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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 22
Robb
There was so much to learn, Robb thought almost despairingly as he looked at the list of noble houses of the North. Yes, he already knew the names. But it was the complex web of details that was driving him raving mad, the links between major houses and minor houses, not to mention the histories of those houses. He knew about the revolts of the Boltons in far more detail now, but he had not known about the tensions that existed in some of the lands around them.
The knowledge had depressed him more than a bit. He knew now that he should never have trusted Roose Bolton, that the Roose Bolton's main allegiance was to Roose Bolton first and then (perhaps) to Father, based on what they had been through in the War of Robert's Rebellion. He, Robb, had not the same amount of loyalty owed to him.
He thought about all the dead men that he had led South of Moat Cailin, in that future that must never happen, the dead that had died for nothing. He had been The King in the North but he had not even been able to hold his own lands. Well – that would change. He had the North to protect now and he would do so to the last drop of blood in his veins.
He closed the book and massaged the bridge of his nose. He had a slight headache from his studies and he sighed and stood up from the bench in the courtyard where he had been studying. A cawing noise from one of the walls to one side caught his eye and he looked up in time to spot a flash of black. Just a crow. And then he saw the tower and he scowled. There it was. There was the tower where Bran had fallen. What had he seen there? He could guess. Oh, how knightly of that bastard Lannister, how brave, a man against a boy. He remembered the false sympathy on that bastard's face and the honeyed words of the Queen, with their underlying drip of poison. And then after that the scars on the palms of his mother.
No. It would not happen again. He would swear any oath on that. He turned from the tower and strode across the courtyard, detailing all the things that he and Father would have to do. He wanted to look into the supplies for the Wall that afternoon. That and work out a way of sending more men. A hundred men sent now would be worth twice that number in a year and the more after that the better. He knew how hard it would be though. Winter was coming, men needed to fed, watered, paid, housed, mounted.
The sound of laughter broke him out of his grim reverie, laughter and then song. Oddly enough his heart lightened. Roose Bolton could not be trusted but Domeric Bolton was another matter. He was either the greatest dissembler ever, or he was a genuinely kind and courtly young man, skilled with a harp, skilled with a song and always ready with a smile.
He had already given young Bran a number of lessons on riding and he could tell that his younger brother already admired the heir to the Dreadfort. As did Sansa, who he could see with Domeric as he sang to her. Septa Mordane was sitting to one side, attending to her embroidery with a slight smile, and when she saw Robb she nodded respectfully to him and then quietly stole away.
Sansa and Domeric both saw him at the same time, the first with a smile and a frown and the second with a courteous nod as he continued his song. Robb smiled at them both and then politely listened. Yes, the man was skilled in music. He could certainly hold a note far better than he ever could.
When Domeric finished he bowed to Sansa as she applauded and then turned to Robb. "Your pardon Robb, but is your Lord father around?" He had turned slightly pink as he stole a look at Sansa, who was blushing suddenly and trying to look demure. "I would like to speak to him."
Oho. He had an inkling that this might happen and he schooled his features to look grave and thoughtful. "I believe that he is in his solar," he replied. "Allow me to take you there."
"My thanks." Domeric turned to Sansa and bowed again. "My lady."
"Thank you Domeric," she answered and then plucked a rose from the nearest bush, disguising the sudden wince from a thorn quite well. "Will you wear this for me?"
"I shall," he replied with a smile, taking it from her and threading it through a buttonhole. "Lead on please Robb."
They strode away across the courtyard, Robb leading with a slight smile. Oh, Sansa was taken with this one. And from what he had heard and seen, Domeric Bolton was not his father, was far better than his father and above all he was many, many leagues better than that little shit Joffrey. As they walked they talked about this and that, the hunting in the area, the signs that Winter was not yet here and how much Domeric had enjoyed his stay at Winterfell.
"I hear that a party from the Last Hearth arrived this morning," Domeric told him and Robb frowned. He had missed that.
"I did not know that," he replied as they passed through a doorway and then up the stairs that spiralled their way up. "Did you see them?"
"I certainly heard them," Domeric quipped. "The man leading them was most loud. I believe that it was-"
"NED!" The voice boomed down the corridor. "Are you alright? Speak to me Ned!" It was coming from the solar and it was the voice of GreatJon bloody Umber and Robb's heart leapt. The man had been his fiercest bannerman and loudest voice and he seemed to be worried about Father? He tore down the corridor, Domeric at his heels and burst into the solar.
