Chapter 97: The Wolf at the gates
29 AF
King Robb Stark
The banners of the North cast long shadows upon the banks of the Honeywine. Oldtown, the oldest and grandest city in Westeros, lay before them, its pale stone walls standing solemn and unyielding, untouched by war. The Hightower loomed above all, its great beacon burning against the afternoon sky, a reminder that even in the face of conquest, Oldtown still stood apart. Yet no army poured forth from its gates. The city seemed to have chosen negotiation over steel.
He sat atop a great black stallion at the head of his host. He was no longer the bright-eyed youth who had ridden to war from the Wolfswood so many years ago. The weight of kingship and battle had left their marks upon him. His auburn hair had darkened with age, streaked now with gray. When he had looked at his face in his washing bowl this morning, his features had been lined with the burdens of a man who realized that tens of thousands depended on him, showcased by the wrinkles had sprung up around his eyes and across his forehead.
His once youthful strength had long settled into something heavier, tempered by experience, but recently it had often felt as if it were sapped out of him. As if something had punctured the core basin of his mental strength, and it now slowly leaked away through this invisible hole. Nonetheless, he steeled himself. He had never worn his armor for glory, he wore it for duty. Its grey steel may have been dulled by the passing year of campaigning, but it was no less formidable. He had to do his duty, and so he would. His father's sword, Ice, was strapped to his back—one of the last things that still tied him to the green boy he had once been.
Behind him, the northern banners flew—direwolves of Stark, flayed men of Bolton, proud horses of Ryswell, and many more flowing in a column as far as the eye could see. The wind carried the salt from the Whispering Sound, mixing with the scent of old parchment, incense, and the lingering fires of war from the lands behind them.
The North had come to Oldtown. For as long as he could remember, he had heard stories of this great city. His old teacher, Maester Luwin, had studied here for many years, and had spent many hours telling him about the inner workings of the Citadel and the clean cobbled streets and busy docks of the economic heart of the Reach. Those memories seemed multiple lifetimes ago. As a child, he had always wanted to visit it, but those feelings had past years ago, ever since his father had died and the responsibilities of the North and Riverlands had come to rest upon his shoulders.
"This city doesn't deserve its peace," came the low voice of Lord Benjen Ryswell, young and brooding, his hand only leaving the pommel of his sword for a second to dismount his horse. His father, Lord Roger, had died on the fields of the Reach, and ever since there had been a fire in this young lord that few amongst his vassals possessed.
He turned his head slightly, his blue eyes assessing the young man as he softly caressed his horse's flank to thank him for carrying him this way. He liked Benjen more than he had ever liked his father. Roger had been a loud and brash man, too reckless for his liking, but the son was different—quieter, more thoughtful. But beneath his intelligence burned something dangerous. Grief had sharpened him into something more volatile, and he knew well the dangers of a man seeking vengeance.
"Peace is not given, it is earned," He answered at last. "It seems that Oldtown has chosen to keep its gates shut and is deliberating keeping its swords sheathed. To me that is wisdom, not cowardice."
Benjen's jaw tightened. "Wisdom," he echoed, though the word tasted bitter. "I wonder if my father would think the same as he is now, his bones bound in some bag waiting to be transported home as his ghost wanders around southern fields, confusingly searching for a weirwood tree, he will scarcely find, to connect him to the Gods."
"Your father died as a Northman should," Lord Domeric Bolton commented, his pale eyes unreadable as he rode beside them. "With sword in hand, and an enemy before him."
Benjen exhaled sharply through his nose. "And yet here these men stand, untouched by that same war, waiting to welcome us like we are mere travelers on their road. His fingers flexed around his sword hilt. "The Reach fought us with everything it had, and Oldtown still stands, its towers high, its people warm in their beds. That is not justice."
"It is survival," Domeric corrected. "And survival is what truly rules the world, not justice."
The young Ryswell fell silent, though the tension did not leave his body. He watched him carefully. He had known vengeance himself—known the cold hunger of wanting justice for his own murdered kin. But vengeance was a poor kingmaker, and an even worse ruler.
Then came the sound of chains groaning. The vast gates of Oldtown, untouched by siege engines, began to creak open. The Northern host tensed, hands resting on hilts, but no flood of defenders rushed forth. Instead, a small group of men rode out into the open air, their tempo almost calm, deliberate.
At the center of them was a man in his early twenties, his face youthful but composed, his posture carrying an air of quiet confidence. He wore a suit of well-fitted mail, polished and too decorated to ever be practical, with a tunic over it in the colors of House Hightower—white and grey, with the sigil of his house embroidered subtly upon the chest. It was the garb of a highborn tourney knight, not that of a warrior. Nonetheless, he carried himself with the ease of one accustomed to command, yet there was no arrogance in his stance.
His dark blonde hair, tied back in a simple but elegant knot, caught the afternoon sun, and his clear blue eyes swept across the northern host, of which more arrived any minute, assessing without fear, observing without admiration. He had the measured composure of a man who knew his city still held power, even in the face of an army.
This was Ser Malgrin Hightower, younger brother to the late Lord Gerold Hightower and uncle to the boy-lord who now bore his family's title. Though only a few years past his knighthood, he had been forced into the role of regent for his nephew, and now he was the man who would decide the fate of Oldtown.
The knight dismounted and stopped a dozen paces before him, his posture straight, his expression carefully controlled. There was no sign of nervousness in him, nor any sign that he sought to impress the Northern king. It was a rare thing—many men who stood before an army that had subdued half the Reach were either awed or afraid, others would be angry and vengeful for the death of their elder brother. Malgrin Hightower seemed to be none of those things.
For a long moment, there was silence. The wind stirred the banners above the walls in the distance, the white tower of his house rippling in the warm southern breeze, while grey direwolves behind him eagerly answered their challenge.
