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Robb Returns by The Dark Scribbler
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: K+, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Robb S., Theon G., Domeric B., Words: 627k+, Favs: 6k+, Follows: 6k+, Published: Jul 16, 2015 Updated: Sep 287,742Chapter 16
Mikon
Dragonstone lay far to the South-West and the ship was now beating up in the face of a nasty wind from the South-East that was threatening to push them a bit too far West. But Seaworth seemed to know what he was doing and the course he had set looked good.
Mikon sat with his back against the base of the foremast under the main deck and concentrated on carving a little wooden bird out of the piece of driftwood he'd snagged on the way in to the ship.
This was a rush job. He hated rush jobs. He hated the stress, he hated the uncertainty and above all he hated the back that he had no-one to guard his back. Especially as he was on a ship at sea. That cut down on ways to escape should things go wrong. He cursed the day that he'd started to work for that sly little bastard. Yes, he paid well, but there was something wrong with the man. He had the eyes of a snake at times, almost lifeless and unsettling.
Well, at least he could make a decent fist of being a seaman. He'd been on and off boats for years, in King's Landing and other places. He'd never served on Seaworth's ship before though and he thanked his lucky stars for that. Last thing he wanted was to have someone frown at him and wonder where he'd seen him before, especially as he'd been used on a number of little errands that usually resulted in someone being discovered with a knife in his side or in one entertaining case being found head-down in a privy. The thefts were almost as bad and the careful planting of objects could be a nightmare. Some people could be too damn observant.
He carved a flake of wood away from the wings and peered at it carefully as he assessed his options. His orders had been hurried but clear. Try and make sure that the ship docked somewhere near the Fingers and then try and cause enough chaos to get the child away from the guards. Heh. Easier said than done. This would not be easy. One of his favourite ruses was to use fire – plenty of smoke, plenty of confusion, plenty of ways to escape. Only an imbecile would try and use fire at sea though. Ships could be tinderboxes. A fire on board could lead to total chaos and then a fiery death, or even a wet death.
So he needed something else. Something serious but not too immediately dangerous. Something to force Seaworth to get to the nearest port. Damage, or perhaps an emergency that required a Maester? Hmmm, that had possibilities. He had to make sure that no-one suspected him and that would not be easy in such a cramped space, but he was sure that he could come up with something.
Benjen
It had taken longer than he had initially thought to get to Winterfell in response to Ned's summons, and the man responsible for that delay was riding beside him now, their horses side by side, his wrinkled face with his sightless eyes set in a look of weary determination. Maester Aemon was making his first trip South of the Wall for many, many decades and his old age and blindness had made it a long and difficult trip.
The old man had insisted on joining him the moment that he had heard of Benjen's summons to Winterfell with every piece of information that Castle Black had about The Others. "The books are old," he had told Benjen and the Old Bear, "Luwin will need help deciphering them. And I have read them so many times myself that I am the only one that can do this. I may no longer be able to see but my memory is still an excellent one and I remember every page and every line. Besides, I have sworn to keep these books safe. With no offence meant to you First Ranger, they are more my territory than yours."
He had exchanged a look with the Old Bear, who had shrugged and then allowed it. But he had the nagging feeling that there was something more than that about this trip for Maester Aemon. Something seemed to be driving him. He put up with the endless indignities of life on the road and somehow Benjen had been able to find them shelter of some sort every night on the long journey down. Partly that had been down to the extreme old age of the Maester of the Night's Watch – many looked at him and felt awe at how such an old man was yet still alive.
The rising had been the hard part and he had had to get Aemon used to the art of riding a horse again. Much had been difficult for him and he must have been in extreme pain on many a night after a long day of riding. Benjen had had to find a rhythm to their riding together, to gazing at the road ahead and guiding them around the potholes before they reached them. The others in the party, the men with the packhorses and the three chests of books, had helped him and as they went further South they had found themselves moving a little faster every day. It had been the hardest thing that he had ever done, which was ironic, but they had done it.
The increasingly good road had helped. Benjen had noted the first work parties just North of the Long Lake – men with rough tools and bags of rocks chipped from the nearest outcrop, filling in the potholes, clearing the trees that crowded the sides of the King's Road in places. Not many work parties, but they were enough to make a difference, and the wood was being used in some of the villages that existed here and there along the road, to shore up walls and make them thicker in places. Winter was coming.
Maester Aemon had noted those parties, had heard the sound of the work and asked Benjen soft, careful questions, before falling silent and thinking hard. Ned was up to something, he could tell that at once, but he did not know what.
And now the towers of his childhood home were visible on the horizon and he sighed slightly. "Maester Aemon – Winterfell is in sight."
The old Maester smiled slightly. "Good. Thank you for your patience with this old man, First Ranger."