Father was in his chair, shaking as if in the grip of a terrible palsy, panting as if he had run a race. He was holding something in his hand, which he now placed into a box and the GreatJon was staring at him as if he was terrified. And then he saw Father's eyes. Green fire seemed to be in them, with red at the centre and when he heard Domeric gasp in astonishment he knew that the Heir to the Dreadfort had seen what he had seen as well.
"They are coming for us," Father said in a voice like iron being beaten, "The King of the Others is awake. They are coming."
And then his eyes closed and he collapsed in his chair. After a moment of horror Robb leapt for him. "Father!" he cried and he saw the GreatJon look at him. "GreatJon! What happened?"
The GreatJon stared at him, deeply confused. "Who are you again?"
"Robb Stark! What happened?"
"Gods boy, you look like a Tully. Oh – yes, I gave your lord Father the Hearthstone. It… was given to my ancestors from yours thousands of years ago, to be watched over, to be protected. It changed colour this year, so I brought it South to your father. And he held it and… he saw something. I know not what. But you heard him." The GreatJon looked grimmer than he had ever seen him look. "The Others have returned."
"Oh Gods," Domeric choked as he crouched by Father and stared at him. "The Others?"
Robb shook his head. "What is this 'Hearthstone'?"
"Something that we have kept watch over for many years," The GreatJon rumbled. "We were closest to the Wall. I think that was why we were given it. I know not why else." He peered at Father. "Perhaps we should give him some ale?"
And then Father came awake suddenly. His eyes were normal again but there was a look on his face of deep intent. He looked about wildly for a moment and then he looked at Robb. "Robb."
"Father?"
"Search my solar. Search Winterfell. Look for anything my father might have left. Anything at all. Look for old rooms, old records. Search." And then he collapsed again.
Robb stared at his father and then ran to the door and peered out. He could see Luwin hurrying down the corridor. "Come, Luwin! Quick!" And then he looked back at Domeric and the GreatJon. "We must search!"
Tyrion
Father was sitting in the smaller of the breakfast rooms that morning. Casterly Rock was a huge fortification with a huge number of rooms, but there was nothing like having breakfast with the sun on your face. Well, it was mid-morning at least. Ish.
Tyrion swung himself up onto the chair at the table and cast a careful eye over Father. He was sitting at the head of the table and was glowering at a piece of paper in front of him. It was not a nice glare. It was a glare that dared the small document not to burst into flames. He looked further down the table, where Uncle Kevan was busy tearing a small roll apart with his fingers and doing his best not to look worriedly at his brother. He then caught Tyrions eye and shook his head ever so slightly. No, asking Father what was wrong was not a good idea.
Instead Tyrion bowed to everyone from his seat, chose some bread and honey and then ate quietly as he ran through what he'd ate the previous night and if there had been any exotic cheese involved. He was pretty sure that there had not been, but that wine had dulled his recollections of the meal just a bit.
As he dabbed his mouth with his napkin and then thought about perhaps a honeycake or two, Father finally stood up with a growl, grabbed the piece of paper and stalked over to the window. "Are you well Tywin?" Uncle Kevan asked quietly.
"No," grunted Father, before stalking back to the table and dropping the piece of paper in front of his brother. "I do not like things that I cannot explain. And the more I think about this, the less it makes sense."
His uncle picked up the crumpled piece of paper, smoothed it out, read it – and then frowned at Father, before shoving it down the table at Tyrion. "Odd," he said cautiously.
Tyrion reached out and picked it up and read it. Then he read it again and then a third time. Only then did he speak: "Eddard Stark is asking the Lord of the North for information – legends, stories and other information – about the Others?"
"It would seem so," grumped Father as he stalked back to the window and glared out of it. "What do you make of it?"
Tyrion's first thought was that perhaps Eddard Stark had contracted a sudden case of curiosity about the legends of the North, but then he had second, third and fourth thoughts about saying that. Father would not be behaving like this for an answer that simple, nor would he react well to such an answer.
Instead he leant back in his chair and thought deeply and swiftly. Yes, Father was right. This was odd. A Lord Paramount of Westeros, especially a Lord like Eddard Stark, who was said to be deeply serious, would not send out ravens to his main lords on a whim about a legend. This meant something.