Then, without flourish, Malgrin inclined his head—just enough to acknowledge his royal status, but not deep enough to suggest surrender. A delicate balance, one that few could maintain without inviting insult or appearing weak.
"King Stark," he said, his voice calm, measured. He did not speak quickly, nor too slowly—each word delivered with precision, carrying the weight of a man who understood the stakes at play. "Welcome to Oldtown."
"Ser Malgrin, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, although I hoped it would be under better circumstances", he greeted the knight back. He looked upon him and there was no fear in Hightower's eyes, but neither was there defiance. There was only calculation, a quiet confidence that Oldtown's value had not yet been diminished by the war raging beyond its gates.
He understood in that moment that while the Tyrell regent at Highgarden had wanted to give him a tongue-lashing, seeing their meeting as a way to vent her pain and anger and show her superiority, the Hightower regent wanted to give him something else: a game, a Southern verbal joust to salvage as much as he could out of this dire situation as he knew he couldn't win it on the battlefield. He was here to bargain.
He guided the knight towards a pavilion that had been quickly set up by his vanguard. It was a hastily erected thing, its Northern banners stark against the warm, salt-laden air of the Reach.
Inside, he sat down at the head of a long wooden table, one that had been set up in less than an hour, its planks still smelling of their travels. He had discarded his riding cloak, but his armor remained, as did Ice, as it was set against the leg of the table, a sight as familiar as the old scars he now saw lined across his body. He kept his blue eyes, colder than the winter wind, fixed upon the man seated across from him.
There, Ser Malgrin Hightower took a seat. He had accepted wine when it was poured for him, but had yet to drink, his long fingers resting lightly on the rim of the cup. His posture was relaxed, too relaxed, as if the weight of Oldtown's survival were merely another game of cyvasse, and not a city on the edge of ruin.
On his right, seated close to him, sat Rickard. Where he intentionally projected unyielding authority, his eldest son exuded calm control, the coiled patience of a wolf waiting for the right moment to strike.
Beside Rickard sat Ellard Dustin, future heir to Barrowton, his expression brooding. Like many Northern lords Ellard carried a personal weight in this war—his favorite uncle and cousin had died fighting in the Reach, his sister dying in childbirth in Winterfell while he could do nothing about it. His amber eyes burned with the quiet resentment of a young man who had lost too much, but he remained still, watching as the game unfolded before him.
On his left, as silent as a specter, sat Lord Domeric Bolton, pale as milkglass, his expression unreadable. He listened, always listening, his mind dissecting every word, every breath. Next to him, Lord Benjen Ryswell, younger and hungrier, tensed like a hound straining at its leash, the grief and anger of his father's death still hanging over him like a storm cloud.
Next to Malgrin sat only a handful of Oldtown's elite —two lesser nobles, a merchant, and a maester, only the nobles had the air of warriors but the first one was too old and the other seemed green. Malgrin alone bore the burden of negotiating with the wolf. In this spirit, he made his proposal first.
"One hundred and fifty thousand golden roses and the promise that Oldtown, House Hightower and all its vassals stay neutral for the continuation of this war. In turn you leave our city and remaining lands alone. Without our help, the Tyrells will falter. Nothing will stop you from subduing Tarly and winning this war."
He said it evenly, as though it was a generous offer. His blue eyes were unreadable, but he saw the calculation in them, the same quiet confidence Oldtown had always worn—the belief that it could always buy its way out of ruin.
He exhaled slowly.
He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable, tapping a slow rhythm against the table. His fingers curled once, twice, then stopped.
Then he stood. Grey Wind, who had been lazily dozing in the corner, peaked up. The wooden chair scraped sharply against the hastily laid-down pavilion floor as he pushed it back, the sudden sound making Malgrin's retainers stiffen, though Malgrin himself remained composed.
He looked down at him. "Do you take me for a sellsword, Ser Malgrin?" The words were quiet, but sharp, like a blade's edge pressed against the throat.
Malgrin did not blink. "I meant no insult, King Robb. Our walls are thick, and ably manned. Eight hundred well-trained and disciplined men of the City Watch. Five hundred knights and professional soldiers, and on top of that almost ten thousand volunteers. A rock thrown by a laborer is just as deadly as an arrow from an experienced archer. Even if you'd manage to penetrate our walls, the cost would be horrible. My offer prevents that." He let the knight talk, before once again looking down at him.
"But you have insulted me," he countered, pacing slowly around the pavilion. His boots thudded against the floor, measured and deliberate. It was clear that he would need to intimidate this young man. He seemed smart and calculated, but he thought himself too clever. Ser Malgrin had clearly been sheltered by the horrors of warfare until know, as he safely ruled over his brother's city, no doubt very ably. He would have to instill in him the gravity of not coming to an agreement.
"You have told me what you see in your city. Do you know what I see when I look upon your city?" He asked him evenly.
Malgrin said nothing.
"I see a place that believes itself untouchable. A city that hasn't truly suffered war this generation, that has watched from its high tower while the rest of Westeros bled. You sit atop your wealth and knowledge, believing that gold and words will always be enough. Aye, decades ago you came close to ruin when Euron Greyjoy attacked, but you weren't yet born then, and his attack failed in the end. He never entered your city, and deep down you don't believe we will either."
He turned, facing him directly now. "But gold and words will not stop this storm. If it is only this that you propose, we will end this meeting here. I wish you good luck with your defense, you will need it. You will find the heart of your laborers to be weak against a tide of Northern steel, and their courage to easily falter."
The silence that followed was thick. Domeric remained still, but his pale lips curved ever so slightly, a flicker of amusement at Malgrin's first misstep. Benjen Ryswell snorted, shifting where he stood.
Rickard remained still, his sharp blue-gray eyes watching the exchange, silent but present. He did not shift, did not flinch. He had seen him play this game before. His son studied Malgrin carefully, but his face betrayed nothing. He felt proud at his conduct. Usually, it was he who played the role of the brutal Northman, it came more naturally to him, but this was no insignificant lord, this was House Hightower. It had to come from him, from the king not the prince.
