall be looking into some of them, just to be on the safe side. Oh and apparently rather more money was left to the Magisters of Pentos than I had been lead to believe. Most peculiar. I have already asked about the truth of that with the Iron Bank, where his gold was deposited. I imagine that his last Will and Testament will be examined rather more closely than some would have hoped."
He repressed a snarl of fury. "Fools. We should deal with them later. Well, that should be enough to at least give the Golden Company a taste of what they need. We can make other arrangements and… what?"
Varys was staring at him as he didn't believe what he had just heard. "Your anchorage is remote indeed. You seem to be somewhat behind the latest news."
"What news?"
"Well, firstly the Golden Company is no more. It has broken up."
This was so unexpected that he stopped in mid-yawn. "What? Impossible!"
"All too possible I'm afraid," Varys said with a shake of his bald head. "They have split into three parts. One is off to Volantis I believe, to take up a contract. That part is mostly made up of the more Essosi of them. Another part is trying to get 'home' to Westeros, in answer to the Call. And the third seems to be drifting, irresolute and generally clueless as to what to do."
"The Call!" He hissed the word as if it pained his lips – which it virtually did. "The fucking Call! Mummery and lies! Stark's lies at that! Tales of Northern ghosts and snarks and grumpkins!"
"I fear not." Varys spoke the words in a hard voice and he looked at him in surprise. "The Call is true. I have seen the head of a wight. The men of the Night's Watch have been bringing them South in cages from the Wall. Cages that somehow stop them from rotting. I thought them nothing more than a trick at first, a mechanism from Myr. But no, they are real. They exist. And if wights are real, then the Others must be too." He tilted his head to one side. "Did you hear it? The Call?"
Sweat prickled his brow for a moment. He had heard it in his sleep. He still heard it in his dreams. House Connington went back a long way. How long? There were times when he didn't want to know. And he wanted to go home. To Griffin's Roost. He was needed there, he knew it. But… not yet. His revenge came first. "Mummery," he snarled. "Northern nonsense."
Varys sat there, his head still tilted. "Ah." He said softly after a while. "So you did hear it. I see it in your face." There was a pause and then he seemed to shrug. "The second thing is that Braavos has seized Pentos. Again."
"What? For what reason?"
"When Illyrio died he took a lot of the common sense of the Magisters with them. They spent a lot of time boasting about what they were going to do with Daenerys Targaryen's dragons. Such as burning Braavos to the ground."
He blinked. "Her dragons are real? Not just a tale?"
"Oh very real. I've seen them. Three dragons – the first born in more than a hundred years."
"And now Braavos has them. Them and the girl. Well, I know the city well. They might be… let's say rescued."
Varys had an odd look on his face. "Rescued? Oh, the Braavosi don't have them. They vanished from Pentos during the attack. All most mysterious."
He just looked at the cockles wonder. Mysterious? Really? "You have them," he said flatly. "Where have you stuck them?" Another yawn ripped its way out of him and he cursed the hour. The moon had risen.
"Me?" Varys simpered. "You have great faith in my abilities."
"I know you," he said flatly. "Where is she?"
"Safe." Varys said the word just as flatly.
There was a long moment of silence as they stared at each other and then he threw his hands up. "Very well, have your secrets!" He leant back, his mind working. "Well, this is a stroke of luck. We can marry the girl to the boy. How large are the dragons?" Another yawn.
"Very small," Varys replied. "Am I boring you?"
"It's been a long day. How long before they can be ridden?"
"I am no expert on dragons, but I imagine that it would be years. I see your plan, but there is a problem. You think that three dragons and two dragonriders would be a standard around which you could recruit all kinds of people? There's just one problem. The boy can't ride one of the dragons. And we both know why."
He looked at the eunuch and then quickly at the forrard cabin. "Keep your voice down, you fool!"
"Why? We both know the truth about the boy. He's not a Targaryen."
"Be silent!" He almost roared the words, but then a wave of weakness washed over him. Gods. This was more than tiredness. Was he ill? He looked down at his hands, which were trembling.
"Ah." Varys said the word with something odd in his voice. "Are you alright?"
"Just… tired." He squinted at the other man. He was so tired.
"It takes a while for it to reach full effect, depending on how large a person is."
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end. "What does?"
Varys smiled sadly. "I was not as late as you thought I was. I was here earlier. I was the cook who served the stew. I added some… seasoning. For you and the boy. A merciful poison, if such a thing can be described as that. Based on Slumberberries, or whatever the name is here. Concentrated of course. You go to sleep, I am told, and then every breath you take after that is shallower and shallower, until you die."
He gripped the handle of the dagger and tried to rise, but his legs betrayed him in an instant and he sprawled on the deck, the dagger slipping from his hand. Varys swept it up in an instant, moving like a cat and then standing over him. And then the full weight of the eunuch's words swept over him. No. He looked at the cabin.
"I'm sorry," Varys said regretfully. "The boy's been dead for at least an hour now. He felt its affects first."
Slowly, fumblingly, he scrabbled his way across the deck towards the cabin, getting weaker and more tired with every yard. It took an endless moment of fumbling to open the cabin door – and then he saw the motionless figure in the bunk. He somehow dragged his way to the bunk and then with trembling fingers felt for a pulse. There was none.
He slumped down by the bunk, his mind moving oh so slowly. Despair clouded everything, along with such weariness. He heard the footsteps and looked to one side. Varys was there with a lantern. "Why?"
Baratheon's Master of Whispers seemed to sigh a little. "Because the plan has gone to pieces and the Game of Thrones is in abeyance. Because your plan would never work, not now. Because the last thing that Aerys Targaryen did was to order his Hand, the Pyromancer Rossart to ignite the wildfire caches that had been secreted beneath the city. Because the Targaryens cannot rule Westeros, not just now, not while people remember such madness. We need a new plan. And you, with your need for revenge, would never agree to a more long-term plan. You would object, or get in the way, or just be yourself. I had to remove you from the board, as it were. So. Goodbye Jon Connington. Fare you well. And again… I'm sorry."
He glared at the wretched cockless wonder, wanting to spring to his feet and strangle the bastard, but he was tired.
So tired.
So very tired.
His eyelids fluttered – and then closed.
Tired.