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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 21
Ned
His table in his solar was a mess by now. So many books and scraps of parchment, so many notes and scribbled bookmarks. So much rubbish, legends and fantasies, with facts scattered through them , or so he thought.
Luwin and Aemon also thought so however and Ned frowned thoughtfully as he looked at the great map of the North that hung on one wall. Some of the oldest references in the records referred to places that had subtly different names. And some of them referred to places that he had no idea about.
He looked at the table again and then back at the map. One of the oldest records was a fragment of a fragment of a copy of a transcription of a carving and it referred to a great siege. The Others had besieged a crag somewhere in the Western part of the North and the hints were maddening.
There was reference to 'Ye Starke' leading the men, to the ferocity of the fighting, to the fact that the men had to win there, and then the fact that the battle ended in the Others being utterly routed in one of the first big victories against them. Where was this place? It was just described as 'Ye Glittering Crag'. But there was nothing in the North that had a name like that, or anything even close to it.
The nearest that he could think of was the place called 'Stark's Rock', but that was nothing more than a slightly craggy hill about a day's ride to the West. It did not look like a place where a battle could even happen, still less a siege. And why would the Others besiege a hill anyway? Luwin was still looking into it.
He sighed – and then he looked up as he heard footsteps at the doorway. Cat smiled at him as she came in, but it was not a smile that was truly happy. "Are you alright Cat?"
"Oh, I am fine," she sighed as she sat down and then looked at the mound of papers and books on the desk. "I have just been… reflecting on things."
He smiled slightly. "Oh," he replied lightly, "We have had much to reflect on."
"So I can see. Ned, this is a mess." She drew her chair up to the table. "How can you ever find anything when it all looks like this?"
"I get by. I remember what the book looks like, or the colour of the parchment." A sigh of his own escaped his lips. "Cat, so much has been lost. All we have are… fragments. Bits and pieces." He leant over, picked up an old book and carefully opened it to one page. "I mean, according to this one of the first Starks in Winterfell was known as the Lawgiver and had something called 'ye Fiste of Winter'. The writer must have known what that was, but I've never heard of it."
"Nor have I," Cat muttered as she looked at one of the open books. Then she paled slightly. "Tales of these… wights… are terrible. And yet you will have to fight them?"
"I will," Ned replied grimly. "And win. I will have to Cat. The Others cannot be allowed South of the Wall. Nor can the Wildlings. But the issue of how to deal the Wildlings has been vexing me. They would make an excellent addition to the garrison of the Wall, but they have fought the Night's Watch for so long that they cannot be allies. And besides – what would they ask of me? To settle in the Gift? Or the New Gift? The Lords in the North would set up a wail of horror that would strike ravens dead in the sky."
Ned shook his head tiredly. "We have so much to do and so little time. So very little time. If Robb had returned a year ago then it would still not be enough time. I could have sent more help to the Wall. The Old Bear has already written to say that even just the small number of extra men and construction materials that I have sent to him has been enough to think about reopening Oakenshield. But they need more.
"We need the resources of the South. We need Lannister gold and wheat from the Reach. We need the knights of the vale and the infantry of the Stormlands and Dorne. Men, horses, steel, food, supplies of all sorts. Ships as well."
Cat looked at him and then nodded slowly. And then she smiled slightly. "It sounds like you need King Robert and his Warhammer."
"I know," Ned said and then smiled suddenly. "I know exactly what he'd say about all this research though! Something like: 'Ned just tell me what needs killing!' And then he'd go and kill it." He thought back to The Trident and Robert's uncontrollable fury on seeing Rhaegar. "But how do we even kill one of the Others?"
"The books don't say?"
"As I said, nothing but fragments and legends. How long has it been since they were last seen? How long has it been since one of them was killed?" He shrugged, feeling a bitter sense of despair wash over him.
Cat looked at him worriedly and then frowned slightly at the books and papers on the desk. "Ned, is any of this from the Mountain Clans?"
"Some of it. Nothing has arrived yet from the more Northerly clans."
She nodded, still frowning slightly. "What of other Houses that are descended from the First Men? Ones in the South I mean?"