He smiled back, even though he knew that the other man could not see it. "The honour has been all mine, Maester Aemon. You have been here before?"
"Many years ago. Many, many, years ago. I remember your grandfather, Edwyle Stark." And then he sighed and fell silent for a moment. "And of course your father."
Brandon nodded and then continued riding South West in silence. He knew every inch of the ground here and he knew of the old track that left the King's Road well short of the old spur that led up to Winterfell from the South.
"What was that?" Master Aemon had jerked his head to the right and seemed to be looking at the woods on the horizon that lay to the West of Winterfell.
Benjen looked in the same direction. He saw nothing. "What was what?"
"I heard the sound of a wolf, howling. A long way away and muffled, as if in trees."
He listened hard, but heard nothing, before looking back at the others, who greeted his gaze with shrugs. "I'm sorry Maester Aemon, I heard nothing."
"Hmmph," the old man replied before frowning. "There was something familiar about it. I have heard that sound before. Where though?" They kept riding down the track and had travelled about a mile before the old Maester looked up again sharply. "I hear it again. And I remember what it is. That is the sound of a direwolf."
Benjen stared at the man and then at the woods again. Impossible. No direwolf had been seen South of the Wall since… "You are certain?"
"I am."
"We must ride on."
"Aye, we must. Signs and portents, First Ranger. Signs and portents." And then the old man shivered and fell silent all the way until the guards at the North Gate of Winterfell demanded their names and business. But even though he was home, Benjen felt a chill.
Theon
He had to be the oldest man that there had ever been, Theon thought as he remembered the little party that had come through the North Gate not long before, and he shivered again at the memory of those sightless old eyes. The Master of Castle Black, along with Lord Stark's brother, First Ranger Benjen Stark. It meant something, he knew that. A man as old as the Maester did not come all this way South for nothing. He had seen Lord Stark walk out to greet his brother with joy and then greet the old man with great shock. Something else had crossed his face then, something he had not seen before on the face of Lord Stark. And then he had ushered them all into the main keep and life in Winterfell had returned to normal – or as normal as things were at the moment.
He was now sitting at the top of the great steps that led to the main hall, to one side of the doors and with a mug of ale in one hand and a hunk of bread and cheese that he had charmed off Aliza, the older woman with the curves in all the right places and a bosom that could suffocate a man, and as he ate and drank he pondered.
Robb still worried him. Yes, he was almost his old self, but there was something there still, a distance between him and Theon. Between Robb and everyone actually. He was focussed on something, he was driven by something. When he was not training with Theon and Jon (who was as worried about Robb as he was, in his quiet way) he was studying with his father, studying about the various Houses of the North, as well as other places. Luwin was constantly providing him with books about this and that, about house sigils and who was tied by bonds of blood or loyalty to who.
He'd asked Robb about this and he'd got a tired smile and a quip about Father having set him more studies, but there was an intensity about him that had been missing before. It was as if he was waiting for something and trying to prepare for a task that he desperately wanted to avoid. Oh and he'd also caught Robb standing on the parapets again, staring at the woods and muttering something about echoes and heartbeats.
The studies about houses and sigils made him pause for a moment. He'd started his own research himself, not on the North but on the Iron Islands. If Robb was learning about how to rule the North then it was past time that he started relearning what he knew about Pyke and the other islands, about the Ironborn that he would one day rule after Father died. So far what he had learnt had left him… well, he wasn't sure how to describe his feelings.
He'd always been proud of being Ironborn, proud of his blood, his family, his people and their history. That had been beaten into him as a child, sometimes by his father, who he remembered as a grim-faced man with long hair and strained look, especially as the war went badly. But… that history was based on reaving, salt wives and thralls. The Iron Price was the measure by which a man was weighed. This was something he vaguely remembered, but reading about it had been… well a shock. He looked about Winterfell for a moment and imagined for an instant what a reaving party might do to this place, only to shake his head in shock and puzzlement. What had brought that up?
Seeing movement to one side he turned his head and saw a raven watching him intently to one side. Normally ravens tilted their heads when they looked at men. This one did not. It cawed at him softly and then looked at something ahead of him. He turned his head again and watched as a drooping Bran walked up to the butts again with his bow and quiver. The lad had been depressed ever since Lord Stark had apparently made him swear an oath on Ice itself never to climb the walls of Winterfell again. It was a harsh thing to make the lad promise, but there had to be a reason.
Bran grounded his quiver rather ineptly and then inspected his bow. Theon winced. The lad needed a lot of training.
Boots scuffed to one side and then a quiet voice said: "Your pardon – I did not know that you were there." He looked up and did his best not to scowl. Domeric fucking Bolton. The harp-playing song-singing horseriding prick who was the object of Sansa's increasing attention.