Malgrin exhaled. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet his. Still composed, still calculating. "What, then, do you want, King Stark?"
"I will give you two choices." He leaned forward, resting both hands upon the table, his voice quiet, cold and dangerous.
"Option one—Oldtown burns."
No one moved.
He let the weight of his words settle before he spoke again, his tone flat, factual, inevitable. "Your wharves and docks will be the first to go. Every ship in your harbor turned to embers. Your lifeline to the world, to power and wealth, gone."
His fingers curled against the wood. "Then we slaughter your people. Men, women, children—we will leave none behind. Your streets will run red with blood until your canals flow with corpses. The scent of burning flesh will choke the air, and the silence that follows will be deafening. You may not have seen it before, but I have. Ask the survivors of Tumbleton, if you can find any."
His voice never wavered, as Ryswell and Dustin looked upon him with grim satisfaction.
"Then we break your city. Your walls, torn down. Your homes, leveled. The Starry Sept?" He tilted his head slightly. "Reduced to rubble."
Malgrin still did not speak, but his grip on the table had tightened, his companions' eyes wide as walnuts from the rich Reach orchards.
He continued, his gaze unrelenting.
"And the Citadel," he added softly, "will be methodically plundered. Every book, every scroll, every piece of knowledge will be stripped from its halls and carried to Winterfell and Harrenhal, where it will be put to proper use. Then we burn it. Whether we take the Hightower itself won't matter. After we have gone, and you come out of your hiding holes, you will find nothing but ash and ruin to rule over."
Still, Malgrin did not react. But his retainers did.
The lesser lords shifted uncomfortably. The maester exhaled sharply, casting a nervous glance toward his regent. The Reachmen, who had earlier stood so silent and composed, began to realize the gravity of the threat. The mention of Tumbleton was enough to instill pure dread in their hearts.
For added effect, he simply waited. Finally, after a long moment, Malgrin inhaled slowly.
His grip on the table relaxed, and when he spoke, his voice was unchanged—but he was no longer testing, no longer playing.
"And what," he asked, "is the other option?"
He gave a slow nod. "You let me inside."
Malgrin lifted his chin slightly.
"You will pay me a proper tribute—gold, silver, enough to reflect Oldtown's true worth. Your sister Mallora will marry Ser Alester Florent, to ensure peace and stability after I leave these lands. In return, I spare your city. I do not touch your Citadel. I do not touch the Starry Sept."
Malgrin waited. In response, he smiled coldly. "But the High Septon comes with me, he is to face justice for his actions. Every Most Devout representing the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale will be taken into my custody." He paused. "We will see that they understand their faith belongs to the new world order created thirty years ago. If they wish to represent their flock, they can, and my people can adhere to the Seven freely as their forefathers, my own maternal kin, has always done. But those men sat in Oldtown, enjoying its luxuries with their fat bellies full of wine while they either condoned a Holy War against their own people, or wrote letters to their king not to honor their alliance. This will not happen again. No Northman or Riverlander will ever sit on those conclaves again. I will create for them similar institutions where they can freely organize their faith, but without the influence of outside powers. Never again will they be bribed with luxury while they doom their kinsmen back home. And again, you will let me inside."
A heavy silence followed.
Malgrin did not react at first. Then, after a long moment, he exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. He did not argue. He did not bristle. He seemed to think. Finally, he lifted his cup, swirling the wine idly before taking a single, slow sip. Then he set it down.
"Now, that," Malgrin murmured, his lips curving in what might have been the ghost of a smile, "is an offer worthy of the legends some attribute to you." The smile didn't rise to his eyes though, those looked as calculating as before, but he seemed to observe a hint of fear behind it, expertly masked but still visible. He saw the comment for what it was: a ploy to win time so the man could think. He didn't care. He could think as much as he wanted.
"I am no legend, nor do I care for them." He flatly replied, dismissing the attempt at flattery. "I am the King in the North and the Riverlands and I am stood here before your gates with an army that will only swell with each passing day. Many of my vassals have broken off from our host to attack your vassals, at Honeyholt and Uplands for example, once those keeps have fallen their men will reinforce our forces here. In the meantime, your resolve will weaken, and your walls will crumble. They will fall, sooner or later, and the horrors that take place then will be on your head."
Malgrin didn't respond on his comment. "I had heard that you allied yourselves to the remnants of House Florent. I hadn't expected you to be negotiating their betrothals."
"The three sons of the late Lord Alekyne have already laid siege to their ancestral castle together with my brother Brandon. They will soon reclaim it and all their old lands. Once they have done so, they will once again become one of the strongest houses in the Reach. They were good enough for you to marry into then, I recall your own grandfather marrying a Florent at some point, they should be good enough now."
"You are right there. Nonetheless, I seem to recall that some of those ancestral lands now belong to a major vassal of my nephew, namely House Beesbury." Hightower responded.
"Let's call that your sister's dowry." He retorted, to which the knight nodded, understanding that this was not a request but a demand.
"You forget that our city hasn't fallen yet. I have told you our numbers before, and our walls are strong. Your attacks may falter."
"Of no consequence," he waved away the meek attempt at power play. "As I told you before, my army will only get stronger. All losses from previous attacks will continuously be replenished. Besides, my youngest brother Rickon marches on Bandallon, while an Ironborn fleet helps him from the seas. When House Blackbar falls, your coastal vassals will be next until they come here. The Ironborn will gladly help me to succeed where they failed under your grandfather's reign."
Now he saw a clear flicker of fear well up in the young knight's eyes. He tried to hide it, which he was much more adept at than his advisors. The merchant, especially, who sat on the side started wailing softly about the financial losses his family had incurred under the Ironborn thirty years ago.