After more thought he had to confess that if it did mean something then he knew not what. Which irritated him. "This makes no sense," he said eventually.
This provoked a snarl from his Father. "I know that!"
"Stark merely wants information on the legendary Others," Uncle Kevan muttered. "It's odd, but am I missing something?"
"Uncle, from what I've heard of Ned Stark I do not think that he would send a raven lightly. But this seems so trivial that… I do not understand it."
"I made the mistake of underestimating the North once," Father muttered as he clasped his hands behind his back and glared harder at a hill in the distance. "After Ned Stark led the first Northern host to travel South of the Neck for hundreds of years and won at the Battle of the Bells and then at the Trident I swore that would never underestimate that man ever again.
"He holds his honour too high and the man would not last a month at Kings Landing, but he is not to be underestimated. And this, this message, means something. I just do not know what."
He turned on his heel and glared at them both. "I have seen the Games of Thrones played by many men. I have seen it played by madmen and lost, like Aerys Targaryen. I have seen it won by savagery and brilliance, aided by luck, like Robert Baratheon. I have seen it bungled repeatedly by oafs like Mace Tyrell. And I have seen it apparently thrown away by dreamy fools like Rhaegar Targaryen. But this move by Eddard Stark… it does not fit into any stratagem that I can think of. It. Makes. No. Sense." He bit the last four words out as if they pained him and then he turned and glowered again through the window.
Tyrion ran a number of possible answers to that through his head, decided that none of them were much good when Father was in this kind of mood and instead devoted himself to further thought, broken by a yawn. Yes, he really did have to ask what the cheese had been last night. Then he paused. "Could this be a coded message to his Banners? But what? And why? There is no reason for the North to plot at the moment, surely? Robert is a friend to the Starks, they grew up together."
Father's glance at him might possibly have held a smidgeon of slight approval. "Then you see the problem."
"It could be something to do with the Wildlings," Uncle Kevan mused. "I have heard that their raids get worse every year."
"Yes, but the Others?" Tyrion shook his head. "Might as well ask about grumpkins and snarks. Why the Others?"
"I do not know," Father said crossly. "And to make matters even more confusing word has reached me that the Maester of Castle Black is at Winterfell on this matter. Do you know his name, Tyrion?"
He thought quickly – and then paused. "Wait – isn't the Maester of Castle Black Aemon Targaryen? The one who turned down the Iron Throne?"
"He still lives?" Uncle Kevan spluttered, having been surprised in the middle of drinking some weak ale.
"Oh, he still lives." Father ground out. "Aerys was always looking over one shoulder at the Wall when he was at his most paranoid."
Tyrion absorbed this and then pursed his lips slightly in thought. "We need answers then Father. Perhaps I should take a trip to Winterfell?"
Father swivelled an eye at him. "With what possible pretext?"
"Why I have always wished to visit the North. And to see the Wall! And should I happen to ask in Winterfell about the Others, who know what I might discover?"
There was a pause. Uncle Kevan looked at Tyrion worriedly, whilst Father looked out of the window musingly. "It might be dangerous," Father said eventually. "But perhaps a dwarf like you might be able to find out a few things, instead of degrading this house with your drinking and whoring here – don't think that I didn't see you yawning. Yes. I think so. Travel north Tyrion. Go to Winterfell. Ask some questions. Don't come back until you have answers." And then Father swept out.
As Father's footsteps receded down the corridor Uncle Kevan turned to him. "Are you sure about this Tyrion? It seems a risk."
"Tis the least I can do. Why Uncle, I shall be asking questions about legends whilst I read! And the thought of sending me into a place like Winterfell almost brought a smile to Father's face! Now – how often does that happen?"
Uncle Kevan winced. "Tyrion, this is…"
"This is a chance for me to see the North! The Wall! Why, I can take a piss off it and be the tallest Lannister ever!"
And this finally brought a smile to the face of Uncle Kevan. "Then I will help you plan this carefully Tyrion. And I hope to see you back here soon. Although - must you give your father so many arrows to send at you by whoring so much?"
He stared at his uncle. "I don't know why Father said that. I didn't visit any of the usual places at all last night. No the yawns have another cause. What was last night's cheese again?"
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