He stilled his face. "Just taking my ease. And watching young Bran there."
Bolton nodded, his eyes taking in the scene. Bran fitted one arrow to the bow and then visibly sighed and pulled the bow back. Theon winced slightly. His grip was all wrong, his balance was all wrong and where was Rodrik Cassel? "Young Bran is enthusiastic, but unskilled," Bolton said, echoing his own thoughts. "Mayhaps he needs some tips?"
"Mayhaps he does," Theon grunted as he finished off his meal and then drank the last of the ale. "Sadly Robb's at his studies."
"Lord Robb is most attentive to his father's commands." Bolton sighed slightly. "At least he has brothers - and sisters too. I do not. Well, apart from a half-brother who I have never met. My father says that I must avoid him."
This darkened Theon's mood a little. "I had brothers. King Robert had them killed. And I have a sister, who I know not."
Bolton looked at him. "I have read of your brothers, and my father told me about them. Their acts… well, they were not knights. Not knightly."
Theon bristled and then forced himself to relax. "They followed my father and the old ways."
"Ah, the old ways." Bolton smiled bitterly. "I know that curse too."
Theon looked up at him, startled. "Curse?"
Bolton looked back at him and then pulled his cloak to one side to display the sigil of House Bolton. "Do you see that, Theon Greyjoy? The flayed man?" The cloak fell back to conceal it again. "My father sees no wrong in that banner, whilst I do. My ancestors flayed men alive. Made a habit of it. A skill. Can you imagine that?" He closed his eyes, his face twisted with revulsion for a moment. When they opened again he looked weary for a moment. "The old ways sometimes need to change and become the new ways. Tradition must give way to… better things if those traditions were twisted and bitter."
Theon looked away and back down to Bran, who had just loosed an arrow into the ground in front of him and was looking baffled as to how such a thing could have happened. "You ask much then."
"I would have House Bolton remembered for more than its past," Bolton muttered. "And I envy you here."
"Envy me?" He barked the words loud enough to make Bran turn and look at them both for a moment, before shrugging and turning back to his bow and quiver.
"I do. You have brothers here. Not of your blood, but of your heart. You were brought up here." Bolton paused and then bowed to him slightly. "Your pardon again. I must go." And then he turned and left.
Theon watched him go and then looked back at Bran. The little idiot would hurt someone at this rate. So after a long moment he stood and pattered down the stairs towards Bran. "You're doing it all wrong," he said as he approached. "Here – let me show you."
Ned
By the time that guest quarters had been found for Maester Aemon and he had supervised the unloading of the books and their safe delivery to a very respectful Luwin, before taking the time for a brief change of robes as well as a nap and some refreshment, Ned had finally been able to overcome his astonishment at the arrival of the old man. He had been considering seeking the counsel of the last of the old dynasty in Westeros, but had been planning to visit Castle Black. To have Aemon visit him instead was a very great shock.
And now he eased the old Maester into a chair in his solar and poured a goblet of wine for him, before guiding it into those old age-spotted hands.
"My thanks, Lord Stark," the Maester said with a wry smile. "Your hospitality has been most generous."
"Your presence is a great honour," Ned replied as Benjen slipped in wearing clean cloths and with his hair slicked down. "Come in and take a seat Ben."
"Thank you Ned," his brother sighed as he poured himself some wine. "Luwin is as a small child on his naming day with all the books we have brought from Castle Black. He is reading, exclaiming and copying, along with his assistants. Now, I am sorry to be blunt, but what caused this summoning?"
"Yes, I too am most curious as to this sudden interest in The Others Lord Stark. As far as I was aware they have been gone from this world for many centuries."
Ned paused and looked at them both, before rubbing a hand over his beard and then finally leaning forwards. But before he could open his mouth he was forestalled. "Lord Stark," Aemon said with a sigh. "Your silence is telling. In fact your silence tells me more than your words will, given that you seem to be mulling over what to tell us. And that fills me with much foreboding."
He looked at the old man and then sighed. Candour was the only choice open to him now. "I have requested as much information as possible on The Others because we have had… grave intelligence. But before I explain I must ask you a question – how stands the Night's Watch at present?"
Aemon's lips pursed and he looked in the direction of Benjen. "Tell him."
"Ned, one of the reasons The Lord Commander allowed me to come South to Winterfell in answer to your summons is that the Night's Watch is at the lowest ebb it has been in many, many years. Perhaps its lowest point ever. We are down to three castles on the Wall. Our new recruits barely keep pace with our losses. And what we are sent, as you know, are the dregs - the scum of the gaols and most desperate men in Westeros. We need help." Benjen said the last words tiredly.