"I will give you your gold, let's say … three hundred and fifty thousand golden roses?" He asked, to which it was his own turn to nod. It was a much fairer number. He would of course be able to easily raid ten times that amount by sacking the city, but this way he wouldn't lose any men and Oldtown would still be able to contribute to the general war indemnities the Reach would have to pay.
"I will agree to your proposal for my sister's hand, as well as your suggestion to the dowry. If the Florents are back, we will welcome them in our midst as before." He was content with that.
"However, your suggestion for the Faith is … impossible. I could never give over the head of the Faith, neither could I force some of the Most Devout to go with you against their will." Hightower tried to negotiate.
"Then I guess this conversation is over." He shrugged. "I will not budge on this. The High Septon is a criminal that needs to be put on trial, and my kingdom's religious representation in an organization run by houses from the Reach is something I will not tolerate."
Dustin and Ryswell both hummed their support, while Rickard nodded to reflect his approval. Domeric's mouth curled into a terrifying grin reminiscent of his late father. The message was clear: everybody on his side of the table wanted this.
Hightower blinked a few times, clearly deep in thought. "I can't do as you propose, however I might be able to help achieve your goals in another way." He simply raised his right eyebrow in response, urging him to elaborate.
"My house has a lot of influence among the Most Devout. Now that the kingdoms are divided and at war, and King Garlan is dead, they are without an obvious patron. They will look for guidance on what to do. This, in combination with our influence, a few well-placed bribes and the immediate effect of the army in front of the gates could sway the majority Most Devout to denounce the High Septon and strip him of his position amongst the Most Devout. It would be highly unusual, but it could work." Hightower voiced aloud in thought.
"Meaning what?" Ryswell asked, clearly annoyed that they were still wasting their time now that their opponent had rejected their demands.
"Meaning that he would return to being a normal septon, who can be turned over for war crimes initiated in a foreign kingdom." Ryswell looked stunned, but now it was his time to grin. Maybe he could work with this Hightower after all.
"Similarly," the knight continued. "We can never force any of the Most Devout to follow you, however we can strip them of their status. Those willing to keep their status can freely choose to join you, while those who won't return to serve as simple septons inside some of Oldtowns many septs. Thereby effectively ending representation of your kingdom in the ranks of the Most Devout, which I swear to you will not be replenished."
He thought it over, before agreeing after a little while. "I would like you to acknowledge that you realize what this will cost us, both in prestige and monetarily." The young knight cleverly added.
He nodded. "After we have reached an agreement, we will talk trade deals. I will take your willingness to cooperate here into account there."
Ser Malgrin seemed deep in thought, but nodded, nonetheless. The knight then steeled himself. "However, I cannot let you and your army inside our walls. This is off the table."
"What about me and a small part of my army?" He countered, to the dismay of his lords, who started protesting this idea. He paid them no mind.
"Why do you want to go inside?"
"I have been raised on tales of Oldtown and the Citadel since I was a little child. I am forty-six years old. I would like to verify those for myself. Besides, I have questions for the archmaesters." He answered to the surprise of many.
The maester at the opposite side of the table looked to him in shock. "You would want a meeting with the archmaesters? Why?" The older man asked him.
"Much of the North's history is shrouded in myths and legends. Many of them are concoctions of imaginative minds, but some are not. I have found evidence proving at least a handful of those. If there is one place that can have any information and answer at least some of my questions, then it must be the Citadel."
The bookish old man looked deeply into his eyes. "There is a reason that the answers to some of your questions have been lost, Northern king. The Citadel does not like to dive into the old mysteries. Novices and acolytes are discouraged from pursuing it. Only one in a hundred maesters forges their Valyrian steel link."
He nodded. "I know this, but my old teacher had. His insights were invaluable to my understanding of them. Ever since his passing, I have lacked the knowledge to answer new questions that have arisen over the years. I would like to change that."
Something dark flashed across the old man's eyes. "I would advise against this, King Stark. I know many of the archmaesters personally, the Citadel does not wish the higher mysteries to be disturbed. You yourself killed the last living dragons in Planetos. Many have seen this as the final sign that some things are better left to be forgotten."
"Forgetting knowledge is never the answer. My people have written down everything there is to know about the dragons, and have collected as much as possible from the archives of King's Landing to pass it down to our descendants. Knowledge is essential to understand the world, and understanding it is necessary to govern it justly and efficiently. Besides, it is not the place of the Citadel to deny a king knowledge, let alone a whole kingdom. My lords and I pay a significant portion of the Citadel's revenue each year. I have the right to request a meeting with the Archmaesters about any topic I desire." He countered.
The maester looked at him in disapproval, but didn't respond. Ser Malgrin again took the initiative. "You can hardly ride up to the Citadel alone, King Stark, neither can I let your entire army inside or face rebellion and riots."
"What about my suggestion for a smaller force? Some two thousand men as a guard to protect me." He proposed, now hell broke loose around him. Dustin and Ryswell shouted that this was suicide. Domeric strongly expressed his concerns for a trap, and Rickard looked at him in shock pleading him not to do this.
"Two thousand men is far too many. Such a force could easily overpower my men from the inside long enough to open the gates. I will not allow such a danger. Five hundred men, maybe." Ser Malgrin replied harshly.
"A thousand", he bargained.
Ser Malgrin locked eyes with him for a long while. "Eight hundred, and that will be the highest I will ever allow. Your route through Oldtown will be predetermined. You will neither pass the Hightower, nor the Starry Sept. After speaking to the archmaesters at the Citadel, you will go back the same route you came from. Neither you, nor your men, will walk Oldtown freely, lest we want to risk riots. Many of our people lost kin during your campaigns. They will not look fondly upon your arrival."
The maester next to him wanted to protest, but the Hightower knights made sure they weren't interrupted. "I agree to those demands."
"I will expect you and your men at the northeastern most gate one hour after sunrise tomorrow." Hightower continued, but Rickard cut him off.