Startled he looked at her. "I never thought about the South. Bronze Yohn might have records in Runestone – that's one of the oldest fortresses of the First Men. I'll have Luwin send a raven at once."
But as he turned to the door he was forestalled by the sudden arrival of Maester Luwin himself. "My Lord, I beg pardon for my intrusion. There is a party of horsemen approaching the gates. They bear the banners of the Last Hearth. The banners of Lord Umber – and he leads them himself."
Ned frowned. The GreatJon? Here?
Theon
Once Robb and Jon were gone he went back to the Heart Tree. It fascinated him. And it also terrified him. The very thought that the Old Gods were… watching him, had touched him in some way was… well…
Theon shook his head in confusion. He was Ironborn. He was a Greyjoy of Pyke. He worshipped the Drowned God, even though doing so in Winterfell was difficult. But the Old Gods… Why had they touched him? "Welcome, Theon Greyjoy. We knew your ancestors." Those words were now seared across his heart. He'd always known that he had First Men amongst his ancestors but he'd never really thought about which gods they had worshipped. The thought that they had worshipped the Old Gods was… a troubling one.
But that dream… he felt the marks on his face gingerly. And they really terrified him. He didn't think that he had scratched himself in his sleep. Maester Luwin had peered at the lines with a puzzled expression and then picked something out of one of them. A fragment of fingernail he said.
Theon looked at his hands. His nails were short but intact. No, something else had left that mark. Something… dark. Something that he couldn't understand.
He stared at the Heart Tree. The face on the mast in his dream had been just like this one and he reached out with a hesitant hand to trace the face. He didn't know what to expect as his fingers touched the bark, but nothing happened. It was just a tree. There were no gods here. But he felt himself shiver for a moment, feeling cold for an instant. He looked at the face again and for a moment, just the faintest fleeting moment, he thought that he could see a flash of red from the mouth.
Theon backed away from the tree, shaking with fear. A gust of wind blew through the Godswood for a moment and as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end he took a step back. The wind almost sounded like a voice for a moment, a voice saying words that he couldn't quite make out.
He was still trembling when he left the Godswood. He had the oddest feeling that he had been warned, that something had touched him for some reason that he did not understand. And he felt something else. Troubled. He was Ironborn. He belonged to the Drowned God. Didn't he?
Ned
The party from Last Hearth consisted of twenty men and a waggon, all lead by a tall man on a large horse who was giving orders to his men in a loud booming voice. GreatJon Umber was a man who was larger than life in almost every way.
When he laid eyes on Ned he paused and then bowed formally. "Lord Stark."
"Lord Umber," Ned replied, feeling a little puzzled. This was oddly formal for the GreatJon.
But then the big man grinned. "That enough of the formal bit?"
Ned nodded and then GreatJon roared with laughter and enveloped him a bear hug. "Ned! Good to see you again!"
He laughed and slapped the big man on the back as he released him. "Good to see you GreatJon. What brings you to Winterfell though?"
The GreatJon let out an explosive sigh and then jerked a thumb at the waggon. "You asked for records on the Others. I've brought everything I could from the Last Hearth." The normal jovial smile that was on his face was gone. "Ned I need to talk to you. It's important."
Ned looked at the huge man. Yes, this was important. When the Umbers were serious then something was deadly important. "Very well, let's go to my solar. I'll get Luwin to attend to the records you've brought. Aemon as well."
"Maester Aemon?" the GreatJon replied, his bushy eyebrows flying upwards. "From the Wall?"
"Aye. He brought records from Castle Black."
The GreatJon absorbed this and then frowned, before taking a saddlebag off the rear of his own horse carefully, as if it contained something precious. "We definitely need to talk then Ned." He paused. "And do you have any ale?"
Ale was indeed available for the GreatJon and once he had quaffed his first mug of it he sat in Ned's solar and peered at the desk in some bemusement whilst cradling his second one in his hands. The saddlebags were at his side. "That's a lot of research Ned. Sorry that I'm adding to it."
"Don't be sorry. Now – what's so urgent."
The GreatJon sighed and then looked down at the floor of the solar for a long moment. When he looked up his voice was very quiet by his standards. "Ned, why are you asking about the Others?"
