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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 17
Roose
The new iron mine was a success, Roose thought as he looked over the books that his steward had brought him. That was good, although he still needed to check on the building work on the settlement that would house the workmen once winter arrived. Skilled miners were a valuable commodity in the North.
Knuckles rapped on the door to his solar and he looked up. "Enter."
The door opened to admit the Maester, old Quirrel, who strode in and then handed over a letter. "By raven from Winterfell my Lord."
He took it with a nod and then dismissed the man. As the door closed he opened the letter and then smiled slightly. It was from Domeric. The boy was well, sent his respects, said that he was being well-treated by Lord Stark and his household and wished leave to stay at Winterfell another month. Excellent – he would not have asked for that time if his visit was not going well. A marriage of Stark and Bolton would cement the ties between the two Great Houses of the North. He was about to put the letter down when he saw the hasty postscript that had been added to it.
"I have late news – Benjen Stark has come to Winterfell with Maester Aemon of Castle Black, a most venerable man who had yet more books on The Others with him."
He stood there for a moment, his mind working furiously. Maester Aemon of Castle Black? Impossible – the man had to be more than 90 years old! Moreover… yes, he was the Targeryan wasn't he? The last of that name in Westeros, buried in his duties on the Wall, forgotten about by almost everyone.
This was… intriguing, and he walked over to his chair by the fireplace, where he sat quickly and thought things through. Now, why would the Maester of Castle Black, a man whose family had cut the head and main branch off House Stark go to Winterfell? Just to deliver books? He doubted that.
And then he paused and leant back, blinking rapidly in thought. No. No, that was impossible. But there could be no other explanation for it. He knew Ned Stark and respected him greatly for it. He was not the impulsive idiot that his brother had been and frankly he was twice the man that his father been in terms of giving careful thought to matters. No, for his mind Ned Stark was an excellent warrior because he judged matters on the battlefield until the time was just right and then attacked. He was not a man who did things on a whim.
So why the need for all this information on The Others? Some might see it as push so collect and save as much information as possible before winter arrived. But the arrival of one of the oldest and most knowledgeable men in Westeros to Winterfell, straight from the Wall… that placed a different slant on things. Why was Aemon there? Why was such an old man, no such a blind old man, in Winterfell? To discuss legends? No, something must have driven him there. Then perhaps…
A chill went through him for a moment. The legends, the stories of The Others, all spoke of terrible things, of dead men that walked, of creatures that could kill with a touch, wielding swords that shattered steel as if it was made from glass. Oh, he knew the legends. They were the stuff of old wives' tales, along with never harm a Heart Tree, never let a black cat cross your path and never curse a raven. Why? Who knows? Tales and legends and the stuff spun out of rumour to explain facts that man had no answer for.
This was folly. He was worrying over a legend and a trip South by an old man who might have merely been visiting Winterfell to actually escort some old books and papers. He glared at the letter. This was folly, his worrying about something like this.
But. The word burrowed about in the back of his mind. Would Ned Stark normally bother with such 'folly'? Why had he called to every holdfast in the North for information about a legend about things that were dead and buried. And then he remembered his talk with Domeric, the day that the call for documents about The Others had come in. Why did the Wall exist? Why had the Night's Watch stuck to their vows for so long? Did they just defend against the Wildlings, or was there something else there, some old, old, foundation of fact?
His eyes flicked for a moment to the tapestry to one side. No, that would just be a waste of time. Surely it would. He stood and returned to the account books. But the figures seemed to dance in front of his eyes and he kept adding things up wrongly and as he cursed quietly and scratched through one number and then wrote the right one out next to it. He looked at the tapestry again and then laid his quill down and sighed. Well, if this was a day for legends and folly, then perhaps he should add to it.
Roose stood and locked the door to his solar, before walking over to the tapestry. Behind it was a door, old and battered by time. He pulled out a key from a pocket in his jerkin and paused for a moment and then inserted it and turned. The lock was old and stiff and he made a note to add a little oil to it, but the key turned and the door creaked open. He paused for a moment and then he reached out to one side, grabbed an unlit torch from the wall, lit it carefully from the small fire in the grate and then walked through the doorway.
The passageway was short but it changed from smooth stones to rough ones in a few yards and he had to watch his step. He remembered the first time that his father had brought him along this passageway and the uneasy feeling that it had given him – as if he was stepping back in time. At the end lay the other door, even older. Another key, another mental note to bring oil and then he was in the room.
It was pitch black in here, lit only by the wavering light of the torch. He looked at the alcoves in the walls and wondered, yet again, what the objects were and why his ancestors had brought them to this place and left them there in such reverence. So much had been lost, so much forgotten. There was the hilt and lower half of an old sword. The skull of a bear with green copper wire wrapped around its snout. A human skull, missing the jaw. A knife made of what looked like some kind of dark glass. An old wooden statue of something that had been worn by the passage of so many fingers and so many years that it was impossible to even start to guess what it had once been. A rough crystal in the shape of a hand. And then…. the little box. It was made from the wood of a Weirwood tree, bound together with wooden pegs.
He picked it up and then opened it carefully, taking out the little stones within, each no larger than his thumbnail, before kneeling on the rough flagstones and concentrating briefly. North was, yes, there. The white stone went down to mark North. The black stone marked South, the red one East and the green one west. The rest he arranged so that they all formed a circle. Then he said the words, the words passed down to his father by his ancestor and then on to him, the words that he would have to pass on one day to Domeric. When he said the last word he looked down at the stones. Nothing. He exhaled slowly. Yes, this had all been a folly. A waste of his- he froze in place and stared. The white stone had flickered in colour for a moment – and then brightened. Not by much but just enough to show more than whiteness. He reached down with a trembling hand and brushed the slight layer of dust off it and the light grew a little brighter.
"If the stones are lit, then danger, the danger from The Others, is in that direction, so beware," he said quietly, speaking the words of his father. "Be watchful." And then he froze. He suddenly had the strongest feeling that someone, somewhere was watching him, he knew not how as he knelt in that small dark room at the heart of the Dreadfort. And for the first time in many a long year he felt not just scared but terrified. He closed his eyes, sent out a prayer to the Old Gods and then quickly returned the stones to the box and then put it back in its place. As he did he stooped. For a second he could have sworn that he had seen a faint red light in the eye sockets of the human skull.
He strode out hurriedly, locking the first door and then the second door behind him and then, having made sure that the tapestry was in place, he poured himself a goblet of wine and drank it quickly. When he looked down at his free hand he could see that his fingers were trembling. Ned Stark was right to ask about The Others. They had returned.
After a long moment he willed his fingers to stop their movement and then walked to his desk, where he wrote a terse letter to Domeric. "Stay as long as you like. Find out why Lord Stark needs information on The Others. If your other matter bears fruit let me know. You may be called straight back to the Dreadfort however. Be well. Your lord father."
Roose looked at it briefly, nodded, sanded it, and then rang the bell for his steward. A moment later someone knocked at the door and he stared at it, startled. It was too soon for the man to have obeyed his summons. He strode to the door and unlocked it, to see Quirrel. "My Lord," the old man panted, "A message from House Warrick my Lord. They have most grave news from the Weeping Water."
Something crawled up his back for an instant. He had a sudden feeling that something was terribly wrong.
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