"There is no way this will happen without the exchange of hostages. My father won't set a step inside your city tomorrow before adequate hostages have arrived in our camp." His son cleverly interjected. Ser Malgrin sighed but nodded in agreement. Ryswell muttered that no Southern hostage would ever come close to being adequate, but he ignored him. Likewise, the maester's hostile looks were disregarded.
They finished the day with trade talks. They went back and forth a few times, until it was agreed that for the next 50 years his kingdom would have the pre-emption rights on five percent of the produce of House Hightower and its vassals. The actual amount didn't matter all too much. What mattered was that it would greatly undermine the authority of Highgarden in the future.
House Hightower would dedicate a wharf in the Oldtown harbor to trade with his kingdom. The wharf, which would be renamed to the Northern Wharf, would be big enough for six ships to moor at the same time. For the next thirty years, the toll on the Northern Wharf would only be half of the normal toll and only ships from the North and Riverlands would be allowed to dock there. In return, he promised to export lumber and wool at favorable rates. This created goodwill with Ser Malgrin and would once again boost trade along the western shore, giving ample opportunities to the houses there to the delight of both Dustin and Ryswell.
After these talks, they shook hands and parted ways. Tomorrow, he would be allowed to enter inside the city.
(The next morning)
The early chirping of the birds woke him, and he quickly got up from his straw bed. As he washed his face, Galbart almost ran in while still trying to get the crusts out of his eyes. His grandson had probably heard him wake and had jumped up to do his duty. He smiled at the boy and ruffled his hair, before they prepared for the day together. He donned his mail, just in case, but over it he wore a splendid white tabard displaying a grey running direwolf on both his front and back. His horse would wear a similar one.
A sword hung from his belt, as he had given Ice to Rickard. His father's sword was far too precious to risk inside of Oldtown. Besides, if it came to it, street fighting was not the place for a greatsword.
He broke his fast together with men from his extended family and rejoiced in the act, even though the atmosphere was tense. Many didn't want him to go inside the city, some even calling it folly. He understood their reasons, but he had his own. He had to visit the Citadel. The only absentee at the meal was his son Jon, who had insisted on arranging the prisoner exchange before he would set foot into Oldtown.
After he had finished eating, he walked outside to see his horse saddled and ready for him. Other horses, similarly prepared, flanked it. His nephew Rion dutifully stood next to them, probably on Rickard's orders. He greeted the lad and thanked him, as he climbed up his horse. Silently, his son and heir did the same next to him. They had fought last night, a thing they seldom did.
Rickard had called him a fool for insisting on visiting the Citadel. He found that he risked his life and the fate of the family and the kingdom for it, but he was wrong. Rickard was ready to rule and House Stark and the kingdom would be in good hands if something were to happen to him. Nevertheless, he had given his eldest son clear orders. If something went awry, he was to burn down Oldtown and commit a slaughter. That would ensure his reputation as his ruthless successor and deter anyone from trying to take advantage of the succession to test their kingdom.
As they reached the gate, Jon rode up to him. "Lord Hightower's younger brother and heir and Ser Malgrin's young daughter have both been handed over into our care, together with two of Ser Malgrin's cousins, Sers Uthor and Garth Hightower."
"Thank you, son. You did well." Jon smiled at him in return, but it didn't reach his eyes. He looked over both of his sons as he dismounted.
"Stop fretting so much. This won't be the last time you see me." He told them, but they didn't seem entirely convinced. He sighed.
"If this would be the last time we would talk, I would say this." He told them, and both snapped to attention. "I couldn't wish for better sons than the two of you. Rickard," he looked towards his eldest. "You are the best heir a father and king could wish for himself. Whether I die today or in twenty years, I know that in the moment of my death the kingdom and our house will be safe, and this will always allow me to join the Gods contently and without concerns. If your son Edwyle becomes half as capable as you are, this will indeed become the age of the wolf." His eldest son nodded thankfully in response to his kind words.
"Jon," he voiced, as he switched his focus to his youngest son. "You have become a strong and able Northman. A wolf that all are ancestors can be proud of, and that fills a father with immense pride. You have everything in you to become a good father, skilled warrior and a powerful and able advisor to your brother. I count on you to keep him straight and to remind him of the priorities of our house, should he ever forget about them. I know you never will."
His youngest son nodded dutifully, but he saw the gleam in his eyes. He hugged both his boys strongly, before walking over to Cley. His goodbrother was ordering the last preparations before they together would enter the city. He had refused the company of all other high lords, allowing only minor nobles, distant cousins and noble bastards to accompany him, but Cley alone had convinced him of his presence. He had two able-bodied sons, one in the army and one in the North, and he could count on him with his life. It was all the backing he would ever need, and he had made him his second-in-command today. Besides, it was clear that Cley intrinsically knew why he wanted to visit the Citadel so badly. Arya wasn't the most secret of wargs.
An hour later, the hooves of his stallion rang against the ancient stones of Oldtown's streets, a steady, deliberate rhythm that echoed off the tall white buildings flanking the road. The city had never seen a direwolf enter within its walls before, nor seen northern soldiers march inside it. Yet today, that changed. Grey Wind stalked beside the banners of the silver tower of House Hightower, an intimidating sight for its inhabitants to see.
At his back, eight hundred Northmen marched in silence, their armor dulled and their expressions grim and unreadable beneath the shadows of their helms. They had received clear orders. They were not here to sack, nor to burn—but they were here to be seen, to remind Oldtown that its fate had rested upon the edge of his blade, and only by his mercy and the diplomatic abilities of their regent did it still stand.
Lining the streets, keeping the populace at bay, stood hundreds of Oldtown guardsmen and Hightower men-at-arms. Their presence was as much for show as for security, but even so, they did not meet the eyes of the northern host. They stood with rigid backs, their polished helms catching the light, but there was an unease among them, a stiffness to their posture.