That was a good question and Ned sank into his own chair. "GreatJon, there is a long story attached to that question."
"You think that they have returned, don't you?"
Startled, Ned looked at his old friend, who stared levelly back at him. "I'm not a fool, Ned," GreatJon rumbled with a slight smile that quickly vanished. "Wildling raids are worse than I've ever known them. And the Night's Watch is weaker than it's ever been. The Gift is all but abandoned and my men fend off raids by parties of wildlings almost every month. The prisoners say that death marches on the Wall. And the word from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea is that even the Skagosi are getting raided – and if even they're getting visits from the Wildlings then they must be either mad or desperate. Something is pushing them South. Something terrible."
Ned stared at the GreatJon for a long moment. No, he was no fool. But there was something else about the man. There was a look in his eyes that took him aback, something dark and haunted. "Yes," he said eventually. "They have returned. And the tale of how I know is… a dark one."
The GreatJon held up a hand. "You are the Stark in Winterfell," he rumbled. "Of all the men in the North you are the one that would know if they had returned." There was something in his voice that troubled Ned. A note of ironclad certainty. He was used to being trusted, but the GreatJon seemed to think that the Starks would have known at once about the return of the Others.
He was about to open his mouth and ask about that when the huge man straightened almost formally in his chair. "I need to do this properly, or my ancestors will kick my arse from here to the Wall when I die. Right. Lord Stark, I, Lord Umber of the Last Hearth, do hereby inform you that the Hearthstone has changed colour and that my watch over it has therefore ended."
He looked at Ned. Ned looked back at him, baffled. "What?"
GreatJon looked troubled. "Did I say it wrong Ned?"
"Say what wrong?"
"About the Hearthstone!"
"GreatJon I have not the faintest bloody idea what you're talking about. What's the Heartstone?"
Ned had seen a great many expressions on the face of GreatJon Umber before. Amusement. Shock. Blind rage. Puzzlement. But never had he ever seen such a look of utter shock from his old friend. "What?" The Lord of the Last Hearth asked the word in a very small and horrified voice. "You don't know what… the Hearthstone is?"
"No," Ned said through clenched teeth. "I do not. Damn it GreatJon, what is it?"
"I don't understand. You're the Stark in Winterfell! Your father would have told you! On the day you came of age!"
A horrible feeling came over Ned. "GreatJon," he pointed out gently, "I came of age in the Vale, at the Eyrie. I was Ward to Jon Arryn. When I returned to Winterfell my father was dead." A memory tickled the back of his mind. "Brandon. Brandon must have known. Lyanna wrote to me that our brother had been troubled the day after he came of age, that he had been here, in what was then Father's solar, for most of the day."
The GreatJon groaned and then threw most of the remaining ale straight down his throat. "Fuck me," he said bitterly. "I never thought of that. I never bloody thought of that. My father told me on the day I came of age. I thought that your father had done too. Damn Aerys fucking Targaryen. Damn him to the lowest level of the darkest hell that exists."
There was a depressed pause, before the Lord of the Last Hearth passed a hand over his face and then smoothed his beard. "Right then. Bugger it, I never thought I'd have to tell you all this, I thought that you'd have known about it, although what I know is bloody little. Right. Ned, there are three oaths that every Umber of the Last Hearth must swear on the day he comes of age. The first is loyalty to the Stark in Winterfell. The second is to protect the crag that the Last Hearth is built on, even at the cost of our own lives. And the third is to guard the Hearthstone. To watch over it, no matter what happens." He shuddered and then looked around for the jug of ale that Ned had gotten for him.
"Bloody thing gives me the creeping horrors every time I look at it," he muttered as he reached over and poured himself another mug. "All I know is that just before the Last Hearth was build one of your ancestors gave it to one of my ancestors and told him to protect it. To watch over it. To check on the bloody thing once a year, which is a duty that I'm bloody glad to be rid of. It's not ours Ned, it's yours."
"What is this Hearthstone?" Ned asked thoughtfully, his mind whirling with questions about all the things that his close-mouthed father had never been able to tell him about.