"He speaks the truth, Lord Stark. A decade ago I had three clerks who had their letters and numbers. Today I have one who still requires teaching and supervision. One of the reasons I came South is that I could not entrust the books that I have brought to his untender mercies. We need more men, we need better men and we need men who can write their own name and the n read it – and that name must not be 'X'."
"And the Wildlings press us greatly, as I have written to you about," Benjen said quietly. "We have a missing patrol at the moment and when we return to the wall I will scout out to try and find something of what happened."
"The Wildlings press you in greater and greater numbers do they not? This Mance Rayder leads them and gives them a purpose. So tell me – why do they press South?"
Benjen frowned at him. "Because they suspect how weak we are."
"That I do not doubt – Rayder is a former brother of yours is he not? But there is another reason. Rayder must know that if he presses too hard I will call the Banners and his Wildlings will be slaughtered. So he must be desperate. So - what is driving the Wildlings South?"
His brother sat up in his chair. "Driving the… Ned you cannot be serious!"
"I am deadly serious Ben. We have had intelligence that The Others have returned. From where I know not – I just know that they are back. And that is why the Wildlings flee before them. That explains their desperation." He looked at Maester Aemon, who was sitting in his chair, his hands up his sleeves and his face a mystery as his sightless eyes flickered from side to side, as if he was watching something – or recalling something.
"And what," the old Black Brother finally said, "Is the source of this intelligence?"
Ned took a deep breath. "The Old Gods. And before you call Luwin and ask him if I have hit my head on something, I have to say that he and my son Robb both know that the Old Gods have touched us. Robb first. They… they brought him back from a future that must not be, a future in which I went South to become Hand of the King and then died in an intrigue of the Lannisters, after which Westeros descended into war. And the North was ruined and the Wall was… neglected."
The two men stared at him, or at least Benjen stared at him in horror and Aemon looked in his direction with that look of terrible intensity. Oddly enough Aemon was the first to speak. "Robb… first? Who was second?"
"I was. I found Robb in the Godswood, praying to the Old Gods for guidance before the Hearts Tree. When I confronted him he placed a hand on the tree and then he grabbed my arm and…" And then he told them everything, his vision, the full story of what Robb had seen in that terrible future." When he stopped speaking he found that his mouth was dry and he poured himself some wine and drank.
Benjen was in a state of shock, whether from the news that Ned had died in that future, or that he himself had vanished, or that Winterfell had been burned to the ground or, indeed a combination of everything.
Maester Aemon on the other hand had a look of determination that he had seen on few men before. "Then my fears are justified," he said eventually. "Lord Stark, you of all people have little reason to love my family in the wake of what my mad nephew did to your lord father and your brother. But I beg of you that you listen to my counsel on this matter. You are right, death does indeed march on the Wall. I have not the foresight of my ancestor Daenys the Dreamer, but I do have a distant echo of what she had buried in my blood. And of late I have had dark dreams of a tide of ice coming from the far North, beyond the Wall. I had dismissed this as forebodings from the Wildling attacks, mere fancy on my part – but I do recall the last time I felt such a feeling of dread. T'was the day your father and brother died, as I found out later. And when your raven came telling us to send what information we had on The Others to Winterfell… I decided to come South and to urge you to send what strength you can to aid us on the Wall."
"When the time comes I will call the Banners," Ned said firmly. "I must first ensure that the South sees no war so that they can send their own strength to the Wall as well."
Aemon nodded approvingly. "And I noted by the sounds of repairs to the road and the logging of trees that you have already started to make sure that such a march will be swift and then timber will be on hand to make shelters with – and to repair the castles that are unoccupied on the wall?"
The old man's blindness had not dulled his wits. "You are quite right on all of those things Maester Aemon."
"Then you have begun well," Aemon said approvingly. "And I salute you for it. But much will yet remain to be done. There is the issue of finding better men for the Night's Watch. We must have proof that The Others have returned, if we are to see men more freely volunteer for the Night's Watch."
"I had thought of that. Mention is made in the records here of things called 'wights'," Ned replied. "Dead men raised again by The Others, but raised only to kill the living. They must be burnt, as even their severed limbs alone try to kill." He looked at his brother. "Ben. That is also why I have called you. It will be difficult and it will be dangerous. We need the hand of a wight."
His brother, who had been staring at the far wall of the solar with a look of shock, seemed to shake himself as he returned from wherever his wits had strayed to. "You don't want much, do you?" He said the words with a strained smile. "Might as well as me to catch that direwolf that Maester Aemon heard in the woods as we approached Winterfell."
Ned stared at him. The direwolf was in the woods. Time had almost caught up with them. Every moment would soon be essential. "Ben I need you to get back to the Wall as soon as possible. We need that hand. And Maester Aemon – I need to speak with you on a matter of the utmost secrecy."
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