The people of Oldtown—merchants, scribes, scholars, dockworkers, craftsmen, septas, and traders—stood pressed into the edges of the streets. Some whispered, others shouted, but most simply stared, watching as the Flower trampler, his most recent epithet, rode through their gates.
Some looked relieved. Some looked afraid. And some looked angry. The air hummed with their whispers; voices hushed but thick with uncertainty.
"Why is he here?"
"The Northmen...in Oldtown... Seven save us."
"Do they mean to stay?"
"I heard the Starry Sept was to be burned..."
"The Citadel— they are marching towards the Citadel!"
He heard them, though he did not acknowledge them.
He had seen this before—the wary eyes of the defeated, the uncertainty in their expressions, the way some glanced toward their soldiers as though hoping they would fight back. They would not.
The Hightowers had made their choice.
At the back of their convoy, clad in fine but practical armor, rode his goodbrother. He could imagine him sitting on his grey horse, as he had done during so many campaigns together. His brown eyes sweeping across the city with curiosity and calculation.
Cley had followed him since the beginning of his first war. From the Whispering Wood to the Battle of the Reach, he had held his banner high. Now, as he rode through the oldest city in Westeros, he understood the power of perception and the danger of their presence here. He would keep his composure, of that he had no doubt.
Ahead, rising like a monument to knowledge itself, the Citadel loomed. Its towers of gray stone, its bridges and halls, its vast archives of wisdom collected over thousands of years—all of it stood unburnt and untouched by the test of time.
At the front of the procession, clad in silver and white, Ser Malgrin Hightower rode next to him.
The knight had insisted upon being here himself. A statement, no doubt. A reminder that Oldtown still belonged to the Hightowers, even in surrender. His posture remained calm, composed, but he did not miss the tightness in his shoulders, nor the way his eyes flicked to the crowd. He had done well in securing the city's submission, but Malgrin Hightower was not a fool. He knew that his people—his scholars, his traders, his septons, and most of all the mob of his dockworkers and journeymen—resented this moment.
They could not fight it. But they resented it, and resentment was a seed that could fester if left unchecked. He knew this better than most, after the recent events in the Riverlands.
A young boy stood on a wooden crate near the street's edge, staring at the procession, his face set in something close to defiance. His clothes were fine—a merchant's son, perhaps, or a knight's bastard—but his fists were clenched. His father, standing behind him, yanked him back before his stare could become too obvious.
He did not react, but his men saw it too.
"A city that does not bleed does not forget," Artos Snow murmured, voice low enough that only he could hear. Artos was the bastard son of Lord Liddle's younger brother. During the campaign, he had shown himself to be a skilled warrior and quick and capable commander. He was the perfect candidate to accompany him now; low enough in standing that he would not be missed if things went awry, skilled and capable enough to be useful when they did, and ambitious and brave enough not to be deterred by the possibility.
He did not turn his head, did not look at him, but he answered, equally low. "Nor does it forgive."
The Citadel's gates remained closed, but hundreds of maesters stood in front of it in its shadow—some young, some old, all of them watching him as he approached.
He slowed his horse to a halt. An older man stepped forward, and by his broach he recognized him as the Seneschal of the order of the maesters.
"Greetings, King Robb. My name is Archmaester Gladys, I am the Seneschal of the Citadel. I am here to ask you why you have come. Our home is no place for kings nor conquerors."
He ignored the jab and smiled respectfully in return. "Greetings, Archmaester. I have come here for the only reason men, king or peasant, ever come to the Citadel, in the pursuit of knowledge. In my youth, as the heir of the Warden of the North, I had the privilege of being educated by one of your own, Maester Luwin." He paused, as he looked around the faces of the twenty or so archmaesters who had stood just behind their Seneschal.
"Maester Luwin was one of the few educated in the 'higher mysteries', having formed his Valyrian steel link here at the Citadel over half a century ago. As a child, I had always been interested in his stories, which he indulged me in. However, during my lifetime I have been forced to acknowledge that they aren't just stories. I have fought dragons in the Stormlands, met wargs on the other side of the Wall and have heard credible stories detailing feats of giants, greenseers and magic priests in recent decades. I have been forced to deal with surprises of a magical kind on my instances during my reign. I am here to learn more about them, so I can tell my sons and make it so they can be prepared if they should return."
He saw many of the Archmaesters scoff, although others looked at him hostility, some even with interest. Gladys looked at him with a fake smile. "There is no need for that, Northern king. The dragons are dead, and with them the last vestiges of magic in this world. You have far more important things to worry about in your wars and rulings. The study of the higher mysteries is an arduous and wasteful use of your time."
"You said the same to my ancestors before the coming of Daenerys Targaryen. Then, we were suddenly forced to deal with the coming of dragons. Only the personal histories of the Celtigars and observations that others had paid their lives for allowed us to deal with her baby dragons. Had they been twenty years older, we would have all been doomed. I will not take the risk of this ever repeating. Besides, as I said, there are other mysteries as well. In past decades, I have seen with my own eyes that magic hasn't fully left this world. I want to know what our ancestors thought of them, and how they dealt with it." The Seneschal wanted to answer, but he cut him off and continued.
"The North had many records, but many have been lost or become incomplete due to fires, wars or neglect. The remainders are scattered and chaotic. Maesters over the centuries have sent copies of these to your archives, this is a fact. I have records of dozens of instances of this happening in Winterfell alone. Now, I would wish to look into these records. My early ancestors had the forbearing to write them down, sadly their descendants couldn't or wouldn't care for them. I am here to rectify that mistake." He finished.
Many of the Archmaesters looked visibly annoyed. "I repeat, there is absolutely no need King Robb. Daenerys Targaryen's dragons were an anomaly. The last remnants of a time long forgotten. I am sure that there is a logical explanation for all the things that you have heard or that you think you saw. There are no such things as greenseers or giants, at least not anymore. They are concoctions of your earlier ancestors. Fictional exaggerations to make their stories more compelling and exciting."