The GreatJon peered owlishly at him and then reached down into the saddlebags, from which he pulled out a small bag, which in turn contained a small box made of… stone? It had a lid and it also had runes on the outside and the GreatJon was holding it as gingerly as if it was made of glass. Or as if it was a viper from Dorne.
"Every year I've opened this box and looked inside," the GreatJon rumbled. "It's always been black as coal. Blacker than…" he paused, visibly hunting for words. "Blacker than night. It was like there was a hole in the box. And then your raven arrived asking for information about the Others, and the news of the latest Wildling raid came in and… I thought about the Hearthstone. I don't know what it is Ned, that's been lost. I don't know what it does, I don't even know what it's made from. All I know – all that was passed on from my forefathers – was that if it ever changed colour then we had to bring it to the Stark in Winterfell. As I have now done."
Ned nodded slowly. "That's all you know?"
"That's all I bloody know Ned. My forefathers might have known more, but over the years that might have been stripped away by time and death." He held put the box. "Please take it Ned. Every member of my family has always hated the fucking thing. We've always kept it at the lowest level of the Last Hearth, in the old tunnels. It belongs to the Starks, not to us. I have no idea why your ancestors told mine to look over it. Perhaps because we were loyal. Last loyal hearth before the wall, that's what your ancestors named our hold. And that's the name we took for it."
Ned sighed and then reluctantly took it. The box was cold to the touch and there something about it that made the hairs on the back of his arm stand up. He opened the box carefully and then peered into it. Inside he could see a small round stone, the size of the last joint of his thumb. It looked worn and old, very old. There might have been a rune carved onto the top of it. And it was a murky green colour, not black at all.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
The GreatJon shifted uneasily. "When I saw that it had changed colour I… touched it. We've supposed to do that every year as well. Last time it gave me a hell of a bloody headache. My father told me that all he ever saw after touching it was black spots. But after it changed colour… Ned, I saw the Wall. And something else." He swallowed. "The dead, Ned. Marching on the Wall. Almost pissed me breeches, seeing something like that."
Ned looked at him sharply. "You had a vision of the Wall?"
"Aye," the other man mumbled, taking another gulp of ale. Then he looked at Ned curiously. "You don't seem that surprised by that, Ned."
"I've had one myself. From the Old Gods."
The GreatJon stared at him, this time in awe. "The Old Gods? Really Ned?"
"Aye, and I know what you mean about wanting to piss your breeches." He peered back into the box and then took a deep breath and picked it up. It felt surprisingly warm in his hand and he weighed it in the palm of his hand. Nothing felt different at all.
"Anything?" The GreatJon asked with a hint of nervousness, almost hiding behind his mug of ale.
"Nothing," Ned replied. And then he blinked. Something felt different somehow. He shook his head slightly.
Doom
Ned looked around the room. "What was that?"
"What was what?"
Doom
"That. That noise. Like someone in the crypts is beating on a drum."
"Ned, I feel and hear nothing like that."
Doom Doom
His palm quivered and Ned looked down at the Hearthstone in astonishment. It seemed to be, well, beating, like a heart. And the colour was lighter. "You don't see that?"
"See wha – Ned. Your eyes, Ned." The GreatJon was staring at him, looking at him with awe. "They're green. And your pupils… are red."
Doom Doom Doom
Ned's throat was suddenly drier than the deserts of Dorne. The Hearthstone was beating more and more, he could feel the blood thundering in his veins, a mist seemed to be descending over his vision. He opened his mouth again but then he suddenly froze. The shade of his father seemed to be standing to one side of the GreatJon all of a sudden, staring at him intently. He was mouthing something, but he couldn't make it out. And then Brandon appeared next to him and then his grandfather, and then ghostly shade after ghostly shade, crowding the room with what must be Stark after Stark.
Doom Doom Doom Doom
And then the wall at the back of the solar seemed to crumble and he seemed to swoop through it, like a raven on the fleetest of wings. North he flew, his mind stunned as he looked down at the lands of the North as they passed far beneath him. How was this possible? What was this? A vision. And what a vision.
The Wall appeared before him and he winced at the sight. He could see the abandoned castles, he could see the neglect in the Gift, he could see the small numbers of Night's Watch, he could almost smell the despair.