He grew angry. Either Gladys was stupid, or he was overtly lying, and he didn't strike him as stupid. He had met the late Jojen Reed on many occasions, the man had clearly been a greenseer which had contributed to his early and untimely death. He had even warned him about war with the Reach in the future, he had only later realized. His cryptic messages had always been difficult and dangerous to interpret.
The stories that had come from the Free cities, and especially Volantis, about fire magic were difficult to ignore. However, the most obvious thing was of course that he himself was a warg, as were all his children, siblings and even many of their children. His brother Jon had even managed to warg into a dying dragon.
"Whether you find this a waste of my time or not, doesn't concern me, Archmaester Gladys. I would never dare to doubt your skill or intelligence in your expect subject, but I see that you haven't personally forged your Valyrian steel link. I would at least want to discuss this with a specialist. Who is the Archmaester for the 'higher mysteries'?" He asked.
This clearly angered Gladys, but another, even older, man to his left shuffled forward. "I am Archmaester Gunthor. I am the head of the 'higher mysteries'." He gave a sideways glance to his Seneschal. "I can only agree with Archmaester Gladys. I have studied the old texts for decades. Nowhere is there any indication that magic will ever come back. Most of the texts we have speak of unnatural occurrences, easily explained by natural occurring events. The stories you heard about skinchangers and greenseers are just that Your Grace, stories. They tell us a lot about the world view of the First Men but aren't at all credible."
"You are mistaken, Archmaester. I saw wargs, or skinchangers as you call them, in action with my own eyes. Others can verify this too. These aren't mere tales. Magic is still around is and I want to know more about it." He retorted.
"You have seen men change into the skins of animals?" A voice called from behind the archmaesters. He looked to find who was talking and found a middle-aged man in maester robes at the front of the hundreds of maesters standing before the gate. He seemed to have only realized what he said after he did so and tried to shuffle back into the crowd as he felt the angry stares of the archmaesters upon him.
"Aye, I have. What do you know about them? Who are you?"
"He is no one, King Stark." The Seneschal waved his concerns away, but he would not have it.
He looked the maester at the back deep into his eyes. "These men here before me might be your superiors, but I am still a king. You will answer me when I ask you a question." He ordered. The archmaesters looked for help towards Ser Malgrin Hightower, but he didn't let the knight's weak objections stop him.
"Out with it!" He snapped.
"My name is Maester Benedict, Your Grace. I am part of the department of Higher Mysteries, where I serve as Archmaester Gunthor's second. Have you really met skinchangers?" The last question was added with genuine curiosity.
"Aye," he nodded, "they gave me some advice on how to deal with my wolf." He confirmed, looking over to Grey Wind.
"A direwolf …" the man responded. "Some might even consider that to be a magic creature. Your ancestors sure did. It is all over their writings." Maester Benedict replied in wonder, clearly forgetting where he was. Otherwise, he wouldn't have dared to open his mouth because of the hundreds of deadly stares coming his way.
"I consider myself to be one of those. Grey Wind is far too intelligent to be without magical element. I owe him my life ten times over." He responded, before looking back to the Seneschal.
"I formally request entrance to the Citadel, Archmaester Gladys. I wish to learn more about the higher mysteries. I want to read the words of my ancestors and the commentary it produced from earlier generations of maesters. Will you allow me inside?"
The Seneschal shuffled on his feet. "We cannot do that, King Stark."
"Why not? I remember many nobles studying at the Citadel. Targaryens, Martells, … even Riverlords have studied at your prestigious institution. Why would you deny me?"
"You are free to visit other parts of the Citadel, King Stark, but we can't allow you entrance to the Department of the Higher Mysteries." Archmaester Gunthor answered, much more resolutely.
He nodded and scratched his beard, as the sun from the Reach fell across his face. "I see."
He looked towards the crowds behind the archmaesters. He hoped that he had judged the curious man rightly. "Maester Benedict, I formally request that you enter my service. I will of course pay the Citadel the customary amounts. For your trouble, I will triple your rates. In return, I will allow you entrance to the private libraries of Harrenhall, Riverrun, Winterfell and those of all other Northern lords willing to cooperate, which I believe will number in the dozens. I will allow you to analyze giant's bones and examine our direwolves. I will also bring you into contact with a skinchanger."
Even from this distance, he saw the man's eyes grow wide. Whispers from maesters and onlookers all around erupted at that. "Blasphemy!", "Lies!", "Northern savage!", he could hear, but he ignored them all.
"You know a skinchanger? You can bring me into contact with him or her?" Maester Benedict responded, not even trying to hide the wonder in his tone.
"Aye."
They stared at each other for a few seconds, as screams and shouts erupted all around them. Suddenly, the middle-aged maester smile broadly. "I will gladly join your service, Your Grace! To interact with a living skinchanger, and document it, is an opportunity any student of the higher mysteries dreams off. Many of my predecessors have made it their lifework, but to no avail. I will not squander this chance." He beamed, as he walked up to him.
"Get back, Benedict!" Archmaester Guntor hissed. "You will regret this!"
"If you do this, you will be banished from the Citadel forever! We will cut your chain. You will be an outcast!" The Seneschal yelled so loudly that the maester stopped dead in his tracks.
Maester Benedict shot one look to Grey Wind, studying his companion for a mere second, before closing the last of the distance between them.
"I want you to examine everything there is to find in the North and the Riverlands and compare it with your own knowledge. Is there anything more that you would need from here?" He asked him, ignoring all the Southerners around him.
The maester looked at him pensively. "Acolytes, Your Grace. I cannot do it alone." He nodded in understanding.
"Anyone else willing to join me will also be paid triple your regular rates. You will be allowed the same access as Maester Benedict, but you will fall under his supervision. If you have any interest, come forward now!" He proclaimed, as he looked over the hundreds of maesters and acolytes in front of him.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a young man, no older than twenty, pushed himself forward from his position at the back of the crowd. Another, of a similar age followed, and then another until in total six men had come forward.
He looked them over. Two seemed to be novices, not having forged a single link yet. Three were acolytes. One had but a simple link in ravenry, the second had forged three and the third had seven links. Crucially, the latter two had both received their Valyrian steel links. The sixth member was a full-fletched maester, over a dozen links hanging from his chain.
He exchanged looks with Benedict, who looked immensely pleased as he greeted the maester and two of the acolytes personally.
"You cannot do this! That is half my department!" The ancient Archmaester Gunthor screamed. Seneschal Gladys looked him into eyes. "King Stark, you cannot do this! You will be making an enemy of the Citadel. I would think carefully before accepting these outcasts into your service!"
He blinked slowly, as he tried to wrap his head around the threats. "Archmaester Gladys, it is you who doesn't understand. You aren't allowing me to investigate the notes that my own ancestors wrote. That alone would be enough to earn my ire. Instead, I try to solve this amicably and work my way around your unfounded and insulting refusal. Do not forget that my kingdom and its vassals pay fortunes to the Citadel each year for the service of your order. You depend on information coming from my lands to learn about the changing of the seasons and the workings of the kingdoms."
He pierced into the Seneschal's eyes. "I would think your actions over once more, you don't wish to make an enemy of me. All of the coin and information would cease coming south in an instant if you do so at a time were your main donors are lacking coin, and their fields are ravaged by armies and Ironborn."
"I cannot allow you to purge our members!" Gladys rebuked loudly.
"I don't. Acolytes and novices are free to come and go under your own rules. These men are simply leaving." He responded, as he waved his arms around to the five followers that had just come over, now protected amidst his soldiers. "The two maesters are simply going to work for the King of the North and the Riverlands to learn more about the higher mysteries. Many maesters did the same under the Targaryens."
"No, I will not allow it!" Gladys raged.
He shrugged. "As you wish. Then these maesters quit your order and you stop having a say over them. Dozens of former maesters and acolytes work in my army as healers. No one has ever objected to this before, so it will be the same now. If you will excuse us, due to your refusal to allow me entry, I have no need to be here anymore."
He turned his horse around in a show of authority and trotted it slowly back the way he came. Behind him the Archmaesters howled and screamed, and the public was picking up on it and was becoming reckless. It was time to leave.
In passing, he thanked Ser Malgrin for allowing him to visit Oldtown and congratulated him over the cleanliness organization of it. The Hightower knight looked completely stunned, but, after quietly reminding him to hand over the High Septon, he paid him no more mind. Torr and Grey Wind closed in behind him, denying anyone the opportunity to directly follow him. Orders were shouted and soon eight hundred Northmen changed directions.
On their way back insults were thrown at them, as well as cabbages, dung and other things, but it didn't come to blows. The throwers were quickly arrested by the Oldtown city guard and no incidents happened. Before he knew it, he rode back through the gate, into the rich farmlands beyond the walls.
He saw his sons awaiting him, in front of a regiment of heavily armored soldiers ready to strike if need be. He smiled. He might not have been able to enter the Citadel, but he had acquired the next best thing. A maester with over two decades of experience reading the ancient scrolls and parchments. If he couldn't enter the Citadel's Department of Higher Mysteries, he would develop his own. He would give Maester Benedict all the materials and time he needed to recreate as much as he remembered from the Citadel, afterwards when he had proved his worth he could start working on investigating the secrets of northern magic.
This is it for this chapter.
Robb arrives at Oldtown. The Hightowers are too weak to repell him, and they negotiate a surrender of sorts. He gets paid a great sum of money and is promised the High Septon, as well as the representation of his kingdom within the Most Devout. Other provisions solidify his influence, and Highgarden's weakness, for after the war.
He also negotiates his entrance to the city. Although only with a 'small' force and on a demarcated trajectory, for the inhabitants it comes close to a victory parade of their conquerors. Robb wants to know more about magic, but is rebuked by the order of the maesters who serve their own agenda. In a great upheaval, the number two of the department agrees to work for him. Robb plans to make his own department, solely focused on magic, in order to educate his successors about other threats that might be out there … More on that later.
Apologies for the delay between chapters. Life has been hectic. I am close to a new job and I have moved. A lot of other stuff going on in my life as well. However, I can assure you this fic will not be abandoned.
Thank you for your support!
Fannic
Reviews:
- Supremus85: We will see more of what happens in Highgarden in the next chapter.
- Scifiromanc: Thank you! Glad you like those, some of my favorite parts as well.
- Yogurt9928: Thanks! Glad you found it interesting. Queen Myrielle is a piece of work. Next chapter, we will return to the situation in the heart of the Reach.
Good calls for those POV's. I will look at the possibilities in the next two chapters. I will include the situation in Dorne. It is indeed an interesting addition.
- Force Smuggler: Thank you!
- The Three Stoogies: Thank you so much!
- Rebfan90: Thank you!
- CadetMarshal: Thank you so much!
- Max20.7: It will, yes. I have considered the Manderlys, but they haven't had any connection with the Reach in a thousand years. They will never be seen as more than they are: a puppet of the Starks to control Highgarden. This will ensure that they will be vanquished sooner or later and doesn't make them sustainable. The Florents are from the Reach and have been gone for less than thirty years. That makes a big difference.
What did you think of the approach to get rid of the High Septon? The wine industry in the Arbor is still recovering from Euron Greyjoy. The Ironborn also haven't come close to it (they are at Bandallon), and it is protected by the Hightower fleet. Besides, I don't believe that the Ironborn have the population to settle/control such a large island, nor would Robb want to make them THAT powerful.
- Timdoe: Bedankt! Robb keert hiern
- Ahsra78: Where does the North lose?
- Marty: Thank you! This fic won't be abandoned.
- Guest: I understand that, but Robb was fighting more in the back.