And then the Wall was behind him and the land beyond it was stretching out in front of him. He could see the Wildlings beneath him, see the giants as they rumbled and stamped over the countryside, see the mammoths. He could feel despair there as well, and hate and desperation.
Doom Doom Doom Doom Doom
Something seemed to crystallise in the air around him and suddenly he felt cold. Not the cold of the hands or the face, but the cold of the heart that indicated more than despair - absolute hate. Absolute darkness. He seemed to be heading downwards, towards a low mountain ahead of him. He could see lines in the snow ahead of it, what looked like walls that had long ago crumbled into ruin. Age hung over it, age and death. There were things patrolling around it, things that he could not see clearly and he was somehow glad of that. Closer and closer to the mountain and then suddenly he was flying straight at the ground. He wanted to fling his arms up to stop but instead he slid through the snow and ice, the earth and stone. Down he went, bewildered, and then out into a great hall, where he finally slowed.
That hall was dark, lit only by shards of light coming from somewhere far above him. It was covered in ice and snow, a barren hall with only a dais towards one end, where a figure sat in a throne made from ice and bone. There were… things in the dark areas of the hall, things that might once have been human, but which were now not and as he looked at them they seemed to feel his gaze and mewl and wail and throw twisted arms out in an effort to hide their faces, as if they were ashamed at what they had become.
Ned drifted closer to the throne. Behind it there was a great dead tree, a mockery of a Heart Tree, with black bark and bare rotted branches, with a face carved into it that seemed to glow with a terrible blue light. And the figure on the throne… well it was human-shaped. Had been human once. Now its skin was blue and white and was dressed in old armour that seemed to almost shine dully. Its eyes were closed and a crown of horns seemed to be on its bald head and then Ned realised with a jolt of horror that the horns were growing out of its skin. He gazed at it, horrified. The face… the face almost had Stark features. The cheekbones especially. And then the figure opened its eyes.
Azure orbs they were. Bluer than the sky at midsummer. And colder than the heart of a glacier. The eyes went to him at once and he stared back, too afraid to move even if he had been able to. Bone and sinew creaked and then the figure on the throne stood and gazed at him. And then it smiled for a long moment and said something in a tongue that man had long forgotten. All he could sense was hate and cold and evil. The figure stopped talking and then smiled again – and then its hand shot out and its fingers clenched.
The air around Ned seemed to creak, but he sensed that the odd crystallising sensation he had felt earlier was protecting him, because the creaking stopped after a moment. The figure on the throne, the King of the Others, if a king he was, frowned at his hand and then clenched it again.
Once again the air creaked and groaned, but once again it seemed to meet resistance. The Other stared at him with bafflement – and then rage. It threw back its head and screamed, revealing white and fanged teeth, screamed a scream of rage and fury.
The ice in the hall shook with the sound, shards cracking and falling and some of the things in the shadows wailed and put their hands over their ears. The mockery of the Heart tree bent like it was caught in a storm, branches snapping off. The ground shook and the throne trembled and still Ned was unscathed.
And then the King of the Others ceased his scream and just looked at him, his finger coming up to point at him. The azure eyes narrowed and he peered at him as if he was committing his face to memory. And then the figure started to chant something, in a tongue that was even more alien, dark and twisted – and filled with power. Ned could feel it building – and then suddenly he was falling backwards, pulled by a wind that seemed to surround him, tumbling like a leaf caught in the wind.
On and on he flew, seeing snatches of things out of the corner of his eyes. The Wall. Castle Black. The Last Hearth. Winterfell. He was home. He wanted to be home.
He blinked and as his eyes opened again he was back in his solar, with the GreatJon still in front of him. Ned felt as weary as he ever had before and he was panting as if he had run a mile unshod. Every part of him seemed to hurt, even his hair for some reason.
"Ned!" the GreatJon was shouting at him, "Are you alright? Speak to me Ned!"
With a shaking hand he placed the Hearthstone back in the box. "They are coming for us," he muttered through a mouth as dry as ashes. "The King of the Others is awake. They are coming." And then he fell backwards in his chair and fainted dead away.
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